Sutton

by J. R. Moehringer

How many times can I apologize for the Endner thing, Willie says.

  Not enough, Mother says. And isn’t that the problem.

  Please, Father says, if you care about us at all, Willie Boy, you’ll leave us alone.

  He walks to Meadowport, sits deep inside the tunnel, replaying the last three years. At dusk he walks out, through the meadow, through the park, and soon finds himself on Eddie’s doorstep at the St. George. Eddie throws open the door. Pleated slacks, a sleeveless white undershirt, white suspenders hanging down. He’s been doing push-ups. His arms are the size of Willie’s legs. Where you been, Sutty?

  Everywhere. Nowhere. Wingy says hi.

  They go up to the roof. Eddie has a pint of bootleg in his back pocket. He takes a swig, offers it to Willie. Willie shakes his head. But he smokes Eddie’s cigarettes greedily. He’s been denying himself tobacco, trying to economize.

  The sun is nearly set. They watch the lights come on in Manhattan, cars going back and forth across the bridge. An ocean liner, lit up like a miniature Manhattan, heads off to sea. Willie imagines the passengers: gentlemen standing along the upper decks, taking the air, ladies below sipping illegal cordials. On the Brooklyn side of the bridge steam bubbles from the Squibb factory, where they make stuff for bad stomachs. The air is heavy with milk of magnesia.

  Willie looks at Eddie: I can’t stop remembering Happy’s face when they dragged him off in bracelets.

  Yeah. Me either.

  Sing Sing. Christ.

  It’s a war, Sutty. Us, them. How many times do I have to tell you.

  They watch the bloodred sun slide into the river. Every day, Eddie says, that fuckin sun goes out the same way. A blaze of glory.

  Mm.

  Hey, Sutty.

  Yeah.

  Look at me.

  Huh.

  I got somethin I need to tell you.

  Shoot.

  You’re a fuckin skeleton.

  Willie laughs. I am kind of hungry.

  I think if you ate a grape you’d have a paunch. We need to get some groceries in you, boy. Fast.

  No can do. I’m broker than broke.

  My treat.

  At the speak on the corner Eddie orders for Willie. Meat loaf, oysters, creamed potatoes, garden salad, a wedge of apple pie à la mode. Eddie was right, the food helps. Willie feels alive. Then comes the check. Dead again. He’s twenty years old, no job, no hope of a job, sponging off his friend.

  He stabs the pie. Ed, what am I going to do?

  Move in with me. Stay as long as you want. You know you’re like a brother.

  Thanks, Ed. But long-term. What’s any of us going to do?

  Eddie leans back. I might have a solution. For both of us.

  Eddie tells Willie that he’s leaving the bootleggers. Happy’s arrest has given him pause. Prohibition is no joke, the government isn’t playing. If you’re going to take the risk, you better make sure the reward is worth it.

  Meaning?

  One of the other drivers introduced me to a guy. Horace Steadley. Goes by Doc. A box man out of Chicago, and a great one at that—a true genius. Though he made his bones running the glim-drop back in Pittsburgh.

  The what?

  The glim. A nifty little two-man con. First man goes into a department store, dressed real sharp, wearin an eye patch, says he lost his glim—his glass eyeball. Tells the clerk he’ll pay a thousand bucks if anyone turns the eyeball in to Lost and Found. Leaves his callin card, fancy, gold-embossed with his phone number. Next day, the second man goes up to the clerk carryin a glass eyeball. Anyone lookin for this? He gets the clerk to give him three hundred. Why not? The clerk knows the glim’s worth three times that much. But when the clerk dials the number on the first man’s callin card, disconnected. Doc had it down to a science. But then he started crackin safes, takin down jewelry stores, and he liked that a whole lot better. Now he runs a topflight box crew and he needs a couple more men. He’s a right guy, Sutty. A real right guy. And he knows his potatoes, so he can teach us. Then we can start our own crew. Move up to the bigs.

  Bigs?

  Banks, Sutty. Banks.

  Oh Ed. I don’t know.

  The waiter comes, clears the table. Eddie orders two coffees. When the waiter goes away he hisses: What don’t you know?

  Isn’t it—wrong, Ed? I mean, hell. What about right and wrong?

