Part 29 (1/2)

No.

They get stiff. Their necks arch. Foam gushes out their mouths.

How do you know all this, Marcus?

I tried it on some cats in my neighborhood.

From what I read, Mr. Sutton, it was with Marcus that you started using costumes? And makeup?

Yeah.

And apparently you had some kind of patter? To entertain the bank employees? Jokes? Poems? One employee told the FBI that being robbed by you was like being at a movie. Except the usher is holding a gun on you the whole time.

If we kept the employees happy, they were easier to control. Unhappy people are much harder to control. Ask any politician.

But you always used a gun?

Sure.

Loaded?

What good's an unloaded gun?

Willie rents a five-room apartment on Riverside Drive. He has no furniture. He doesn't want any. After prison, after the flop, he just wants s.p.a.ce. And peace. He likes the apartment well enough, but it doesn't feel like home until he learns that John D. Rockefeller Jr. lives in the same building.

As spring turns to summer Willie begins to form a grand plan. He's going to ama.s.s enough money to find Bess and persuade her to run off with him. Ireland, he thinks. Maybe Scotland. He pa.s.ses several pleasant evenings in the library, reading about remote coastal islands, where hermits used to hide from invading Romans and Vikings. No one will ever find him and Bess there. They'll live in a thatch-roofed cottage on a gra.s.sy hillside with a dozen chickens and a few sheep and a sweeping view of the sea. Bess's kid will be better off with Willie than that bruiser she's married to. And if the bruiser and Bess's father do appear, and try to make trouble, Willie will have more than enough jack to outbid them for crooked cops, judges, customs officials.

Willie sits on the floor of his new apartment, mentally totting up the money he's got in buried jars. At least half a million. The grand plan doesn't seem all that far-fetched.

Marcus also takes a new apartment. Park Avenue. He buys a sleek new desk, a new Underwood, a box of new typewriter ribbons. The words are flowing again, he tells Willie. Everything's coming up roses.

A phrase I try to avoid, Willie mutters.

Marcus invites Willie to his new digs for a celebratory dinner. Willie brings a ba.s.sinet for the baby, a box of candy for Dahlia. Thanks, she says, downcast.

You okay, Dahlia?

She mumbles something about morning sickness.

Willie wonders how much Dahlia knows about his work with Marcus. He's always a.s.sumed that Marcus had enough sense not to tell her anything. But now he realizes that he doesn't know Marcus. And he sure as h.e.l.l doesn't know Dahlia-who's giving him a bad feeling.

Marcus claps his hands, says he's been saving a bottle of top-notch bootleg gin for a special occasion. He's going to whip up a batch of martinis. He just needs some olives. He runs down to the market.

Dahlia tells Willie to sit, make himself comfortable. Pulling out a chair at the kitchen table, Willie lights a Chesterfield, gazes at Dahlia. She stands at the kitchen window, watching the traffic down below, distractedly rubbing her stomach. Willie thinks of Bess.

All at once Dahlia starts to cry.

Dahlia, honey. What's wrong?

I know, Willie.

Know what?

I know.

She turns from the window. About Marcus, she says.

Ah f.u.c.k, he thinks. What about Marcus? he says.

Tears roll down her cheeks, undulating over her moles. Please, Willie. When a girl looks like me, she can't afford to be stupid.

Willie says nothing. For the moment silence is the smartest play he can think of.

You're going to pretend you don't know, Dahlia says, sobbing. That Marcus, that Marcus, that Marcus is seeing someone.

Willie sighs with relief. Ah Dahlia, that's ridiculous.

Then why is Marcus, a dyed-in-the-wool mope, all of a sudden so confident?

Willie thinks back. He's lectured Marcus many times at the Automat about confidence. Whatever you do, do it from your nuts. Apparently Willie has created a monster.

Dahlia, he says, I'm sure Marcus is acting confident because he's writing again. He told me so himself. The words are flowing. He's not having an affair. Marcus loves you. He's thrilled about being a new father. He's just feeling-good. About his life. His work. You.

Dahlia wipes her eyes, looks at her belly. Really?

Yeah. Sure.

I want to believe you.

You can, you can. I never lie about love. I never even kid about it. It's much too important.

She laughs through her tears. All right, Willie. All right. Thanks. Hearing that makes me feel better.

He goes to her, puts his hands on her shoulders. He gives her his new phone number, tells her to call him if she has any troubles or doubts. Day or night.

Marcus returns. He mixes the martinis and Willie drinks two. Then Dahlia serves the dinner. Roast pork. Dry, burnt. Willie's glad when it's time to go. He wants a gla.s.s of bicarbonate and his bed. He tells Marcus to walk him out, he needs a word.

At the corner he asks Marcus how much Dahlia knows about their work. Marcus looks hangdog.

Christ, Marcus. Everything?

She's my wife, Willie.

Willie nods. Then tells Marcus about his conversation with Dahlia.

She thinks you're cheating, Marcus. So you need to be better to her. Pay more attention to her. Especially since she knows everything about our-thing. You mustn't give her any reason to seek revenge.

I am.

You are what?