Sutton (33 page)

I had to get clear of Egan. He was dead weight, slowing me down. So I dropped him with Bo Weinberg, right-hand man of Dutch
.

Bartender stops pouring the Jameson, looks up. Say now. Are you Willie Sutton?

I am
.

Holy shit. Willie the Actor?

Yeah
.

Put her there pal
.

Sutton shakes Bartender’s hand. This your place?

Sure. O’Keefe’s the name. James O’Keefe. At your service. What brings you in, friend?

I’m giving these boys the nickel tour. Meet Good Cop and Bad Cop
.

Reporter and Photographer wave limply
.

Merry Christmas, Bartender says. Now how does my gin mill feature in the life and times of Willie the Actor?

I used to frequent a place next door
.

Chateau Madrid. The Dutchman’s place. Of course. Willie the Goddamn Actor. What an honor. This round’s on the house
.

In that case, friend, start pouring the second round. And won’t you join us?

Twist my arm
.

Reporter rubs his eyes wearily, flips through his files. Mr. Sutton? You were saying? Egan?

Sutton clinks glasses with Photographer and Bartender. To freedom, Sutton says. Fáilte abhaile, Bartender says. They throw down the whiskey. Photographer smacks his palm on the bar. Holy shit, he says. Who drinks this stuff?

Half of Brooklyn, Sutton says. All of Ireland—including newborns
.

Mr. Sutton? Reporter says
.

Yeah, kid, yeah
.

Egan? Bo Weinberg?

Right. So I dropped Egan with Bo, hereabouts, and then I skipped town
.

And what happened to Egan?

Two months later he was dead
.

Dead?

Shot in a speak not far from here. Strange. The
Times
said he had a coat check in his pocket—the number thirteen on it. Egan told me once that thirteen was his unlucky number. I guess he wasn’t kidding. Come to think of it, I dropped him off on this block—the thirteenth of December
.

Who shot him?

The cops never made an arrest
.

Reporter closes his notebook, narrows his eyes. That sure worked out well for you, Mr. Sutton. Your dead weight suddenly turns up—dead
.

Kid you are sounding more like a cop every minute
.

It just seems very convenient
.

What can I say? I was the kiss of death in 1932. Bo Weinberg also died not long after he met me
.

Who killed Bo?

Bugsy Siegel, Bartender says
.

Sutton nods. Dutch put out the contract, but Bugsy did the hit
.

How come?

Dutch got wind that Bo was a rat
.

Willie drives to Philadelphia, parks the stolen Chrysler under a bridge. He takes off the license plates, sets the car ablaze, then walks. And walks. He stops at a sign:
TO LET
. He asks for a room, tells the landlady his name is James Clayton. The address is 4039 Chestnut Street.

At a corner market he stocks up. Canned tuna, chocolate bars, cigarettes, coffee. He swings by the local bookstore, buys a few bestsellers, a few Russian novels. Bolts the door to his room and waits.

After three days, a soft knock. He slides back the Judas hole. He throws open the door. What the hell kept you, he says.

Came as soon as I got your message.

Eddie drops a heavy duffel and stands before Willie, arms outstretched. They hug, clap each other hard on the back. Willie pulls Eddie into his room, locks the door. Let me look at you, he says.

The years of prison and unemployment have chipped away at Eddie. His face is leaner, harder. His blue eyes are washed out, his blond hair is going thin. He notices changes in Willie too, of course. He points at Willie’s blond locks. What the?

You know I always wanted to be just like you, Ed.

Eddie laughs, punches Willie’s shoulder. Then he rummages in his duffel, pulls out a bottle of Jameson. Uncorking it, he takes a swig. To freedom, he says, passing the bottle to Willie, who takes a double swig and laughs for the first time in a year.

They sit up all night, drinking whiskey, filling each other in on the last five years. Things they couldn’t say in letters.

