Not yet, he tells himself, not yet. He shuts off his mind, something he’s gotten good at over the years. Too good, one prison shrink told him.
He slides the envelope into the breast pocket of his new suit. Twenty years since he’s had a breast pocket. It was always his favorite pocket, the one where he kept the good stuff. Engagement rings, enameled cigarette cases, leather bill-folds from Abercrombie. Guns.
Donald asks who she is and why Sutton needs her address.
I shouldn’t tell you, Donald.
We got no secrets between us, Willie.
We’ve got nothing but secrets between us, Donald.
Yeah. That’s true, Willie.
Sutton looks at Donald and remembers why Donald was in the joint. A month after Donald lost his job on a fishing boat, two weeks after Donald’s wife left him, a man in a bar said Donald looked beat. Donald, thinking the man was insulting him, threw a punch, and the man made the mistake of returning fire. Donald, a former college wrestler, put the man in a chokehold, broke his neck.
Sutton turns on the radio. He looks for news, can’t find any. He leaves it on a music station. The music is moody, sprightly—different.
What is this, Donald?
The Beatles.
So this is the Beatles.
They say nothing for miles. They listen to Lennon. The lyrics remind Sutton of Ezra Pound. He pats the shopping bag on his lap.
Donald downshifts the GTO, turns to Willie. Does the name in the envelope have anything at all to do with—you know who?
Sutton looks at Donald. Who?
You know. Schuster?
No. Of course not. Jesus, Donald, what makes you ask that?
I don’t know. Just a feeling.
No, Donald. No.
Sutton puts a hand in his breast pocket. Thinks. Well, he says, I guess maybe it does—in a roundabout way. All roads eventually lead to Schuster, right, Donald?
Donald nods. Drives. You look good, Willie Boy.
They say I’m dying.
Bullshit. You’ll never fuckin die.
Yeah. Right.
You couldn’t die if you wanted to.
Hm. You have no idea how true that is.
Donald lights two cigarettes, hands one to Sutton. How about a drink? Do you have time before your flight?
What an interesting idea. A ball of Jameson, as my Daddo used to say.
Donald pulls off the highway and parks outside a low-down roadhouse. Sprigs of holly and Christmas lights strung over the bar. Sutton hasn’t seen Christmas lights since his beloved Dodgers were in Brooklyn. He hasn’t seen any lights other than the prison’s eye-scalding fluorescents and the bare sixty-watt bulb in his cell.
Look, Donald. Lights. You know you’ve been in hell when a string of colored bulbs over a crummy bar looks more beautiful than Luna Park.
Donald jerks his head toward the bartender, a young blond girl wearing a tight paisley blouse and a miniskirt. Speaking of beautiful, Donald says.
Sutton stares. They didn’t have miniskirts when I went away, he says quietly, respectfully.
You’ve come back to a different world, Willie.
Donald orders a Schlitz. Sutton asks for Jameson. The first sip is bliss. The second is a right cross. Sutton swallows the rest in one searing gulp and slaps the bar and asks for another.
The TV above the bar is showing the news.
Our top story tonight. Willie the Actor Sutton, the most prolific bank robber in American history, has been released from Attica Correctional Facility. In a surprise move by Governor Nelson Rockefeller …
Sutton stares into the grain of the bar top, thinking: Nelson Rockefeller, son of John D. Rockefeller Jr., grandson of John D. Rockefeller Sr., close friend of—Not yet, he tells himself.
He reaches into his breast pocket, touches the envelope.
Now Sutton’s face appears on the screen. His former face. An old mug shot. No one along the bar recognizes him. Sutton gives Donald a sly smile, a wink. They don’t know me, Donald. I can’t remember the last time I was in a room full of people who didn’t know me. Feels nice.
Donald orders another round. Then another.
I hope you have money, Sutton says. I only have two checks from Governor Rockefeller.
Which will probably fuckin bounce, Donald says, slurring.
Say, Donald—want to see a trick?
Always.
Sutton limps down the bar. He limps back. Ta da.
Donald blinks. I don’t think I get it.
I walked from here to there without a hack hassling me. Without a con messing with me. Ten feet—two more feet than the length of my fuckin cell, Donald. And I didn’t have to call anyone sir before or after. Have you ever seen anything so marvelous?
Donald laughs.
Ah Donald—to be free. Actually free. There’s no way to describe it to someone who hasn’t been in the joint.
Everyone should have to do time, Donald says, smothering a belch, so they could know.
Time. Willie looks at the clock over the bar. Shit, Donald, we better go.
Donald drives them weavingly along icy back roads. Twice they go skidding onto the shoulder. A third time they almost hit a snowbank.
You okay to drive, Donald?
Fuck no, Willie, what gave you that idea?
Sutton grips the dashboard. He stares in the distance at the lights of Buffalo. He recalls that speedboats used to run booze down here from Canada. This whole area, he says, was run by Polish gangs back in the twenties.
Donald snorts. Polish gangsters—what’d they do, stick people up and hand over their wallets?
They’d have cut the tongue out of your head for saying that. The Poles made us Micks look like choirboys. And the Polish cops were the cruelest of all.
Shocking, Donald says with dripping sarcasm.
Did you know President Grover Cleveland was the executioner up here?
Is that so?
It was Cleveland’s job to knot the noose around the prisoner’s neck, drop
