Sutton

by J. R. Moehringer

  Photographer lowers the radio. Cop made me move the car, he says.

  Uh-huh, Reporter says.

  I’m talking to the City Desk. They want us to shoot Willie at some bank a few blocks from here.

  Fine. I need to leave him with you for two minutes.

  Cool.

  Sutton climbs into the passenger seat. Reporter runs back across the Plaza to the pay phone.

  We’ll head there in a few, Photographer says into the radio. Yeah. Manufacturers. I got the address. Yeah. Ten four.

  He sets the radio on the dash, looks at Sutton. Sutton looks at him. Life Saver eyes again. You look—happy, Sutton says.

  Happy?

  Peaceful. Almost.

  Photographer laughs nervously. If you say so.

  You been smoking that shit a long time?

  What shit?

  Kid. Please.

  Photographer sighs. Actually, no.

  What made you start?

  Photographer unwinds his barber pole scarf, rewinds it slowly around his neck. Once upon a time, he says, I was pretty good at not letting this job get to me. I was bulletproof. I was known for it. I took pictures of the most horrible shit you can imagine, and none of it stayed with me. But a couple years ago the paper sent me up to Harlem. A young mother with too many kids to feed, not right in the head, threw her baby daughter out a sixth-floor window. The reporter and I got there before the cops did and we found the girl, this beautiful one-year-old girl, lying in the street. Eyes open. Arms spread wide. I did my job, fired off a roll of film, same as always, but when I got home I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop shaking. So I went out, asked the guys on the corner for something, anything, to get me through the night. They sold me a few tabs of acid. I dropped one, and instead of getting better, I got worse. A whole lot worse. I had what they call a death trip.

  What’s that?

  I won’t describe it. It wouldn’t be fair to you. And besides, I honestly can’t. Let’s just say I went to a very messed-up place. I felt like I was in the land of the dead. I felt like, for the first time, I really and truly understood death, understood how awful, how bottomless, death is. Which was about the last thing I wanted to feel at that moment. I started freaking out, started screaming, crying. My old lady wanted to call an ambulance. I wouldn’t let her. I thought it might cost me my job. She went back down to the corner, bought some weed, and that mellowed me out. Stopped the sweats, the horrors. Weed brought me back, got me over the memory of that little girl. So I started turning on every night. Right after work. Then before. Then during the day. Weed is still the only thing that works.

  They sit quietly for a minute.

  There used to be a guy, Sutton says. At Attica. He grew a little weed in his cell.

  No kidding.

  The hacks thought it was some kind of fern.

  Photographer laughs.

  The guy told me weed made him feel like he wasn’t in Attica. Like he was floating above Attica.

  Yeah. That sounds about right.

  Sutton looks at his Chesterfields, looks at Photographer. I may have misjudged you kid.

  Thanks, Willie. Me too.

  So—you got any of that shit left?

  Really?

  Sutton stares.

  Photographer looks down Fifth Avenue, looks back at Sutton. They both look at Hercules, ready to hurl the world down on them. Photographer opens his cloth purse and Sutton shuts the Polara door.

  NINETEEN

  Willie is keep-locked. Freddie too. Meaning they’re kept in their cells all day, all night, even during meals. Their only break is a half hour every morning, when guards let them into a small yard for exercise. And mockery.

  Welcome to Holmesburg, ladies. Welcome to the Burg.

  Welcome to the Jungle, dumbfucks.

  Willie and Freddie stand in a windy corner of the yard, hands jammed under their armpits. Willie thinks of the animals in the Hudson slaughterhouse, the way they huddled in the pens.

  Where are the others? he asks.

  D Block, Freddie says.

  Fuckin tunnel, Willie mutters.

  Wasn’t worth this, Freddie says.

  Nothing’s worth this, Willie says.

  One day, at the end of their yard time, as guards herd them back to the cellblock, a feeling sweeps over Willie. He doesn’t want to go back. Of course no prisoner wants to go back to his cell, but Willie really doesn’t want to. He considers pleading with the guards: Please don’t make me go back, I can’t take it. Please! This strikes him as both the most insane and the most sane thought he’s ever had. Instead, when he walks back into his cell, when they shut the door, he throws himself against the wall, hurls his body against it again and again until he falls in a crumpled heap on the floor. His shoulder is dislocated. Days later, with his release from the hospital, his yard privileges are revoked.

