LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Is that okay?

      Sutton thinks of his family. He hasn’t spoken to them in years. He thinks of reporters—he hasn’t spoken to them ever. He doesn’t like reporters. Still, this is no time to make waves.

      That’ll be fine, Katherine.

      Now, do you know anyone who can pick you up outside the prison and drive you to the airport?

      I’ll find someone.

      He hangs up, dials Donald, who answers on the tenth ring.

      Donald? It’s Willie.

      Who’s this?

      Willie. What are you doing?

      Oh. Hey. Drinking a beer, getting ready to watch The Flying Nun.

      Listen. It seems they’re letting me out tonight.

      They’re letting you out, or you’re letting yourself out?

      It’s legit, Donald. They’re opening the door.

      Hell freezing over?

      I don’t know. But the devil’s definitely wearing a sweater. Can you pick me up at the front gate?

      Near the Sleeping Beauty thing?

      Yeah.

      Of course.

      Sutton asks Donald if he can bring him a few items.

      Anything, Donald says. Name it.

      A TV VAN FROM BUFFALO ROARS UP TO THE GATE. A TV REPORTER JUMPS out, fusses with his microphone. He’s wearing a two-hundred-dollar suit, a camel-hair topcoat, gray leather gloves, silver cuff links. The print reporters elbow each other. Cuff links—have you ever?

      The TV reporter strolls up to the print reporters and wishes everyone a Merry Christmas. Same to you, they mumble. Then silence.

      Silent Night, the TV reporter says.

      No one laughs.

      The reporter from Newsweek asks the TV reporter if he read Pete Hamill in this morning’s Post. Hamill’s eloquent apologia for Sutton, his plea for Sutton’s release, addressed as a letter to the governor, might be the reason they’re all here. Hamill urged Rockefeller to be fair. If Willie Sutton had been a GE board member or a former water commissioner, instead of the son of an Irish blacksmith, he would be on the street now.

      The TV reporter stiffens. He knows the print guys think he doesn’t read—can’t read. Yeah, he says, I thought Hamill nailed it. Especially his line about banks. There are some of us today, looking at the mortgage interest rates, who feel that it is the banks that are sticking us up. And I got a lump in my throat at that bit about Sutton reuniting with a lost love. Willie Sutton should be able to sit and watch the ducks in Prospect Park one more time, or go to Nathan’s for a hot dog, or call up some old girl for a drink.

      This sets off a debate. Does Sutton actually deserve to be free? He’s a thug, says the Newsday reporter—why all the adulation?

      Because he’s a god in parts of Brooklyn, says the Post reporter. Just look at this crowd.

      There are now more than two dozen reporters and another two dozen civilians—crime buffs, police radio monitors, curiosity seekers. Freaks. Ghouls.

      But again, says the Newsday reporter, I ask you—why?

      Because Sutton robbed banks, the TV reporter says, and who the hell has a kind word to say for banks? They should not only let him out, they should give him the key to the city.

      What I don’t get, says the Look reporter, is why Rockefeller, a former banker, would let out a bank robber.

      Rockefeller needs the Irish vote, says the Times Union reporter. You can’t get reelected in New York without the Irish vote and Sutton’s like Jimmy Walker and Michael Collins and a couple Kennedys in one big Mulligan stew.

      He’s a fuckin thug, says the Newsday reporter, who may be drunk.

      The TV reporter scoffs. Under his arm he’s carrying last week’s Life magazine, with Charles Manson on the cover. He holds up the magazine: Manson glares at them.

      Compared to this guy, the TV reporter says, and the Hells Angels, and the soldiers who slaughtered all those innocent people at My 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

Скачать книгу