Sutton. J. Moehringer R.

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СКАЧАТЬ Lai—Willie Sutton is a pussycat.

      Yeah, says the Newsday reporter, he’s a real pacifist. He’s the Gandhi of Gangsters.

      All those banks, the TV reporter says, all those prisons, and the guy never fired a single shot. He never hurt a fly.

      The Newsday reporter gets in the TV reporter’s face. What about Arnold Schuster? he says.

      Aw, the TV reporter says, Sutton had nothing to do with Schuster.

      Says who?

      Says me.

      And who the fuck are you?

      I’ll tell you who I’m not. I’m not some burned-out hack.

      The Times reporter jumps between them. You two cannot get in a fistfight about whether or not someone is nonviolent—on Christmas Eve.

      Why not?

      Because if you do I’ll have to write about it.

      The talk swings back to the warden. Doesn’t he realize that the temperature is now close to zero? Oh you bet he realizes. He’s loving this. He’s on some kind of power trip. Everybody these days is on a power trip. Mailer, Nixon, Manson, the Zodiac Killer, the cops—it’s 1969, man, Year of the Power Trip. The warden’s probably watching them right now on his closed-circuit TV, sipping a brandy and laughing his fat ass off. It’s not enough that they have to be part of this massive clusterfuck, but they also have to be the dupes and patsies of some crypto fascist macho dick?

      You’re all welcome to sit in my truck, the TV reporter says. It’s warm. We’ve got TV. The Flying Nun is on.

      Groans.

      SUTTON LIES ON HIS BUNK, WAITING. AT SEVEN O’CLOCK RIGHT GUARD appears at the door.

      Sorry, Sutton. It’s not happening.

      Sir?

      Left Guard appears behind Right Guard. New orders just came down from the dep, he says—no go.

      No go—why?

      Why what?

      Why sir?

      Right Guard shrugs. Some kind of beef between Rockefeller and the parole department. They can’t agree who’s going to take responsibility, or how the press release should be worded.

      So I’m not—?

      No.

      Sutton looks at the walls, the bars. His wrists. The purple veins, bubbled and wormy. He should’ve done it when he had the chance.

      Right Guard starts laughing. Left Guard too. Just kidding, Sutton. On your feet.

      They unlock the door, lead him down to the tailor. He strips out of his prison grays, puts on a crisp new white shirt, a new blue tie, a new black suit with a two-button front. He pulls on the new black socks, slips on the new black wingtips. He turns to the mirror. Now he can see the old swagger.

      He faces Tailor. How do I look?

      Tailor jiggles his coins and buttons, gives a thumbs-up.

      Sutton turns to the guards. Nothing.

      Right Guard alone leads Sutton through Times Square, then past Admin and toward the front entrance. God it’s cold. Sutton cradles his shopping bag of belongings and ignores the cramping and burning and sizzling pain in his leg. A plastic tube is holding open the artery and he can feel it getting ready to collapse like a paper straw.

      You need an operation, the doctor said after the insertion of the tube two years ago.

      If I wait on the operation, will I lose the leg, Doc?

      No, Willie, you won’t lose the leg—you’ll die.

      But Sutton waited. He didn’t want some prison doctor opening him up. He wouldn’t trust a prison doctor to open a checking account. Now it seems he made the right call. He might be able to have the operation at a real hospital, and pay for it with the proceeds of his novel. Provided someone will publish it. Provided there’s still time. Provided he lives through this night, this moment. Tomorrow.

      Right Guard leads Sutton around a metal detector, around a sign-in table, and to a black metal door. Right Guard unlocks it. Sutton steps forward. He looks back at Right Guard, who’s belittled and beaten him for the last seventeen years. Right Guard has censored Sutton’s letters, confiscated his books, denied his requests for soap and pens and toilet paper, slapped him when he forgot to put a sir at the end of a sentence. Right Guard braces himself—this is the moment prisoners like to get things off their chests. But Sutton smiles as if something inside him is opening like a flower. Merry Christmas kid.

      Right Guard’s head snaps back. He waits a beat. Two. Yeah, Merry Christmas, Willie. Good luck to you.

      It’s shortly before eight o’clock.

      Right Guard pushes open the door and out walks Willie Sutton.

      A PHOTOGRAPHER FROM LIFE SHOUTS, HERE HE IS! THREE DOZEN REPORTERS converge. The freaks and ghouls push in. TV cameras veer toward Sutton’s face. Lights, brighter than prison searchlights, hit his azure eyes.

      How’s it feel to be free, Willie?

      Do you think you’ll ever rob another bank, Willie?

      What do you have to say to Arnold Schuster’s family?

      Sutton points to the full moon. Look, he says.

      Three dozen reporters and two dozen civilians and one archcriminal look up at the night sky. The first time Sutton has seen the moon, face-to-face, in seventeen years—it takes his breath.

      Look, he says again. Look at this beautiful clear night God has made for Willie.

      Now, beyond the crush of reporters Sutton sees a man with pumpkin-colored hair and stubborn orange freckles leaning against a red 1967 Pontiac GTO. Sutton waves, Donald hurries over. They shake hands. Donald shoves aside several reporters, leads Sutton to the GTO. When Sutton is settled into the passenger seat, Donald slams the door and shoves another reporter, just for fun. He runs around the car, jumps behind the wheel, mashes the gas pedal. Away they go, sending up a wave of wet mud and snow and salt. It sprays the reporter from Newsday. His face, his chest, his shirt, his overcoat. He looks down at his clothes, then up at his colleagues:

      Like I said—a thug.

      SUTTON DOESN’T SPEAK. DONALD LETS HIM NOT SPEAK. DONALD KNOWS. Donald walked out of Attica nine months ago. They both stare at the icy road and the frozen woods and Sutton tries to sort his thoughts. After a few miles he asks if Donald was able to get that thing they discussed on the phone.

      Yes, Willie.

      Is she alive?

      Don’t know. But I found her last known address.

      Donald hands over a white envelope. Sutton holds it like a chalice. СКАЧАТЬ