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 camera bag. A pink bakery box. A stack of newspapers and magazines, including last week’s Life. Manson glares at Sutton. Sutton flips Manson over.
Maybe you’d be more comfortable up front, Reporter says.
Nah, Sutton says. I always ride in the rumble.
Reporter smiles. Okay, Mr. Sutton. I’m happy to ride shotgun.
Sutton shakes his head. Riding shotgun—civilians use the term so blithely. He’s actually driven countless times with men riding shotgun, holding shotguns. There was nothing blithe about it.
Photographer squints at Sutton in the rearview. Hey, Willie, man, I’ve just got to say, it’s a trip to meet you, brother. I mean, Willie the Actor—holy shit, this is like meeting Dillinger.
Ah well, Sutton says, Dillinger killed people, so.
Or Jesse James.
Again—killed.
Or Al Capone.
A pattern seems to be developing, Sutton mumbles.
I asked for this assignment, Photographer says.
Did you kid?
Even though it was Christmas. I told my old lady, I said, baby, it’s Willie the Actor. This guy’s been fighting the Man for decades.
Well, I don’t know about the Man.
You fought the law, brother.
Okay.
You were an antihero before they invented the word.
Antihero?
Hell yes, man. This is the Age of the Antihero. I don’t have to tell you, Willie, times are hard, people are fed up. Prices are soaring, taxes are sky high, millions are hungry, angry. Injustice. Inequality. The War on Poverty is a joke, the war in Vietnam is illegal, the Great Society is a sham.
Same old same old, Sutton says.
Yes and no, Photographer says. Same shit, but people aren’t taking it anymore. People are in the streets, brother. Chicago, Newark, Detroit. We haven’t seen this kind of civil unrest in a long long time. So people are crazy about anyone who fights the power—and wins. That’s you, Willie. Have you seen today’s front pages, brother?
It’s a nonstarter, Reporter whispers to Photographer. I already went down this road.
Photographer is undaunted. Just the other night, he says, I was telling my old lady all about you—
You know all about Willie?
Sure. And you know what she said? She said, This cat sounds like a real-life Robin Hood.
Well, Robin Hood was real life, but anyway. She sounds lovely.
Oh, I’m a lucky guy, Willie. My old lady, she’s a teacher up in the Bronx. Studying to be a masseuse. She’s changed my life. Really raised my consciousness. You know how the right woman can do that.
Your consciousness?
Yeah. She knows all about the trigger points in the body. She’s really opened me up. Artistically. Emotionally. Sexually.
Photographer starts to giggle. Sutton stares at the Life Saver eyes framed in the rearview—Photographer is stoned. Reporter is staring too, clearly thinking the same thing.
Trigger points, Sutton says.
Yeah. She’s studying the same techniques they used on Kennedy. For his back. I got a bad back—this line of work, it comes with the territory—so every night she works out my knots. Her hands are magic. I’m kind of obsessed with her, in case you couldn’t tell. Her hands. Her hair. Her face. Her ass. God, her ass. I shouldn’t say that though. She’s a feminist. She’s teaching me not to objectify women.
You had to be taught not to object to women?
Objectify.
Oh.
Reporter clears his throat. Loudly. Okay then, he says, shutting his door, spreading Sutton’s map across the Polara’s dashboard. Mr. Sutton has kindly drawn us a map, places he wants to show us today. He insists that we visit them all. In chronological order.
Photographer sees all the red numbers. Thirteen, fourt—Really?
Really.
Photographer drops his voice. When do we get to, you know? Schuster?
Last.
Photographer drops his voice lower. What gives?
It’s his way, Reporter whispers, or no way.
Sutton bows his head, tries not to smile.
Photographer throws up his hands as if Reporter is robbing him. Hey man, that’s cool. It’s Willie da Actor—he’s da boss, right? Willie da Actor don’t take orders from nobody.
Reporter pulls the radio from the dash. City Desk? Come in, City Desk.
The radio squawks: Are you guys garble leaving the static garble Plaza?
Ten four.
Photographer puts the car into drive and they lurch forward, toward Fifth Avenue, cruising slowly past the former sites of two banks Sutton hit in 1931.
Traffic is light. It’s seven o’clock Christmas morning, the temperature is twelve degrees, so only a few people are on the street. They turn onto Fifty-Seventh. Sutton sees three young men walking, debating something intensely. Two of them wear denim jackets, the third wears a leather duster. They all have long shaggy manes.
When exactly, Sutton says, did everybody get together and decide to stop getting haircuts?
Reporter and Photographer look at each other, laugh.
Sutton sees an old man rooting in a trash can. He sees another old man pushing a shopping cart full of brooms. He sees a woman—youngish, pretty—having a heated argument. With a mannequin