  The world is wrong, Sutty. I don’t know why, I don’t know when it went wrong, or if it’s always been, but I know it’s wrong, sure as I know you’re you and I’m me. Maybe two wrongs don’t make a right. But answerin a wrong with a right? That just makes you poor and hungry. And nothin is as wrong as that.

  Neither says anything for several minutes. Eddie lights a cigarette, puts on his hat. Just come meet him, he says.

  Minutes later Willie is letting Eddie push him into a cab.

  Doc’s apartment is all the way over in Manhattan, near the theater district. As they approach Times Square, Willie looks out the window. Men in tuxes, women in evening gowns, hurrying from luminous motorcars into cafés, clubs, theaters. The looks on their faces say: Depression? What Depression? Willie wishes he were going to see a show. He’s never seen a show. One of the million things he’s never done. He should level with Eddie, tell him this is a waste of time. Heisting jewels isn’t his line. He doesn’t know what his line is, but it isn’t this.

  Too late. They’re outside Doc’s building, under the awning. The doorman is buzzing upstairs to announce them.

  Sutton peers at the tops of the new skyscrapers in midtown. OK, boys, pop quiz: What drove Jack Dillinger to rob his first bank?

  No clue.

  A girl broke up with him.

  Left at the next light, Reporter says to Photographer. Then straight until Fifty-Third.

  It’s on the corner, Sutton says.

  What’s the significance of this next stop? Photographer asks.

  It’s where Doc lived, Sutton says.

  Doc?

  My first teacher.

  Happy, Doc—when do we get to hear about Sneezy and Dopey?

  You two are Sneezy and Dopey.

  Har har.

  Willie and Eddie stand at attention, Willie straightening his tie, Eddie brushing dandruff off his shoulders. The door opens. A liveried butler takes Eddie’s topcoat and fedora. Willie says he’ll keep his. They follow the butler down a long hall into a sunken living room. Willie does a triple take at the furniture. End tables, side tables, coffee tables—it’s all safes. Big, little, metal, wood—safes.

  A man enters from a hall on the other side of the living room. He has an oversize head covered with thick marshmallow hair, and a mouth full of crooked teeth, which he tries to conceal with an equally thick white mustache. Come in, he says in a booming voice, come in, boys.

  Doc, Eddie whispers to Willie.

  Doc waves a crystal rocks glass full of whiskey. What’ll you have?

  Nothing, Willie says.

  A double of whatever you’re havin, Eddie says.

  Doc pours Eddie’s drink at a bar underneath oil paintings of black-hatted horsemen chasing lithe foxes. He motions for Willie and Eddie to join him in the center of the living room. The windows look onto the theaters. Fluttering marquees make the room brighter, darker, brighter, darker. Willie sits in a chair with curved legs and a silk seat cushion. It feels like sitting on a beautiful woman’s lap. Doc and Eddie take the sofa. Bending at the waist and lowering himself, Doc grunts and groans as if sliding into a warm bath.

  Pleasure to finally meet you, he says to Willie. Eddie here tells me you’re the brightest lad to come out of Irish Town.

  Eddie tells me you’re the best thief to come out of Chicago.

  Silence.

  That’s a dirty lie, Doc says. I’m the best anywhere.

  Eddie smiles. Doc smiles. Crooked smile to go with the crooked teeth. Willie lights a Chesterfield, looks for an ashtray. There’s one on the safe at his elbow. Nice place you got here. Who’s your decorator, Wells Far
go?

  They’re all functional too, Doc says. I practice on them, take them apart, put them together, time myself. I’m like a boxer who lives in his gym. The best ones do, by the way.

  What’s with all the paintings?

  Ah. They’re from my first boost ever. An estate in Oak Park. They lend a touch of class, I think. They give me hours of pleasure. Sometimes I sit here all night, having a libation, rooting for that fox.

  Willie gives Doc a fast once-over. He does seem like a right enough guy. But what’s with that getup? He’s dressed like a manager at Title Guaranty. Cutaway coat, gold watch chain, plaid bow tie. Plus—white opera gloves? Willie cocks an eyebrow, asks about the gloves. Doc holds out his hands and spreads his fingers, as if Willie has asked a question to which the answer is an emphatic Ten.