Dannemora got bad after you left, Sutty. I was in some of the worse battles of my life. Kill-or-be-killed battles. When they cut me loose I made myself a promise: I’d never go back. I got a job moppin floors, cleanin bathrooms at a luncheonette. I showed up early, stayed late, took all the shit my boss could dish out. I saved my pennies, even met a girl. I was actually kind of happy. Then one day this fella walks in, starts harassin this woman. I don’t know if he’s her boyfriend, husband, what. I don’t much care. He grabs her by the neck, starts draggin her out the door. What am I supposed to do? I knocked him cold. My boss sacked me on the spot. It was all I could do not to coldcock him too as I walked out. That was three months ago. I aint been able to find another job.

Willie waves the newspaper. You’re not alone.

Thirteen million out of work, Eddie says. People hoardin gold. Fifty banks goin bust every week.

Food riots, Sutton says. I never thought I’d see the day.

Every man for himself, Sutty. Same as ever, only more so. We need to get ours while there’s anythin to be got.

I made myself a promise too, Ed. I’m not going back to the joint either.

Then we’ll just have to make sure we don’t get caught.

Eddie unzips his duffel again. He pulls out a cop uniform. He stands, holds the uniform against his body. Still a forty regular?

Bartender wipes the bar top with a filthy rag. Another round, Willie?

Sure. A quick one though. Good Cop and Bad Cop look like they’re ready to blow. What do we owe you?

Photographer jumps forward. We’ve got this, Willie
.

Yes, Reporter says, put your money away, Mr. Sutton
.

Photographer reaches into his cloth purse, takes out his billfold, opens it—stares. Wait, he says. What the. I could have sworn I had twenty bucks in here
.

Reporter turns. Sutton turns
.

When I paid for the handcuffs, Photographer says, I’m sure I saw two tens in here
.

Don’t worry about it, Sutton says. My treat
.

Sutton reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a ten
.

I thought you only had checks, Reporter says
.

My friend Donald must have slipped me some cash when I wasn’t looking. Sweet guy
.

Sutton slaps the ten on the bar
.

Willie, Bartender says, I’ll only take your money on one condition. You sign it, so I can hang it over the till
.

Deal, Sutton says
.

Bartender hands Sutton a pen
.

What should I write?

Write: To the boys at Jimmy’s. That’s NOT where the money is
.

Willie signs, puts the pen in his breast pocket. He feels the white envelope. He takes it out, stares at it
.

What’s in the envelope? Reporter asks
.

My release papers
.

Photographer holds his billfold upside down, shakes it. I know I had twenty bucks in here
.

In their first month together Willie and Eddie take down eleven banks and make off with three hundred thousand dollars. If Willie and Marcus went on a spree, this is a frenzy.

Willie’s disguises don’t fool the cops this time. His style has become his signature. The cops even give him a nickname, which the newspapers find irresistible. Willie the Actor. Sometimes newspapers shorten it to the Actor. As in—
THE ACTOR STRIKES AGAIN
.

Willie doesn’t care for the nickname. It’s trivial, he thinks. Not to mention inaccurate. An actor is someone who plays at make-believe. An actor is someone who says lines that aren’t real, because they aren’t his. When Willie walks into a bank he’s not playing, he’s dead serious. He means, and owns, every word.

Between jobs he haunts secondhand bookstores around Philadelphia, buys up all kinds of books about acting. Some of what he reads eases his mind. He learns that the greatest actor-playwright ever was a thief—and a Willie. Arrested in Stratford for poaching, Shakespeare had to lam it to London. That’s when he got into the theater. Willie reads that acting isn’t about what you say, it’s about what you don’t say, what you vividly withhold. The audience doesn’t want to know you, they want to feel that
desire
to know you. Since you never fully satisfy that desire, never come clean, acting is the opposite of confessing. Willie underlines this passage in pen.

In March 1933 Willie sits with one of his acting books in his lap and a new Philco console radio beside his chair. Eddie lies on the sofa smoking. The new president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, a month after an attempt on his life, has declared a nationwide bank
holiday
. To quell the panic in the streets, to stem the tide of people storming overextended banks and demanding their money, Roosevelt has ordered every bank in the country shut for four days. He’s also scheduled a fireside chat to explain the bank holiday and what comes next. Willie and Eddie, like forty million others, listen.

