LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      This your car kid?

      No. It’s one of the newspaper’s radio cars.

      Looks like a cop car.

      It’s a converted cop car, actually.

      Reporter opens the passenger door. He and Sutton look in. A large man sits behind the wheel. He’s roughly Reporter’s age, twenty something, but he wears a fringed buckskin jacket that makes him look like a five-year-old playing cowboys and Indians. No, with his shoulder-length hair and Fu Manchu mustache he looks like a grown man pretending to be a five-year-old playing cowboys and Indians. Under the buckskin jacket he’s wearing a ski sweater, and around his neck a knitted scarf the colors of a barber pole, all of which spoil whatever Western look he was going for. He smiles. Bad teeth. Nice smile, but bad teeth. The exact opposite of Reporter’s teeth. And they’re as big as they are bad. His eyes are big too, and flaming red, like cherry Life Savers. Sutton would kill for a Life Saver right now.

      Mr. Sutton, Reporter says. I’d like you to meet the best shooter at the paper. The best.

      Reporter says the photographer’s name but Sutton doesn’t catch it. Merry Christmas, Sutton says, reaching into the car and shaking Photographer’s hand.

      Back at you, brother.

      Sutton climbs into the backseat, which is covered with stuff. A cloth purse. A leather

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