  He gives up. He lets himself sink into that soft void between apathy and insanity which claims so many prisoners. He hears them at night, the broken ones, his brothers, berating the moon. He joins them. For much of 1946 he’s as broken as they come.

  When he’s not screaming, he’s sleeping. He sleeps fourteen, sixteen hours a day. In dreams he can be with Bess, walking the beach at Coney Island, driving through virgin forest. Waking from such dreams is agony. Being returned to the real world is worse than being returned to his cell. And yet it’s a trade he’s willing to make. He sleeps more, and more, and ever deeper.

  But slowly, inexorably, he gathers himself. He starts by rebuilding his body. Push-ups, sit-ups, he does hundreds each day. Then his mind. He’s permitted two books each week from the prison library, and he devours them, learns them by heart. He revisits old favorites. Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone. He recites them, sings them to the walls. Now you will come out of a confusion of people! Let the others berate the moon, he romances it. Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

  Reporter returns to the Polara. Okay, he says, let’s roll.

  Sutton gets out, climbs into the backseat. How’s the girlfriend? he asks Reporter.

  Fine, Reporter says.

  Sutton laughs. But it’s not his typical craggy laugh. More a squeaky giggle.

  Reporter notices. How’s everyone in here? he asks.

  Good, Sutton says. Never better.

  Photographer starts up the Polara, swings onto Fifth, eases into traffic. Reporter opens his notebook. Mr. Sutton, before our next stop—you never finished telling me how the tunnel escape turned out.

  Not well. I was only free a few minutes.

  And when they recaptured you, they sent you to Holmesburg?

  Silence.

  Mr. Sutton?

  Reporter turns. Sutton is staring into space.

  Mr. Sutton?

  Still staring.

  Mr. Sutton.

  What? Oh. Yeah kid. Holmesburg. They called it the Burg. And I was in C Block, where they kept the worst of the worst. The crazies, the incorrigibles. They called C Block the Jungle. It was a jungle but with more bugs and shittier air. They did medical experiments on us without our knowing. Doctors at the Burg were bagmen for the drug companies. If you wanted to stay alive, you had to stay out of the infirmary. But that wasn’t so easy for me. A third of my life behind bars—it was starting to tell. Acid stomach, bad back, sore knees. And talk about constipated. I’d have shanked you both for a prune. The docs were more than happy to give me a pill or a shot. Sometimes they said it was medicine, sometimes vitamins. But it was poison. I always felt weird afterward. Weird. I felt—weeeird.

  Reporter glares at Photographer. Don’t tell me, he says.

  Tell you what?

  A trusty comes into Willie’s cell each morning to deliver his mail, his books, the latest poisons from the doctors. Twenty-three years old, the trusty talks slowly, walks slowly, and wears his blond hair long and low over his brow, covering one eye. Maybe it’s the hours spent with Shrink, or maybe it’s all the Freud and Jung he’s read, but Willie see
s right through this trusty, knows instinctively that the trusty craves an older man’s approval. Knows he’d swim through shit for it.

  Willie turns on the charm. How’s tricks kid? How you feeling?

  Good, the trusty says, thanks for asking. None of the other fellas ask.

  The other fellas don’t ask because the trusty is a rat. He was in a smash-and-grab crew, in North Philly, and when he got pinched he gave up his buddies. It makes Willie sick to befriend such a rat, to stroke his ego, but he’s Willie’s only contact with the outside world. Which means he’s Willie’s only hope.

  Willie spends months working Rat, mapping his circuits and buttons, learning his favorite teams, songs, actors, listening to his bullshit stories, all of which end with Rat as the triumphant hero. He laughs at every one of Rat’s inane jokes, frowns dramatically when he leaves Willie’s cell to go finish his rounds.

  Gradually, subtly, Willie plies him with questions. Kid did you have a trade on the outside?

  I was a house painter.

  Is that so? I always thought that seemed like interesting work.

