Sutton

by J. R. Moehringer

  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, hang
s 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.

  No. You drive. That’s all. But that’s a lot. That’s a very important job, Plank.

  Plank nods. No one says anything for a minute. Plank lifts his saucer to his lips, slurps. How about a chauffeur costume? he says. You know. Cause I’m drivin.

  I think you’re missing the point, Willie says. No one’s going to see you but us.

  Plank nods. But he looks crushed.

  Later Willie tells Eddie that they can do better than Plank.

  If we picked some guy out of a soup line, Ed, he’d be better than Plank.

  Eddie unwraps a stick of Juicy Fruit, bends it into his mouth. Willie thinks of Centre Street, remembers Big Cop and Bigger Cop. Flinches.

  I’ll admit, Eddie says, Plank doesn’t make the best first impression. But he’s a right guy, Sutty. You’ll see.

  Bartender puts his elbows on the bar, motions for Sutton to lean in. What I always liked about you, Willie, is the way you stuck it to those fuckin banks.

  Sutton smiles vaguely.

  Kids today, Bartender says, they don’t understand how evil banks were back then. And everyone back then agreed they were evil, am I right? Editorials, cartoons, sermons, everywhere you looked someone was making the point that banks were bloodsuckers, that we needed to protect people from them. You remember, right?

  Sure, sure.

  And they’re still bloodsuckers, Bartender says, but nowadays bankers are respected. The fuck happened?

  One of the men asleep at the bar raises his head. He looks angrily at Sutton, Bartender. My brother, he says, is a banker.

  Oh, Sutton says. Sorry friend.

  My brother is a cunt.

  Go back to sleep, Bartender says. We’ll wake you when we decide to take a survey of morons.

  They meet Plank at a neutral location. Stash Willie’s car, pile into Plank’s. Eddie rides shotgun, Willie sits in the backseat. They change into their cop uniforms while Plank drives. Willie looks at Plank’s reflection in the rearview. He looks at his own reflection in Plank’s suit. Another metallic suit—does the man buy them in bulk?

  How you feeling, Plank?

  Good, Willie. Good.

  Willie studies the back of Plank’s neck. A wad of fat surges over his collar. He stares hard at the back of Plank’s head, wonders what goes on in there, what led Plank down so many wrong roads that he ended up a cabdriver for bank robbers. Willie sighs, looks out the window at the gray Philadelphia morning.

  Course, Plank adds, I see you fellas in your costumes and I just wish—

  Don’t, Eddie says. Don’t start.

  Plank frowns at the speedometer. I just don’t see the harm, he says.

  Eddie buffs his police badge. We’ve been over this a hundred times.

  Plank grunts.

  No one’s going to see you, Plank. Don’t you get that?

  That’s my point, Plank says.

  What is?

  No one’s goin to see me, so what harm is there in me wearin a costume?

  I’ve known Sutty all my life, Eddie says, I told him you’re a right guy. Don’t make me sorry.

  You can’t be a right guy and wear a costume? You hear the illogic, Ed?

  Illogic?

  Plank smiles. My wife bought me a book on buildin vocabulary.

  Lose the book. No one wants a wheelman with a vocabulary.

  Willie rubs his forehead. Quiet. Both of you. Please. The bank is five blocks up on the right.

  Plank parks. They sit in silence, the motor purring. At eight-thirty Willie steps out, walks to the bank, knocks. Routine check, he tells the guard, what with the recent rash of robberies and all.

  Sure, sure, the guard says, throwing open the door—would you like a cup of coffee, Officer?

  That’d be nice, Willie says, stepping in, lithe as a dancer, pulling his Tommy from under his greatcoat. Right behind him comes Eddie, sawed-off shotgun shoulder-high. Eddie pulls the guard’s gun from its holster, ties him up. Then he and Willie tie up the employees as they arrive. There are twelve in all.

  The manager, as always, is the last. The touch of the Tommy against his belly makes him tremble. He looks into Willie’s blue eyes. You’re—the Actor.

  Never mind. The safe. Move.

  The manager takes a step, stops. He looks sheepish. I need to iron my shoelaces, he says.

  What?

  Make water.

