Sutton (45 page)

TWENTY-TWO

They have a bank job scheduled tomorrow morning. They go over the fine points, the details, the driver. Once again it will be Johnny Dee, an old friend of Mad Dog. Willie doesn’t like Dee, who looks like one of the Marx Brothers, the unfunny one, but Willie can’t kick. Though he and Mad Dog have a good working relationship, Willie wouldn’t put it past Mad Dog, in the heat of a disagreement, to break his elbow.

Just after one o’clock Willie rides the subway from Mad Dog’s apartment on the West Side of Manhattan back to Brooklyn. He checks his watch. Margaret’s doctor appointment is at two-thirty. Cutting it close. He sits where he always sits on the subway, near the doors, his back to the wall. He opens his copy of Sheen. A quote from St. Augustine.
The penitent should ever grieve, and rejoice at his grief
. He reads the same line three times. Rejoice at his grief?

He feels someone watching him. He looks up from Sheen, then quickly down.

It’s just some kid. Early twenties, baby face. A Boy Scout face.

Again Willie looks up, down. Dark wavy hair, sharp beak—the poor kid’s got to be self-conscious about that nose. He’s nicely dressed though. As if for a hot date or a party. Pearl gray suit, starched white shirt, flowered tie—and blue suede shoes. Why does a Boy Scout wear blue suede shoes?

Because he doesn’t want to be a Boy Scout. And he’s not going on a date, or to a party. He’s going
nowhere
, in every sense. He’s got a humdrum job and doesn’t want to be humdrum. He wants to be hip, cool. Everybody does these days. Maybe he’s staring because he thinks Willie’s cool.

Willie runs a finger along the thin mustache he’s recently grown, tries to refocus his mind on Sheen. He can’t. A third time he looks up. This time he makes eye contact with the kid, one, two, before looking back at his book.
God’s pardon in the Sacrament restores us to His friendship, but the debt to Divine Justice remains
.

Debt? To Divine Justice? He thinks of Mad Dog collecting debts. He wonders if God has his own Mad Dog.

The kid’s eyes are uncommonly dark, soulful, and they’re definitely locked on Willie. Now, letting his own eyes drift from the book to the blue suede shoes, Willie can tell, can feel—the kid has made him. The kid has seen through Willie’s plastic surgery, through his makeup, past his mustache. But how? Most mornings Willie barely recognizes himself in the mirror. How can some random kid, on a crowded local, in the middle of a Monday afternoon, recognize him?

Now you will come out of a confusion of people
.

Willie turns the page, pretending to be engrossed. A fourth time he looks up, down. How is it possible? One of the kid’s eyes is larger than the other. Is something going around, some epidemic of uneven eyeballs?

The conductor announces Willie’s stop. Pacific Avenue. Willie stands, shoves Sheen under his arm, lines up at the door. He can feel the kid’s asymmetrical gaze following him. He pushes off the train, weaves through the crowd, hurries up the steps of the subway station, forcing himself not to look back.

On the street, a block away, he looks.

Pfew. No kid.

He walks three blocks, comes to his car. Again he looks.

Still no kid.

He gets behind the wheel, checks the rearview. No kid. He sighs, strokes his mustache, dabs his makeup. He wishes he could phone Margaret, tell her he’s running late. She doesn’t have a phone. He turns the key.

Nothing.

No no no, he says. He turns the key again. The engine clicks but won’t start. Son of a—He gets out, lifts the hood. It’s got to be the battery. But how can it be? The car is new. He just bought it. He wonders how long it will take Sonny’s Service Center, over on Third, to come give him a jump. He checks his watch. Margaret’s doctor appointment is in forty minutes.

From behind him he hears someone. He turns. Two cops. The muscles in his legs twitch—he nearly runs. But then he notices the cops’ relaxed posture, bored eyes. They’re not after him.

The cop on the left pushes back his hat. You the owner of this car?

Yes, Officer.

License and registration.

Willie fishes in his breast pocket, hands his license and registration to the cop on the left. The cop on the right looks Willie up and down.

It’s good, Left Cop says to Right Cop.

Left Cop folds the registration, tucks it under the license, hands it back. Sorry for the bother, he says. Have a good day, Mr. Loring.