  I was good too. That’s why the warden lets me leave the joint on day jobs.

  You don’t say. Into the city?

  Why sure. Hours at a time. I can even visit friends. Which is good, since I don’t got none in here. All these guys think I’m a rat. But I’m a right guy, Willie.

  I can tell kid. I can always tell a right guy.

  Anything I told the cops, it was only because they beat me.

  You’re lucky they didn’t kill you. Cops.

  Man. You really get me, Willie.

  I do kid. I do. But you’re dead wrong about one thing.

  What’s that?

  You’ve got one friend in here kid.

  On New Year’s Eve, 1947, Willie and Rat sit together, listening to the radio. A new song. What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve? Margaret Whiting is wondering, asking repeatedly whom Willie will be kissing at the stroke of midnight. Fuck her. Willie tunes in the news. A snowstorm hammers the Northeast—nearly one hundred people are dead. A verdict comes down in the first Auschwitz trial—twenty-three people are set to be hanged. Ancient Bible scrolls are found in a cave—somewhere near the Dead Sea. Willie turns down the volume.

  Listen kid. On your next trip to the city, I need you to get me something.

  Sure thing, Willie.

  I need a gun kid.

  He says it casually, as if he wants an extra pinch of salt on his Salisbury steak. Rat reacts just as casually. He puckers his lips. Nods.

  Some saws too.

  Another nod.

  Willie drops his voice. And when the time’s right I’m going to need to know if there are any ladders around this joint.

  Rat gives a microscopic nod. Slow-motion cameras wouldn’t detect it.

  Days later, delivering Willie’s mail, Rat hands him a small package. Wrapped in tight plastic. Covered in paint. Because it was smuggled in a paint can.

  Cookies from home, Willie. Make sure they stay fresh.

  Willie has no home. He stuffs the package under his mattress. Between bed checks he rips off the plastic.

  A loaded .38.

  And two shiny new hacksaws.

  Photographer stops at Forty-Third, points. There it is, Willie.

  Sutton wipes the fog from the window to his left. Now that’s what I call a bank, he says.

  It’s a giant glass box. In the center is a massive safe, round, seven feet tall, with a door nearly two feet thick. It looks like the kind of safe in which the formula for the atomic bomb might be kept. Photographer does a U-turn, double-parks, slaps the PRESS card on the dash. He turns to Willie.

  City Desk says this bank was built because of you, brother.

  How so?

  Apparently you’d just knocked off some Manufacturers Trust? In 1950?

  Allegedly.

  And Manufacturers Trust wanted to reassure jittery customers.

  Reasonable.

  So they built this completely transparent branch. The idea was, customers could always see if Willie Sutton was there. Ergo, Willie Sutton would never be there.

  I’ll be a son of a bitch.

  The world’s first Sutton-proof bank. City Desk wants a shot of you in front of it, beaming at it, like you built it.

  Apparently I did.

  Sutton steps from the car, limps up to the bank. He puts both palms against the glass. Photographer fires off a dozen shots. A little to the left, Willie. Good, good. Okay, that’s enough. We’re all set.

  Take a few more, Sutton says. I’ll use them for my Christmas cards next year.

  Photographer laughs, fires off a few more.

  Sutton laughs and laughs, still doesn’t move, doesn’t take his palms from the glass. Reporter comes forward. Mr. Sutton?

  They went to all this trouble kid.

  Who?

  They. Because of me. A punk from Irish Town. They went to all this effort.

  It is—impressive.

  My legacy.

  Sutton stands back, tilts his head. He considers the safe from different angles. Puts on his glasses. Strokes his chin. Huh, he says. How do you like that? It’s a Mosler.

  How can you tell?

  How can the doctor tell your tonsils need to come out?

  He takes another step back, looks up and down the street. You know something kid?

  What?

  A good crew, a pot of black coffee, a lookout I can trust—I could still take down this fuckin bank.

  Willie peers through his cell window. Snow. The storm he’s been waiting for. February 10, 1947. Why is it always February, this sawed-off month, this Hughie McLoon of months, when all the big things in his life go down?

