Part 27 (2/2)

You're not the first to tell me that kid.

Reporter runs his finger along the map. So our next stop is Fiftieth and Broadway-did you rob a bank there, Mr. Sutton?

Nah. That's where I pulled a big jewel heist. A warm-up for banks. Banks were the regular season, jewelry stores were spring training. Or so I thought. This jewel heist wound up being the most fateful job of my career.

Marcus and Willie walk down Broadway. Marcus wears a gray flannel suit, Willie wears an indigo blue mailman uniform. Tuesday, October 28, 1930. Early morning.

They stop at Fiftieth Street, stand on the corner, pretend to be talking about the weather. Marcus flips a quarter in the air, catches it. A Negro man in blue pants, a pale blue work s.h.i.+rt, comes up Broadway. He stops, unlocks the door to Rosenthal and Sons, enters.

Marcus looks up and down the street. That the porter?

Willie nods.

They give the porter five minutes to cut the alarms, start the coffeepot. Then Willie moves in.

He knocks. The door opens. Porter-fortyish, graying at the temples, freshly shaved. Willie smells his bay rum.

Yes?

Telegram.

Who for?

Mr. Rosenthal.

He's not here.

You can sign.

They stare at each other. One one-thousand, two one-thousand.

Wait, Porter says.

He slams the door.

Willie looks up the block. He sees Marcus leaning against the streetlamp, flipping his quarter. He tells himself there's still time to walk away.

The door opens. So where do I sign?

Willie hands him a short clipboard. Here.

As Porter takes the clipboard, as both his hands are occupied, Willie pulls a .22 from his breast pocket.

Back in, Willie says. Nice and easy.

Porter steps backs. Willie jumps inside, shuts the door. He and Porter are inches apart, Porter staring at Willie, not the gun. Willie waves the gun, gestures to an empty showcase. Over there-go.

Porter backs behind the showcase.

Marcus comes through the door, his face covered with a bandanna, which somehow accentuates its triangular shape. And magnifies his waterbug eyes. He walks up to Porter. Give me your leg, he says.

My what.

What're you deaf.

I can't hear you through your kerchief.

Marcus turns up a corner of the bandanna. Your leg.

Porter lifts his leg. From his breast pocket Marcus pulls a roll of picture wire. He ties one end to Porter's ankle, holds the other end like a leash. All the while Porter is glaring at Willie.

What's your name, Porter?

Charlie Lewis.

You ever been in a holdup before?

No.

You sure are cool about it.

No other way to be.

How many employees coming in today?

Three more.

When?

Soon.

Who has the combination to the safes in the back room?

Mr. Fox. Head salesman.

Willie gestures for Porter to stand at the door facing Broadway. The door has a shade in the window and Willie pulls the shade halfway down. Marcus stands to one side of the door, holding the wire attached to Porter, and Willie crouches on the other side, holding the gun.

A cop walks by.

Porter looks at Willie. What if a police officer tries the door?

Let him in, Willie says. We'll take care of him.

Ten minutes pa.s.s. Sweat is pouring down Marcus's forehead. His bandanna is sopping. Porter's face, Willie notices, is dry.

Just before nine, a knock.

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