J. Moehringer - Sutton

Pardon?

Selling myths, that’s what you fellas do. The front page, the sports page, the financial pages—all myths.

Well, I don’t think—

I used to buy in too. When I was a kid. I used to lap it all up. Not just newspapers either—comic books, Horatio Alger, the Bible, the whole American Dream. That’s what got me so mixed up in the first place. Fuckin myths.

I think maybe I haven’t had enough coffee.

Try some champagne.

No. Thank you. Mr. Sutton, all I’m saying is, America loves a bank robber.

Really. America has a funny way of showing it. I’ve spent half my life locked up.

Take your famous line. There’s a reason that line has become part of the culture.

Sutton stubs out his cigarette, shoots two plumes of smoke through his nostrils. Because the nostrils are different sizes, the plumes are different sizes. It’s always bothered Sutton.

Which line is that kid?

You know.

Sutton makes his face a blank. He can’t help having fun with this kid.

Mr. Sutton, surely you remember. When you were asked why you robbed banks? You said: That’s where the money was .

Right, right. I remember now. Except I never said it.

Reporter’s face falls.

One of your colleagues invented that line kid. Put my name to it.

Oh no.

Like I said. Myths. All my life, if reporters weren’t making me out to be worse than I am, they were making me out to be better.

Wow. That makes me embarrassed for my profession.

We all pay for the sins of our colleagues.

Well, Mr. Sutton, rest assured, I won’t be putting any words in your mouth today.

Sutton cocks his head. How old are you kid?

Me? I’ll be twenty-three in February.

Young.

I guess. Relatively.

If Willie’s such a hot ticket, like you say, how come your bosses sent a cub to be my chaperone?

Um.

You draw this assignment because you’re Jewish? No one else in the city room wanted to work Christmas?

Reporter sighs. I won’t lie to you, Mr. Sutton. That might be the case.

Sutton gives Reporter a long slow once-over. He misjudged this kid. Reporter isn’t a Boy Scout, Sutton decides. He’s an Eagle Scout. And an altar boy. Or whatever the Jewish equivalent might be.

Reporter looks at his watch. Speaking of the assignment, Mr. Sutton. We should probably get going.

Sutton stands, checks his breast pocket. He pulls out the white envelope, puts it back. Then he pulls out a tourist map of New York City—he had the front desk send it up with the Chesterfields and the champagne. He’s marked it with red numbers, red lines and arrows. He hands it to Reporter.

What’s this, Mr. Sutton?

You said you wanted the nickel tour of my life. There it is. I mapped it all out.

All these places?

Yeah. And they’re numbered. Chronological order.

So these are the scenes of all your crimes?

And other key events. All the crossroads of my life.

Reporter moves his finger from number to number. Crossroads, he says. I see.

Problem?

No, no. It’s just. It looks as if we double back several times. Maybe there’s a more direct route?

We have to do it in chronological order. Or else the story won’t make sense.

To whom?

You. Me. Whoever. I can’t tell you about Bess before I tell you about Eddie. I can’t tell you about Mrs. Adams before I tell you about Bess.

Who?

See what I mean?

Right. No. But, Mr. Sutton, I just don’t know if we’ll have time for all of this.

It’s all of this or none of this.

Reporter laughs, but it sounds like a sob. The thing is, Mr. Sutton, your lawyer. Made a deal with my newspaper.

That was her deal. This is Willie’s deal.

Reporter takes a sip of coffee. Sutton watches him hunch deep into his fur-collared trench coat, thinking out his next move. Fear and anxiety are written in big crayoned letters across the pink-and-white face.

Take it easy kid. We don’t have to get out of the car at each stop and have a picnic. Some of them we can just cruise by. So Willie can eyeball the place. Get the lay of the land.

But my editors, Mr. Sutton. My editors make the rules and—

Sutton grunts. Not for me they don’t. Look, kid, this isn’t a negotiation. If my map doesn’t work for you, no sweat, we’ll just go our separate ways. I’m more than happy to stay in this nice room, read a book, order a club sandwich.

Checkout is at noon.

I checked out early from three escape-proof prisons, I think I can figure out how to swing a late check-out at one cream puff hotel.

But—

Maybe I’ll even make a few phone calls. Is the Times listed?

Reporter takes another sip of coffee, blanches as if it’s straight scotch. Mr. Sutton, it’s just that this, your map , appears to be more story than we can accommodate.

Why not wait to hear the story before you say that?

Also, if we could just go to certain places first. Like the scene of Arnold Schuster’s murder.

Sure, and once you’ve got me at the Schuster scene, you don’t need me anymore, and then I don’t get my ride to all the other places. I know how you newspaper guys operate.

Mr. Sutton, I wouldn’t do that, you can trust me.

Trust you? Kid don’t make me laugh. It hurts my leg when I laugh. Schuster comes last. End of story. Are you in or out?

But Mr. Sutton—

In or out kid.

Sutton’s voice is suddenly an octave deeper. With a serrated edge. The change stuns Reporter, who puts a finger on the dimple in his chin and presses several times, as if it’s an emergency button.

Sutton takes a hard step toward Reporter. He concentrates on assuming an at-ease posture while also conveying an air of total control. He used to do this with bank managers. Especially the ones who claimed not to remember the combination to the safe.

You seem smart for a cub, kid, so let’s not bullshit each other. Let’s put our cards on the table. We both know you only want a story. Sure, it’s an important story for you, your career, your newspaper, whatever, but it’s still just a story. Next week you’ll be on to the next story and next month you won’t even remember Willie. What I’m after is my story, the only story that counts with me. Think about it. I’m free. Free —for the first time in seventeen years. Naturally I want to go back, retrace my steps, see where it all went sideways, and I need to do it my way, which is the only way I know how to do things. And I need to do it right now, kid, because I don’t know how much time I’ve got left. My leg, which is thoroughly rat-fucked, tells me not much. You can be my wheelman or not. It’s your call. But you need to decide. Now.

I won’t be your wheelman.

Fine. No hard feelings.

We’re meeting a shooter. He’ll be driving.

A what?

A photog. Sorry—photographer. In fact he’s probably downstairs by now.

So you’re in?

You give me no choice, Mr. Sutton.

Say it.

Say what?

Say you’re in.

Why?

In the old days, before I’d go on a job with a guy, I always needed to hear him say he was in. So there’d be no misunderstandings later.

Reporter takes a gulp of coffee. Mr. Sutton, is this really—

Say it.

I’m in, I’m in.

SUTTON STEPS ON THE ELEVATOR, CURSING UNDER HIS BREATH. WHY DID he stay up all night? Why did he drink all that whiskey with Donald? And all that champagne this morning? And what the hell is wrong with this elevator? He was already feeling unsteady on his feet, but this sudden free fall to the lobby, like a space capsule plunging to earth, is giving him vertigo. In the old days elevators were manageably, comfortably slow. Like people.

With a ping and a thud the elevator lands. The doors clatter open. Reporter, not noticing Sutton’s pained expression, looks left and right, making sure no other reporters are lurking behind the lobby’s palm trees. He takes Sutton by the elbow and guides him past the front desk and past the concierge and through the revolving door. There, directly in front of the Plaza, stands a 1968 burnt sienna Dodge Polara, smoke gushing like tap water from its tailpipe.