  At lunchtime the cell door clatters open. Here’s that book you wanted, Willie.

  Thanks kid. How’s tricks?

  Can’t complain and if I did who’d listen?

  I would kid. I would.

  Willie drops his voice: Pass the word to Freddie. Tonight.

  Rat nods. Then lingers. Not staying exactly, not leaving. He brushes away his forelock, out of his eye, takes a step forward.

  I’ll miss you, Willie. A lot.

  Willie looks down, clenches his teeth, curses himself for not catching the signs. While he’s been working Rat, Rat has been working him. And now, if Willie doesn’t handle this moment just right, the kid will go straight to the warden. Once a rat. Willie looks up. Yeah. Uh. I’ll miss you too kid.

  Rat takes another step. I love you, Willie.

  Oh. Yeah. I love you too kid.

  Willie embraces Rat in a fatherly way, but Rat isn’t having that. Taking Willie’s face between his palms, Rat pulls him closer. Kisses him. Willie tells himself not to pull away, not to cringe. It’s either kiss Rat back or spend the rest of his life here in this cell. He has to do more than endure this, he has to act as if he likes it. No. He has to like it. When he feels Rat’s tongue, he touches it lightly with his, pushes his own tongue deep into Rat’s mouth. Rat moans, runs his fingers through Willie’s hair, and Willie lets him, then does the same to Rat.

  Rat tries for more. Willie wheels. Ah kid, he says. Please. Go. Before I don’t let you go.

  He waits. He hears Rat’s labored breathing. He hears Rat’s labored thinking. At last he hears the cell door clatter shut.

  Heart pounding, Willie lies on his bunk. Our best performances in life, he tells the wall, are delivered with no audience.

  He lies there all afternoon. He doesn’t touch his food. Doesn’t read, doesn’t write. After the midnight inspection he counts to nine hundred, slides the .38 from under his mattress, into his waistband, and crawls to the door. He kicks out the loose bar, wriggles through the hole. He runs down the tier and finds Freddie doing the same. Freddie leaps at Willie, hugs him, thanks him for hatching this plan. They creep back to the main door of the cellblock, crouch behind it.

  Willie hands the gun to Freddie.

  At the stroke of midnight they he
ar two voices on the other side of the door. Keys tinkling. This is it, Freddie whispers.

  The door swings toward them. They lunge. The guards are quicker than Willie expected. They nearly manage to pull the door back. But Freddie hits the opening like a fullback crossing the goal line. With all his anger, all his muscle, he whams through, grabs the first guard by the throat, knocks him to the ground and shoves the .38 into his mouth.

  The guards at the command center, six feet away, leap for the rack that holds their shotguns.

  Willie barks: One fuckin move and your buddy’s dead.

  They freeze.

  Willie orders them to take off their clothes. They undo their belts, drop their pants. Keep going, he says. When they’re down to only their underpants, they lie on their sides. Willie hog-ties them.

  Now Willie puts on one of the guard’s uniforms, slips the master key off the hip of the guard captain, runs down to D Block. Kliney and Akins let out a cheer. Willie unlocks their cells, leads them back to the command center. Freddie and Kliney and Akins all put on guard uniforms. Frantic, the four rumble down to the cellar.

  The ladder is right where Rat said it would be. Each man grabs a rung and like four firemen they burst through the cellar door, into the yard.

  The snow is still falling. Heavy flakes the size of index cards. Willie sets the ladder against the wall and Freddie scrambles up first. The beam of a searchlight swings wildly back and forth across the snow.

  You there! Stop!

  Willie hears boots stomping, guards scattering in the towers above. One guard squeezes off a round. Bullets cut up the snow, splinter the ladder. Two rungs blow away like dust.

  Willie yells to the tower. Hold your fire—can’t you see we’re guards?

  The guards peer down. They see the uniforms but can’t make out the faces. The snow is too heavy and the snowflakes are reflecting the searchlights. In that one moment of indecision Willie and Akins dash up the ladder and do a swan dive from the top of the wall. This is why Willie waited for the biggest snowstorm of the year: not only do the snowflakes provide cover, the deep snowdrift at the bottom of the wall makes for a soft landing.