Turn it up, Willie says.

My friends. I want to talk for a few minutes with the people of the United States about banking. To talk with the comparatively few who understand the mechanics of banking, but more particularly with the overwhelming majority of you
.

In other words, Eddie says, all you idiots.

It is safer to keep your money in a reopened bank than it is to keep it under the mattress
.

Except the ones we hit—eh, Sutty?

You people must have faith. We do not want and will not have another epidemic of bank failures
.

Yeah right, Eddie scoffs.

Let me make it clear to you that the banks will take care of all needs, except of course for the hysterical demands of hoarders
.

Eddie cackles, aims a finger gun at the radio. Hysterical demands—like, say, open the vault or I’ll blow your fuckin head off.

The national bank holiday is followed by many state bank holidays. It seems a good time for Willie and Eddie to take their own holiday. Tweak their script, streamline their routine. Make their work more efficient. In particular they discuss how to deal with heroes. Nothing concerns Willie more.

It comes up about every fourth job. Some manager or teller or guard refuses to cooperate. Because Willie doesn’t want to hurt anyone, these moments fill him with dread. Anything can happen, and sooner or later something will. Willie and Eddie talk it over and decide that bank employees, like people in the old neighborhood, are clannish. When an employee acts up, they agree, it’s no use threatening him. Better to threaten his fellow employees.

Eddie suggests another adjustment. Deadlier force. People aren’t afraid of pocket guns anymore. They’ve seen too many movies. But there’s something about a Thompson—that fat drum, that skinny barrel. And nothing shuts people up faster than a sawed-off shotgun.

Finally Willie and Eddie decide that jobs will run smoother if they bring in a third man. It’s too much for Eddie, helping Willie control the employees, collecting the money,
and
driving.

I got just the guy, Eddie says. Joey Perlango. We were in the same cellblock at Dannemora.

Perlango?
You
recommending a
Dago
?

What can I say? He’s a right guy.

October 1933. In a roadside diner Willie and Eddie have their first meet with Perlango. A few years older than them, he has droopy eyelids and a nose that looks as if it’s been ironed, clearly the work of dozens of boxing gloves. His teeth are large, white, even, but separated by wide spaces. When he smiles Willie thinks of the laces on a football. From the side pocket of his metallic gray suit, which shines like the fenders of a new car, Perlango removes a fingernail clipper and uses it while Willie talks.

So, Joey, what we have in mind—

Snap
. A fingernail flies across the table, hangs in midair like a little crescent moon, lands in the sugar bowl. Call me Plank.

Sorry? Willie says.

Everyone calls me Plank. Even my folks.

How come?

Cause one time I hit a guy.
Snap
. With a plank.

Another fingernail goes flying, lands on Willie’s sleeve. He picks it off, looks at Eddie.

The waitress appears. Willie orders three coffees.

I’ll have
tea
, Plank says.

Willie looks away. Tea. Jesus.

The waitress brings their order, goes away. Willie leans across the table. We’re planning to hit the Corn Exchange, Plank. Right here in Philly.

They give a fountain pen.

Huh?

With every new account. They give a fountain pen.

Uh-huh. Fine. If you say so.

Willie unfolds a map. With a red pen he marks it with x’s, numbers. He puts an x where Plank will park.

I go in first, Willie says. Dressed as a cop. Minutes later I let in Eddie, also dressed as a cop. Ten minutes later, Plank, you start the car and drive here. We hop in, you drive away, along this route. The whole job shouldn’t take fifteen minutes.

Plank pours his tea into his saucer, blows on it. What do I wear?

What do you—what?

What costume.

You don’t wear any costume.

Plank looks into his saucer. Oh.

Something wrong?

Well. I thought I was goin to be a letter carrier, a fireman, somethin. It sounded like fun when Eddie told me.