J. Moehringer - Sutton

The engine gives a high piercing whine and the plane rears back like a horse and goes screaming down the runway. Sutton thinks of the astronauts. He thinks of Lindbergh. He thinks of the bald man in the red long johns who used to get shot from a cannon at Coney Island. He closes his eyes and says a prayer and clutches his shopping bag. When he opens his eyes again the full moon is right outside his window, Jackie Gleasoning him.

Within forty minutes they make out the lights of Manhattan. Then the Statue of Liberty glowing green and gold out in the harbor. Sutton presses his face against the window. One-armed goddess. She’s waving to him, beckoning him. Calling him home.

The plane tilts sideways and swoops toward LaGuardia. The landing is smooth. As they slow and taxi toward the terminal Reporter turns to check on Sutton. You okay, Mr. Sutton?

Let’s go again kid.

Reporter smiles.

They walk side by side across the wet, foggy tarmac to a waiting car. Sutton thinks of Bogart and Claude Rains. He’s been told he looks a little like Bogart. Reporter is talking. Mr. Sutton? Did you hear? I assume your lawyer explained all about tomorrow?

Yeah kid.

Reporter checks his watch. Actually, I should say today. It’s one in the morning.

Is it, Sutton says. Time has lost all meaning. Not that it ever had any.

You know that your lawyer has agreed to give us exclusive rights to your story. And you know that we’re hoping to visit your old stomping grounds, the scenes of your, um. Crimes.

Where are we staying tonight?

The Plaza.

Wake up in Attica, go to bed at the Plaza. Fuckin America.

But, Mr. Sutton, after we check in, I need to ask you, please, order room service, anything you like, but do not leave the hotel.

Sutton looks at Reporter. The kid’s not yet twenty-five, Sutton guesses, but he’s dressed like an old codger. Fur-collared trench coat, dark brown suit, cashmere scarf, cap-toed brown lace-ups. He’s dressed, Sutton thinks, like a damn banker.

My editors, Mr. Sutton. They’re determined that we have you to ourselves the first day. That means we can’t have anyone quoting you or shooting your picture. So we can’t let anyone know where you are.

In other words, kid, I’m your prisoner.

Reporter gives a nervous laugh. Oh ho, I wouldn’t say that.

But I’m in your custody.

Just for one day, Mr. Sutton.

DAYLIGHT FILLS THE SUITE.

Sutton sits in a wingback chair, watching the other wingback chair and the king-size bed come into view. He hasn’t slept. It’s been five hours since he and Reporter checked in and he’s nodded off a few times in this chair but that’s all. He lights a cigarette, the last one in the pack. Good thing he ordered two more packs from room service. Good thing they had his brand. He can’t smoke anything but Chesterfields. He always, always had a footlocker of Chesterfields in his cell. He washes down the smoke with the ice-cold champagne he also ordered. He puts the cigarette in his mouth and holds the white envelope to the daylight. He still hasn’t opened it. He won’t let himself until he’s ready, until the time is right, even though that means he might not live to open it.

His body is doing everything the doctor warned him it would do in the final stages. The vise feeling in the small of his back. The toes and legs going numb. Claudication, the doctor called it. At first you’ll have trouble walking, Willie. Then you’ll simply stop.

Stop what, Doc?

Stop everything, Willie—you’ll just stop .

So he’s going to die today. Within a few hours, maybe before noon, certainly before darkness falls. He knows it in the same way he used to know things in the old days, the way he used to know if a guy was right or a rat. He’s given death the slip a hundred times, but not today. He invited death in with that suicide note. Once you let death in, it doesn’t always leave.

He turns the envelope slowly, shakes it like a match he’s trying to extinguish. He sees the one sheet of loose-leaf inside, covered in Donald’s scrawl. He sees Bess’s name, or thinks he does. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen Bess when she wasn’t there. Has she already heard about his release? He pictures Bess standing before him. Conjures her. It’s easier to conjure her in a suite at the Plaza than in a cell at Attica. Ah Bess, he whispers. I can’t die before I see you, my heart’s darling. I can’t.

A faint knock makes him jump. He slips the white envelope into his breast pocket, hobbles to the door.

Reporter. His dark brown hair is wet, neatly parted, and his face, freshly scrubbed, is pink and white. From the neck up he’s the color of Neapolitan ice cream. He’s wearing another banker suit and the same fur-collared trench coat. In one hand he’s carrying a big lawyerly briefcase, in the other a paper box filled with bagels and coffee.

Morning, Mr. Sutton.

Merry Christmas kid.

Were you on the phone?

No.

I thought I heard voices.

Nah.

Reporter smiles. His teeth look twice as Pepsodenty. Good, he says.

Sutton still can’t remember Reporter’s name, or which newspaper he works for, and it feels too late to ask. He also doesn’t care. He steps aside. Reporter walks to a desk by the window, sets down the paper box.

I got cream, sugar, I didn’t know how you take it.

Sutton shuts the door, follows Reporter into the suite. Are we not going down to the restaurant kid?

Sorry, Mr. Sutton, the restaurant is much too public. You’re a very famous man this morning.

I’ve been famous all my life kid.

But today, Mr. Sutton, you’re the most famous man in New York. Producers, directors, screenwriters, ghostwriters, publishers, they’re all staking out my newspaper. Word is out that we’ve got you. Merv Griffin phoned the city desk twice this morning. Johnny Carson’s people left four messages at my home. We can’t take a chance of someone in the restaurant spotting you. I can just see some waiter phoning the Times and saying: For fifty bucks I’ll tell you where Willie Sutton is having breakfast. My editor would skin me alive.

Now at least Sutton knows Reporter doesn’t work for the Times .

Reporter clicks open his briefcase, removes a stack of newspapers. He holds one before Sutton. On the front page is Sutton’s face. Above it is a Man-Walks-on-Moon-size headline: SANTA SPRINGS WILLIE SUTTON.

Sutton takes the newspaper, holds it at arm’s length, frowns. Santa, he says. Jesus, I’ll never understand all the good press that guy gets. A chubby second-story man. What, breaking and entering isn’t against the law if you wear a red velvet suit?

He looks to Reporter for confirmation. Reporter shrugs. I’m Jewish, Mr. Sutton.

Oh.

Sutton can hear it in Reporter’s voice, the kid is waiting for him to say, Call me Willie. It’s on the tip of Sutton’s tongue, but he can’t. He likes the deference. Feels good. Sutton doesn’t remember the last time someone, besides a judge, called him Mr. Sutton. He returns to the wingback chair. Reporter, carrying his paper cup of coffee, sits in the other wingback, peels off the plastic lid, takes a sip. Now he leans forward eagerly. So, Mr. Sutton—how does it feel to be famous?

I don’t think you heard me kid. I’ve been famous all my life.

Arguably you’ve been infamous.

That seems like splitting hairs.

What I’m saying is, you’re a living legend .

Please kid.

You’re an icon.

Nah.

Oh yes, Mr. Sutton. That’s why my editors are so keen for this story. In the page one meeting yesterday, a senior editor said you’ve achieved a kind of mythic status.

Sutton opens his eyes wide. Boy, you newspapermen love myths, don’t you?