Part 15 (1/2)

Happy- I gave her to you, Willie, didn't I?

Yeah. Sure. But.

Happy sends Willie a hard look, something between a snarl and a sneer. It's a look Willie has never seen on Happy. Who are you? Willie whispers.

I'm the guy who helped you pull off this whole caper, that's who I am.

Yeah. But.

We're like brothers aren't we?

Yeah. Sure.

We share everything don't we? The girls on Sands Street?

This is different.

Happy moves forward. Willie blocks the door, braces himself. Happy puts a hand on Willie's chest, pushes him into the door, hard, then staggers away down the hall to his room.

Lying in bed beside a sleeping Bess, Willie strokes her hair and goes over and over the scene with Happy. At first light there's a knock. It's Happy, ready to apologize. Then Willie remembers. Happy doesn't knock. It's the sheriff. With two private detectives from Brooklyn who drove all night. They put Willie in handcuffs. They put Bess in handcuffs. They drive them in separate cars to the same courthouse where they inquired about getting married.

Handcuffed, standing before the judge, Willie hears a side door bang open. Two cops drag in Happy, who doesn't look frightened, doesn't look worried. They stand him next to Willie.

Young man, the judge tells Happy, do yourself a favor. Wipe that G.o.dd.a.m.n smirk off your face.

We were caught within a week, Sutton says.

How?

We left quite a trail of bread crumbs.

What did they do to you?

Dragged our a.s.ses back to Brooklyn, threw us into Raymond Street Jail. The Brooklyn Bastille they called it back then.

They tore it down. Not long ago.

Good. But we'll still go have a look.

Photographer groans. Willie-why? If it's not there, what's the point?

Sutton rises to his full five foot nine, peers at Photographer. You know kid, a couple years ago, I got to know an old Indian. He was doing a twenty-year bit for setting off bombs to protest the war. He told me that whenever an Indian is lost, or sad, or near death, he goes and finds the place of his birth and lies down on top of it. Indians think that gives a man some kind of healing. Closes some kind of loop.

We've already been to the place you were born.

Each of us is born many places.

Did the old Indian say that?

Sutton stares at Photographer. It just hit me kid. You remind me a little of Happy.

NINE.

Bess is kissing Willie. He feels her eyelash fluttering against his eyelid. He smiles. Stop, Bess, I'm sleeping. He opens his eye. A c.o.c.kroach is crawling across his face. He swats it away, sits up. He's on the floor of a small cell. The only light comes through a Judas hole, but it's enough to see that the floor is alive with c.o.c.kroaches.

A cup of water sits next to the door. He crawls to it. His throat is raw, scorched, and yet he can't drink the water. It smells like p.i.s.s. The cops tell him later: they p.i.s.sed in it.

The cops appear at the Judas hole once an hour and torment him. They ask about his wh.o.r.e. They tell him what they'd like to do to his wh.o.r.e. She's in a cell down the hall, his wh.o.r.e. Any message for his wh.o.r.e?

Mr. Endner bails out Bess right away. Willie's family can't afford bail, nor can Happy's. After several days the cops bring Willie to a visiting room. Mother sits at a scarred wood table wearing her ma.s.s dress. She hasn't slept in years. She's lost another child. First Agnes, now Willie. She asks Willie what he has to say for himself.

Nothing, he says. Not a thing.

It's not just your name in the newspaper. It's ours too. They printed our address. The neighbors, the priest, the butcher, they all look at us different.

Willie lowers his gaze. He apologizes tearfully. But he also asks for her help. He needs a newspaper, a magazine, a book, a pad and pencil-something. He's going crazy in here with nothing to do but swat c.o.c.kroaches and listen to cops say horrible things about Bess.

You want something to do? Mother says.

Yes.

Pray.

She stands, walks out.

Willie, Happy and Bess are charged with burglary and larceny. Willie and Happy are also charged with kidnapping. They're a.s.signed a public defender, who smells of castor oil and liver pills. Stiff white hairs poke from the tip of his pink nose. Willie doesn't catch his name. He's too eager to know if the man has spoken to Bess.

No, Lawyer says. But I've spoken to her family's attorney, who says Mr. Endner is keeping the young lady under lock and key.

Lawyer hands Willie a stack of newspapers. The story is on every front page, though each paper slants it differently. One turns it into a tale of two Irish Town thugs and their gorgeous accomplice. Another makes it a tale of two Irish Town thugs who kidnap an heiress. The one constant in every telling is that Willie and Happy are Irish Town thugs.

The story also makes the papers in St. Louis, Chicago, San Francisco. Even Europe, via the telegraph. Everyone, everywhere, can find something of interest in this yarn. Crime, cla.s.s, money, s.e.x. So the trial, months later, is a sensation. As Willie and Happy walk into the courtroom they find hundreds of spectators, roistering, laughing, eating. It's like a d.a.m.n Giants game, Happy says.

Willie and Happy, wearing suits bought with the stolen money, sit on either side of Lawyer. Willie turns, scans the faces in the gallery. Mother and Father, Happy's family, all sit in the front row, frowning. Two rows back, his eyebrows a deep V above the stormy royal blue eyes, is Eddie. He's about to give someone, everyone, an Irish haircut.

A hush falls as Mr. Endner enters. Guided by a nurse, he moves slowly down the aisle. Lawyer leans over to Willie: The man's not well, I hear.

He's well enough to glare. Willie tries to look contrite. It has no effect. Mr. Endner continues to glare. Willie sighs, faces front, counts the stars on the American flag. He senses a commotion behind him. He turns in time to see a blur. Two of the cops who called Bess a wh.o.r.e grab Mr. Endner just before he wraps his hands around Willie's throat.

Willie and Happy will not take the stand. Their codefendant, however, will. Her lawyers have struck some sort of deal for her cooperation. She enters the hushed courtroom, makes her way to the stand. She wears a gray dress with a blue collar and blue cuffs, black patent leather shoes with white tops, and she holds a blue clutch purse with both hands, tight, as she held the steering wheel of the Nash. Her hair is curled in ringlets that brush her shoulders as she leans forward to put a kid-gloved hand on the Bible.

Willie hasn't seen her since the morning they were arrested. Yes sir-those were the last words he heard her speak, when the sheriff of Poughkeepsie said, Put some clothes on, young lady. Not one visit, not one letter or card. Willie wants to leap across the table, run to her, scold her. He wants to caress her, kiss her. He wants to shout, You ruined my life! He wants to whisper, You are my life. He blames her for leading him into this mess. He rues not marrying her when he had the chance.

Do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but so help you G.o.d?

I do.