No bother, fellas.

Their black-and-white is parked behind Willie’s car. They get in, drive off.

Willie leans back under his hood. If he could hook his racing heart to this dead battery, he’d be on his way.

They leave Dean Street, cruise south on Fourth. At a red light Photographer sets his camera on his lap, pats it like a dog. He opens his camera bag, picks a lens, checks it for smudges—fixes it to his camera like a bayonet
.

Locked and loaded, he says to Sutton’s reflection in the rearview. Show time, brother
.

The light is green, Reporter says
.

Photographer hits the gas
.

Reporter unwraps a candy bar, puts half in his mouth, opens a file. So—Mr. Sutton. February 18, 1952. According to this article you’re living on Dean Street, dating Margaret, knocking off a bank every few weeks with two guys. Tommy Kling and Johnny DeVenuta?

Sutton loosens his tie. Mad Dog and Dee, he says. Yeah
.

Walk us through that day
.

I was supposed to take Margaret to the doctor to see about her eye
.

What was wrong with her eye?

It kept getting bigger
.

Bigger?

We didn’t know why. And she was afraid of doctors. So I had to insist, and promise to go with her. I had coffee that morning with Mad Dog. Then I headed back to Brooklyn. I was late. As I walked down the steps of the subway station I heard the train coming. I ran. All out. Like Jackie Robinson stealing home. Imagine kid?

Imagine what?

How much would be different. If I hadn’t run. If I hadn’t jumped through those doors just as they were closing. If I hadn’t had a dime in my pocket. If the fare had still been a nickel. You know who kept the subway fare a nickel all those years? Mr. Untermyer. He practically ran the transportation system in New York. But he died
.

What would be different?

For openers? We wouldn’t be sitting in this goddamn car right now
.

The cops return minutes later.

Mr. Loring, Right Cop says. We’re going to need you to come with us.

What’s the trouble, Officer?

Left Cop hitches his pants. There’s been a rash of car thefts in this neighborhood. Our sergeant wants us to check everything.

I showed you my license and registration.

Yes sir, Right Cop says. It’s just routine.

Willie shrugs, drops the hood. He follows the cops to their squad car, climbs in the backseat.

Where are we going?

The Seven Eight. It’s only a half mile away.

Willie tells them he’s got to take his girlfriend to the doctor.

We’ll have you back to your car in no time, Right Cop says.

You having some engine trouble? Left Cop says.

Dead battery, Willie says.

We can give you a jump when we get this all cleared up, Left Cop says.

At the precinct they lead him through a door with a pebbled glass panel. An interrogation room. All his old scars tingle.

Coffee, Mr. Loring?

Sure, thanks.

He sits at the table. They take his fingerprints. Procedure, Mr. Loring.

I understand, fellas. Doing your jobs. Mind if I smoke?

Go right ahead. Where you from, Mr. Loring?

Brooklyn. Born and raised.

You a Dodgers fan, Mr. Loring?

Och—don’t remind me.

They talk about Branca. Sutton’s got a .22 tucked into the breast pocket of his suit coat.

What line of work you in, Mr. Loring?

I’m a writer.

You don’t say. That seems like a tough racket.

It is, it is.

What kinds of things you write?

Novels. Stories. I don’t sell much, but my folks left me a little money, so I get by.

More coffee, Mr. Loring?

Sure. You fellas make it strong. That’s how I make it at home.

Left Cop leaves, comes back. Right Cop leaves, comes back with a detective. They ask about the car, the battery, then they all leave. Then Right Cop and Left Cop come back and they make some more small talk about the Dodgers. From outside the room, far down the hall, a cheer. As if Thomson just hit another homer. Loud voices, hasty footsteps, the door with the pebbled glass rattles and bangs open. In walk three, five, ten cops, and half a dozen detectives, all grinning. No one speaks. No one is sure who should start. Finally one of the detectives steps forward. Hello, he says.

Hello, Willie says.

It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Willie the Actor.

Laughter.

Someone tells Willie to stand. Someone else frisks him. When they discover the .22, the laughter abruptly ceases. Right Cop and Left Cop look at each other, then at the floor.

And so it ends.

And also begins again.

