LITMIR.BIZ

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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?

      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.

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