  Safe first. Water second.

  I’m not going to make it, Mr. Actor. I had an extra cup of joe at the house. I should’ve, you know, before I left. But I was running late, and now the sight of your Tommy there has—well. Sped things up.

  Open the safe, Eddie says, his voice rising, or we start shooting your employees.

  You’re going to kill my employees because I need to make water?

  Willie sighs. Eddie sighs. That does seem harsh, Sutty.

  Willie walks the manager to the bathroom. He waits with the door open. The old boy sounds like a garden hose.

  He goes and goes. And goes.

  Jesus, Eddie mutters. Now I gotta go.

  At last the manager emerges. He takes Willie to the safe, turns the dial, jerks the door. Suddenly it’s Willie who needs to make water. Most safes are only partially full. This one is packed. There isn’t room to slide a flick knife between all the green stacks.

  Later, back at Willie’s room, Willie and Eddie and Plank sit before the coffee table, the haul piled into a pyramid. They’ve counted it three times. Each time it comes to a quarter of a million dollars. Again and again Plank asks, Did you fellas know? Willie and Eddie don’t answer. It’s got to be one of the biggest hauls ever in this city, Plank says. Still they don’t answer. This calls for a party, Plank says. Willie nods dumbly. Can I invite my wife? Plank says. Again Willie nods without thinking.

  Mrs. Plank comes by train from East New York. A bookkeeper for a butcher, she looks the way Willie expected her to look—the only way Plank’s wife could look. White blond hair, large sensuous mouth, no-one-home stare.

  Eddie invites his girlfriend, Nina, a fashion model. She was on the cover of McCall’s last summer. She dated Max Baer, the heavyweight heartthrob, Eddie says, and Clark Gable once made a play for her in a Schrafft’s. She wears a tight sweater and a silk scarf knotted around her neck and a hat that slopes up and then sharply down and then up again, like a golf course. Willie can’t take his eyes off her. He tries. He can’t.

  Everyone drinks too much. Plank and his wife drink much too much
. Soon the girls begin shedding their clothes. In their garters and brassieres they dance around the coffee table. Mrs. Plank grabs a fistful of hundreds, throws it at Nina, who grabs two fistfuls and throws them in the air.

  Willie sees Eddie laughing, slapping his thigh. He goes to him, wraps an arm around his shoulders. Hey, partner.

  Hiya, Sutty.

  Willie leers at Nina. How about letting me have a turn, he says.

  Eddie stiff-arms Willie, looks at him with confusion. What?

  Willie lowers his head, trying to think. He looks up. Sorry, Ed. I don’t know where that came from. I’m drunk.

  Forget it, Eddie says. He walks away.

  Willie sits heavily on the floor, lies back. He puts a pillow under his head, tries to balance his glass of whiskey on his chest, spills half of it. His eyelids. He can’t keep them open. Moments before letting them close he sees Eddie maneuvering Nina over to the window. Silhouetted against the fading daylight they look like Gable and Lombard on the big screen. Willie tries to stay awake, to read their lips. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Plank chasing Mrs. Plank toward the bedroom. He sees Mrs. Plank’s ass, big and round, her bright purple garters, her disheveled white blond hair waterfalling down her back. A split second before passing out Willie sees something else.

  In the morning he won’t know if he actually saw it or dreamt it.

  Plank—wearing Willie’s cop uniform.

  Bartender: The other thing I always admired about you, Willie, was the nonviolence part. If only more crooks were like you the world would be a better place. These days they think nothing of grabbing an old lady on the subway, hitting her on the head, taking her pocketbook.

  Sutton: You’re telling me. The kids I saw coming into Attica the last few years. You wouldn’t believe. Violent, hooked on drugs. And lazy? They’d seek me out, ask me to teach them the secret of bank robbing. I’d tell them, The secret is hard fuckin work.

  Bartender: Now you got these radicals running around, planting bombs outside banks, government buildings. They say they’re protesting—they’re just hurting innocent people.

  Sutton: I used to get up at five, fill a thermos with hot coffee, walk down to the bank, freeze my ass off. I’d take reams of notes. I’d memorize them. I planned every job to the T so no one would get hurt.