Part 18 (1/2)

I've never been anywhere. Except Poughkeepsie.

After this job you still won't feel as if you've been to Philly. In and out. Two hours. Tops.

And so it begins.

TEN.

He likes everything about it. He tells himself he shouldn't. But he does.

He likes checking in to a fancy hotel, requesting one of their best suites, lying on the bedspread with a newspaper and getting his rest like a prizefighter before a fight. He likes keeping one eye on the clock, then coolly putting on his topcoat and walking out at two in the morning, reconnoitering with Doc and the crew at the back door of the jewelry shop. After Eddie jimmies the door, he likes watching Doc carefully remove his opera gloves and flutter his fingers around the dial of the safe. He likes that first sight of those jewels. People are already mad for diamonds, but people don't know the half. The haunting beauty of stolen diamonds in a black silk purse at two in the morning-it's like being the first person ever to see the stars.

He even likes the planning and studying that go into a job. The safe, as an intellectual subject, as an abstract concept, fascinates Willie. Everything in life is a safe, he thinks. His parents, his brothers, Mr. Endner-if only he'd known the combination.

Above all he likes having a job. Though most times it doesn't feel like a job. Doc was right. It's an art.

Within weeks Willie is an indispensable member of Doc's crew. He's the first to show for the weekly planning sessions, the last to leave. He asks smart questions, gets the answers right away, and sometimes thinks of things that Doc missed. Eddie and the other two men on the crew tend to get bored. Not Willie. He can sit in a coffee shop all night, poring over maps, blueprints, brochures from safe manufacturers. Let's go over it one more time, Doc always says, and Willie is the only one who doesn't kick.

Sutton: It looks exactly as it did when Doc lived there.

Reporter: Which one is it?

Sutton: That one, with the white awning and the skinny doorman. Doc always gave a big Christmas tip to the doorman, to make sure the kid would buzz up and warn Doc if the cops were ever on their way. Wait here.

Reporter: Wait? Mr. Sutton, where are you-? And there he goes.

Willie buys a s.h.i.+ny new Ford, black with burgundy seats, and a gold wrist.w.a.tch, and ten pairs of handmade shoes, and a dozen custom-made business suits, all midnight blue and gray flannel. He buys a tuxedo and attends a new Broadway show every other night. He rents a six-room apartment on Park Avenue for three thousand dollars a month and fills one of the walk-in closets with silk-lined topcoats and hand-painted ties, pastel s.h.i.+rts, cashmere scarves. And two of every kind of hat. Boaters, fedoras, panamas, leghorns. He's never owned more clothes than would fit in one grip. Now his closet looks like Gimbels.

Mornings, he likes to sit in his new leather chair by his new living room window, looking out across the rooftops and chimney pots, the clotheslines and telegraph lines and office towers. It's the first time Manhattan, from high above, hasn't crushed him with desire. On the contrary the view makes him feel smug. All those people down there, striving, hustling, pus.h.i.+ng, shoving, busting their a.s.ses to get what Willie's already got. In spades. He lights a cigarette, blows a jet of smoke against the window. Suckers.

For several months he's happy, or as close to happy as he thinks himself capable of being without Bess. He takes none of it for granted, the pleasures of dressing well, eating well, sleeping on silk sheets that cost more than most people pay in rent. He's never felt stronger, more alive, and he covets the effect it has on other people-the looks he gets on the street, women sending him engraved invitations in the form of over-the-shoulder smiles, men openly gawking with fear and envy. Waiters come to attention, doormen bow deeply, cigarette girls bend over and give him peeks at their cleavage as though it were his birthright. And yet, and yet. One morning his aerial survey of Manhattan doesn't afford the same jolt. His mind is restless, his heart troubled. King of all he surveys? What of it? He thinks of the old neighborhood. Suddenly he's up, out of the chair, ringing the doorman to bring his car around. An hour later Wingy is gawking, barking with laughter. Don't you look like Sunday, she says.

Hiya kid.

Some getup. Your s.h.i.+p come in?

Rich uncle died.

You don't say. And you want to spend some of your inheritance on a little Wingy love?

Nah. Just came by to say h.e.l.lo. I had a hunch you might like a visit.

He drops his new hat on the bed.

I was just going to have breakfast, she says.

I'd love some.

She pulls a bottle of bootleg from under her mattress, pours two gla.s.ses, hands one to Willie. She tells him that his hunch was spot-on, she's feeling blue this morning. The quality of her clientele is in steep decline. The Depression is ending, the markets are roaring, and suddenly the men who visit her are very different.

Different how?

Wall Street, Willie. They're a bad bunch.

I'm surprised they venture across the bridge.

They come to Brooklyn for-something different. On this side of the river, the plainer the girl, the better the business. They feel they can make bold with us plain ones. Be more themselves, I guess.

Don't lump yourself in that group. Nothing plain about you, Wingy.

You're sweet, Willie. But I know who I am. What I am. And as such, I'll take a sailor over an investment banker any day.

Why's that?

Bankers don't ask, Willie. They take.

I'm sorry you're having to deal with such fellas.

Don't be. It makes me feel less guilty when I rob em.

Willie laughs.

Wingy asks if he's got any smokes. He takes out a pack, lights one for her, leaves the pack on the bed.

I wish they could all be sweet as you, she says. That first time? I still remember you walking through that door, polite, shaking-grateful. Yes mam, no mam. Like it was the first day of school. Like I was your teacher.

It was. You were.

Willie sits in a chair, Wingy sits on the edge of the bed. She runs her one hand through her hair. I miss that Willie Boy, she says. The only weird thing he ever wanted to do was call me Bess.

Willie looks off. That Willie Boy is dead, he says.

Along with your rich uncle.

Sure, he says. Right.

Was there a funeral?

Yeah. No one showed.

She moves over to her makeup table. Watching her cross the room Willie thinks she looks much older than her years, though he has no idea how old she is. She sits, powders her nose, asks his reflection about Happy. Willie frowns. She asks about Bess. His frown deepens.

I wrote her a letter. But I had nowhere to send it.

You'll hear from her, Wingy says. If she's as smart as you always said, she'll get in touch.

He taps his new gold watch. I better be going.