  Willie, he says, my fingers are my life. I’m a box man, I make no pretense of being anything else. On the contrary I’m proud of my art, which goes all the way back to the ancient Egyptians. Did you know the pharaohs were the first to use a lock with pins? I guess they were the first people with valuables. Ach, kids today don’t care about the history. They just want to peel a box, shoot a box—put some nitro in the cracks and boom. It’s loud, it’s vulgar, and frankly you’re more likely to get caught. I still think the old ways are best. Stethoscope, fingers, let the tumblers talk. A safe is like a woman. She’ll tell you how to open her, provided you know how to listen. So if anything happens to these fingers, well, I’m sleeping under bridges. Naturally I take care of them. Polish the nails. Sandpaper the tips. Keep them warm and well-wrapped. Hence—opera gloves. They’re from D’Andrea Brothers, by the by. Do you know their stuff? I think they’re the tops.

  Willie has never heard anybody talk like Doc. He’s either a genius, as Eddie said, or else just full of hot air. Willie fears it’s the latter. He wants to stand, tell Doc thanks but no thanks, and he’s on the verge of doing just that when Doc says:

  Eddie tells me you’re mooning over some bird.

  Willie frowns at Eddie. Eddie shrugs.

  It’s been a tough couple of years, Willie says. Let’s leave it at that.

  Eddie says it’s a lost cause. The bird’s some rich man’s daughter.

  Please don’t call her a bird.

  Eddie says she’s out of the country, no hope of finding her.

  Willie remembers a line from his Latin class at St. Ann’s. Where there’s life, he says, there’s hope.

  Uh-huh.

  Doc stares at one of his safes, deep in thought. He looks as though he’s placed his mind inside the safe and locked the door. His eyes turn glassy, his bottom lip goes slack. Thirty seconds. Forty.

  And now he’s back. Here’s the thing, Willie. I need men on my crew who think straight.

  Willie rises out of his chair, points a finger at Doc’s chest. When I’m on someone else’s time I think plenty straight. When I’m on my own time what I think about is my own business.

  The idea of being rejected again, for yet another job, has triggered a deep reflex. The thought of adding this popinjay safecracker to the growing list of people who don’t want him, who have no use for him, is more than he can take.

  Eddie glares at Willie. Easy, boy.

  But Doc isn’t a bit ruffled. Willie, he says calmly, sit. I didn’t mean to offend.

  Willie lowers himself back onto his chair. Doc takes a slug of whiskey, looks at the fluttering marquees outside the window. Light, dark, light, dark. Then:

  What’s your angle kid?

  Angle?

  Why do you want to work for me? Are you like Eddie, looking to learn? Are you looking for thrills? Or—do you just want money?

  Doesn’t everybody want money? Sure, I’d like to eat three squares a day. Have my own place, one that’s bigger than a washtub. Not have to hide from my landlord. Not wear these stinking clothes. I’d like to salt away enough to maybe see something of this world.

  Eddie leans forward. News to him. A trip?

  Where to? Doc says.

  I’d like to go down to the harbor one day and get on one of those great big liners. Just—sail away.

  Who wouldn’t, Doc says.

  I always see the ads in the papers, Willie says. The Aquitania sails every second Wednesday at midnight. That always gives me a tingle. Whenever the second Wednesday rolls around, I find myself looking at a clock.

  Anyplace special?

  Europe, maybe. Ireland. I don’t know.

  Eddie smirks. Hamburg, he mutters.

  Doc sets his drink on a safe, tugs at his white gloves. He waggles his fingers, cracks his knuckles. Okay, he says. I get the picture. I can see who you are, Willie, I can see you’re a right guy. I could see it when you came through the door. I was just testing your motor. Runs plenty hot. That’s usually a good thing. Welcome aboard.

  You mean—I’m in?

  You’re in. Both you and Eddie. We pull strictly out-of-town jobs. Boston, Philly, Washington. Sometimes upstate. Staying out of town keeps the bluecoats off balance. A bluecoat is a poor tourist. We use the same routine every time. Break into a jewel store in the wee hours, crack the safe, sweep out the good stuff, make for the train. We’re home in bed before the first salesman shows up to fill the showcase in the morning. Our next job’s in Philly. A store I’ve been casing for months. Ever been to Philly?

  I’ve never been anywhere. Except Poughkeepsie.

  After this job you still won’t feel as if you’ve been to Philly. In and out. Two hours. Tops.

  And so it begins.

  TEN

  He likes everything about it. He tells himself he shouldn’t. But he does.

