Part 30 (1/2)

Sssh.

Willie is wearing a high stiff collar and a flowered necktie and he feels them both getting tighter. He looks nervously around the restaurant. People are staring. He leans across the table. My hand to almighty G.o.d, he whispers, Marcus is not cheating on you.

Dahlia fishes a tissue from her purse. She touches the tissue to her nose, then wads it into a ball, as if she wants to throw it at Willie. From his breast pocket Willie removes his linen handkerchief, extends it to her. She takes it, dabs her eyes. Her face softens. I'm sorry for that outburst, she says.

They sit in silence for several minutes. Abruptly she stands. Her chair sc.r.a.pes, almost tips over. Thanks for meeting me, Willie.

Don't go. Finish your pie.

No. Thank you. I've taken up too much of your time already. I know you don't have much-time.

Willie hesitates, stands. Dahlia kisses him on the cheek, walks out. Willie sits back down, asks for the check. He eats another forkful of pie and the restaurant goes sideways. Four, six, eight cops come banging out of the kitchen, knocking Willie out of his chair. They pin him to the linoleum floor, cuff him. There isn't time to go for the strychnine. He hopes poor Marcus has time to go for his.

Photographer aims a finger gun at Sutton. What a trip, Willie. It just hit me, I think. You, about our age, packing heat, knocking over banks, jewelry stores. What a trip.

s.h.i.+t, Reporter says.

What?

Over there. Channel 11.

A camera truck slams to a stop across the street. A young man with a tall Afro leaps out and sprints toward them, a TV camera on his shoulder. Reporter pushes Sutton into the backseat of the Polara and he and Photographer jump into the front seat. As they roar away Sutton looks out the back window: The young man is standing where they were standing, holding his camera like a suitcase, cursing and huffing like a man who just missed a train.

Photographer and Reporter howl, slap palms. That was close, Reporter says.

How the h.e.l.l did Channel 11 find us?

I'm sure they were just driving along. Crime of opportunity.

If my editor sees Willie Sutton on TV- Relax. The guy didn't get off a shot. He never even turned on his light.

Reporter glances over his shoulder. I hope I didn't hurt you back there, Mr. Sutton.

Nah kid. Nah. Felt like we were dancing. And it was a good lid-lifter for our next stop.

FIFTEEN.

Willie lies on the backseat, hands cuffed behind his back. Two enormous cops fill up the front seat. The big one at the wheel chews an unlit cigar, the bigger one riding shotgun crams four sticks of Juicy Fruit into a freakishly small mouth. We got your partner, Bigger Cop says over his shoulder. Case you was wonderin.

I don't have any partner, Willie says.

You don't know John Marcus Ba.s.sett? Big Cop says.

Never heard of him.

His wife's the homely gal you was just havin pie and coffee with.

You don't say.

And Ba.s.sett sure as h.e.l.l knows you. He's givin detectives your autobiography right this minute.

Then he's deranged. I tell you we've never met.

That's why you was with his wife.

She told me she was single.

You mean to say you were makin that broad.

That a crime?

Could be. Did you get a look atter?

She's a good person.

She looks like Lon Chaney. And she's in a family way.

That mean she's off the market?

Big Cop laughs, removes his unlit cigar, turns to Bigger Cop. This guy's a riot.

They pull up to 240 Centre Street, a French Baroque palace with statues and columns and a great big dome on top. Like some kind of Cop Vatican, Willie thinks, looking over the building. Popes and cops-they certainly think a lot of themselves.

On either side of the front door is a white stone lion. Ah the library-what Willie wouldn't give to be there right now. Just inside the front door a dozen cops in blue greatcoats stand around a high wooden desk. They greet Big Cop and Bigger Cop and congratulate them on the nice collar. One eyes Willie. Hope you enjoy your stay at the Centre Street Arms, he says-you probably won't need a wake-up call. They all roar with laughter, the fattest one haw-hawing so hard that he gets winded.

Big Cop and Bigger Cop drag Sutton into a blindingly bright room and stand him on a stage along with six other men. Heistmen, petermen, yeggs-Willie's colleagues. A group of civilians walks in. Bank employees. Willie recognizes them. They stand downstage, squinting up at him. He slouches, averts his eyes.

Sorry, they tell Big Cop and Bigger Cop. None of these men looks familiar.

Willie's costumes, his makeup and mustaches, it all worked.

Now in walks Porter.

Recognize any of these men? Bigger Cop says, inserting another stick of Juicy Fruit.

Porter scans the group, left to right. Yes.

Go on up and place your hand on the shoulder of any man you recognize.

Porter walks onstage, stands before each man. Making a little show of it. At last he comes to Willie. He stands with his nose inches from Willie's. Willie can smell his bay rum. Also the Stroganoff he had for lunch. Porter looks straight into Willie's eyes, three seconds. Four. He sets his hand on Willie's shoulder, turns to the cops. This man, he says. Then he turns away from the cops and cracks a smile only Willie can see. Name's Charlie, he says. Robber.

Big Cop and Bigger Cop take Willie into a side room with one metal table, one metal chair. Bigger Cop cuffs Willie's wrists behind his back. Big Cop pushes Willie into the chair. They stand on either side of him.

Ba.s.sett sang, Bigger Cop says.

I keep telling you, Willie says, I don't know who that is.