They book Willie, photograph him, interrogate him. They ask who he’s working with, who’s been hiding him, where he stashed all his money. They ask about his friends, girlfriends, partners.

He stares.

They ask again.

He stares, smokes.

Then they do something shocking. They sit back, smile. Willie’s refusal to talk is part of his legend, and the cops are enjoying that he’s being true to form. They accord him a grudging respect. They ask if he’d like another cup of coffee. They offer him a donut.

At dusk they politely ask him to stand, he’s going to Queens.

Why Queens? he asks.

We have witnesses who put you at the Manufacturers Trust job in Queens.

I don’t see how, he says. Wasn’t me.

He’s already plotting his defense. He’s thinking of how good a lawyer he might be able to afford. If the cops don’t hate him, maybe a judge won’t. Maybe the system will go easy on him. At the very least maybe he can stop them from sending him back to Holmesburg.

The hallway is full of reporters, photographers, gawkers. Two cops stop Willie at the front door, where the police commissioner takes him by the elbow and gives a speech. The commissioner must be running for something. He praises Left Cop and Right Cop, praises the entire force. Then, in a moment that feels both political and personal, he shouts: We’ve got him! We’ve caught the Babe Ruth of Bank Robbers!

Flashbulbs pop—a sound like carbonated beverages being uncapped. Willie grimaces, not at the lights, but the nickname, which will be splattered across tomorrow’s front pages, and along the Times Square headline zipper. He likes Babe Ruth. But couldn’t the commissioner have compared him to a Dodger? Would it have killed the commissioner to call Willie the Jackie Robinson of Bank Robbers?

In Queens they give Willie a private cell with a cop at the door around the clock. He lies on his bunk thinking of Margaret. Will she see the news? Will she be bold enough, foolish enough, to visit? He thinks of Bess—same question. At midnight the warden appears. Open it, he tells the cop at the door.

Willie stands. The warden gives him a look that’s hard to read. Hello, Willie.

Hello, Warden.

Willie Sutton.

Yes sir.

In my jail. Willie the Actor.

Some call me that.

Born June 30, 1901.

I take people’s word for that. I don’t remember.

Anything you need, Willie?

Need?

Yes, Willie.

Now Willie sees: the white hair, the blue eyes, the face lined with red veins like a bus map of Belfast. Warden is Irish.

Gee, Warden, I’d love a book.

He can see that Warden wants to smile, to wink, but his position, his role, prevents it.

A book, Willie?

I’m a big reader.

You don’t say, Willie. Me too. What book would you like?

Warden tells the dozens of reporters outside the jail that Willie the Actor has requested the epic historical novel by John Dos Passos—
1919
. The reporters breathlessly include this detail in their stories and none knows its significance. Despite the private cell, despite the cop at the door, Willie Sutton has escaped again. He’s in 1919, with Bess. He’s never really been anywhere else.

New York is enthralled by the story of Willie’s capture. Left Cop and Right Cop, even though they didn’t know at first whom they’d caught, get the hero treatment. They’re pictured on every front page, shaking hands with the mayor, accepting a promotion from the commissioner. A red-letter day for two conscientious cops, outfoxing the slickest fox ever, that’s how the story plays, until everything goes haywire. The kid from the subway comes forward and tells the newspapers it was
he
who spotted the Actor,
he
who followed the Actor off the subway—
he
who alerted the cops. The kid walked up to the nearest radio car and said, Don’t think I’m crazy, but there goes Willie Sutton. Left Cop and Right Cop checked Willie’s ID, decided the kid was indeed crazy. Then went back to the precinct. Luckily they told the story to the desk sergeant, who told them to go back and bring in this Julius Loring, just to be sure.

Naturally the kid wants the reward. For years banks have been touting a big payday for anyone with information leading to Sutton’s arrest. The amount is said to be north of seventy thousand dollars. The kid just got out of the Coast Guard, that kind of money could set him up for life. He could get married, start a family. Also, he tells reporters and cameras pressing in around him at the Seven Eight, he’d like to help his parents fix up their house in Brooklyn. Maybe even buy them a better house.

Shy, earnest, the kid says these things with a thick Brooklyn accent, just like Willie’s.