  He likes checking in to a fancy hotel, requesting one of their best suites, lying on the bedspread with a newspaper and getting his rest like a prizefighter before a fight. He likes keeping one eye on the clock, then coolly putting on his topcoat and walking out at two in the morning, reconnoitering with Doc and the crew at the back door of the jewelry shop. After Eddie jimmies the door, he likes watching Doc carefully remove his opera gloves and flutter his fingers around the dial of the safe. He likes that first sight of those jewels. People are already mad for diamonds, but people don’t know the half. The haunting beauty of stolen diamonds in a black silk purse at two in the morning—it’s like being the first person ever to see the stars.

  He even likes the planning and studying that go into a job. The safe, as an intellectual subject, as an abstract concept, fascinates Willie. Everything in life is a safe, he thinks. His parents, his brothers, Mr. Endner—if only he’d known the combination.

  Above all he likes having a job. Though most times it doesn’t feel like a job. Doc was right. It’s an art.

  Within weeks Willie is an indispensable member of Doc’s crew. He’s the first to show for the weekly planning sessions, the last to leave. He asks smart questions, gets the answers right away, and sometimes thinks of things that Doc missed. Eddie and the other two men on the crew tend to get bored. Not Willie. He can sit in a coffee shop all night, poring over maps, blueprints, brochures from safe manufacturers. Let’s go over it one more time, Doc always says, and Willie is the only one who doesn’t kick.

  Sutton: It looks exactly as it did when Doc lived there.

  Reporter: Which one is it?

  Sutton: That one, with the white awning and the skinny doorman. Doc always gave a big Christmas tip to the doorman, to make sure the kid would buzz up and warn Doc if the cops were ever on their way. Wait here.

  Reporter: Wait? Mr. Sutton, where are you—? And there he goes.

  Willie buys a shiny new Ford, black with burgundy seats, and a gold wristwatch, and ten pairs of handmade shoes, and a dozen custom-made business suits, all midnight blue and gray flannel. He buys a tuxedo and attends a new Broadway show every other night. He rents a six-room apartment on Park Avenue for three thousand dollars a month and fills one of the walk-in closets with silk-lined topcoats and hand-painted ties, pastel shirts, cashmere scarves. And two of every kind of hat
. Boaters, fedoras, panamas, leghorns. He’s never owned more clothes than would fit in one grip. Now his closet looks like Gimbels.

  Mornings, he likes to sit in his new leather chair by his new living room window, looking out across the rooftops and chimney pots, the clotheslines and telegraph lines and office towers. It’s the first time Manhattan, from high above, hasn’t crushed him with desire. On the contrary the view makes him feel smug. All those people down there, striving, hustling, pushing, shoving, busting their asses to get what Willie’s already got. In spades. He lights a cigarette, blows a jet of smoke against the window. Suckers.

  For several months he’s happy, or as close to happy as he thinks himself capable of being without Bess. He takes none of it for granted, the pleasures of dressing well, eating well, sleeping on silk sheets that cost more than most people pay in rent. He’s never felt stronger, more alive, and he covets the effect it has on other people—the looks he gets on the street, women sending him engraved invitations in the form of over-the-shoulder smiles, men openly gawking with fear and envy. Waiters come to attention, doormen bow deeply, cigarette girls bend over and give him peeks at their cleavage as though it were his birthright. And yet, and yet. One morning his aerial survey of Manhattan doesn’t afford the same jolt. His mind is restless, his heart troubled. King of all he surveys? What of it? He thinks of the old neighborhood. Suddenly he’s up, out of the chair, ringing the doorman to bring his car around. An hour later Wingy is gawking, barking with laughter. Don’t you look like Sunday, she says.

  Hiya kid.

  Some getup. Your ship come in?

  Rich uncle died.

  You don’t say. And you want to spend some of your inheritance on a little Wingy love?

  Nah. Just came by to say hello. I had a hunch you might like a visit.

  He drops his new hat on the bed.

  I was just going to have breakfast, she says.

  I’d love some.

  She pulls a bottle of bootleg from under her mattress, pours two glasses, hands one to Willie. She tells him that his hunch was spot-on, she’s feeling blue this morning. The quality of her clientele is in steep decline. The Depression is ending, the markets are roaring, and suddenly the men who visit her are very different.