Part 34 (1/2)

Two months later he was dead.

Dead?

Shot in a speak not far from here. Strange. The Times said he had a coat check in his pocket-the number thirteen on it. Egan told me once that thirteen was his unlucky number. I guess he wasn't kidding. Come to think of it, I dropped him off on this block-the thirteenth of December.

Who shot him?

The cops never made an arrest.

Reporter closes his notebook, narrows his eyes. That sure worked out well for you, Mr. Sutton. Your dead weight suddenly turns up-dead.

Kid you are sounding more like a cop every minute.

It just seems very convenient.

What can I say? I was the kiss of death in 1932. Bo Weinberg also died not long after he met me.

Who killed Bo?

Bugsy Siegel, Bartender says.

Sutton nods. Dutch put out the contract, but Bugsy did the hit.

How come?

Dutch got wind that Bo was a rat.

Willie drives to Philadelphia, parks the stolen Chrysler under a bridge. He takes off the license plates, sets the car ablaze, then walks. And walks. He stops at a sign: TO LET. He asks for a room, tells the landlady his name is James Clayton. The address is 4039 Chestnut Street.

At a corner market he stocks up. Canned tuna, chocolate bars, cigarettes, coffee. He swings by the local bookstore, buys a few bestsellers, a few Russian novels. Bolts the door to his room and waits.

After three days, a soft knock. He slides back the Judas hole. He throws open the door. What the h.e.l.l kept you, he says.

Came as soon as I got your message.

Eddie drops a heavy duffel and stands before Willie, arms outstretched. They hug, clap each other hard on the back. Willie pulls Eddie into his room, locks the door. Let me look at you, he says.

The years of prison and unemployment have chipped away at Eddie. His face is leaner, harder. His blue eyes are washed out, his blond hair is going thin. He notices changes in Willie too, of course. He points at Willie's blond locks. What the?

You know I always wanted to be just like you, Ed.

Eddie laughs, punches Willie's shoulder. Then he rummages in his duffel, pulls out a bottle of Jameson. Uncorking it, he takes a swig. To freedom, he says, pa.s.sing the bottle to Willie, who takes a double swig and laughs for the first time in a year.

They sit up all night, drinking whiskey, filling each other in on the last five years. Things they couldn't say in letters.

Dannemora got bad after you left, Sutty. I was in some of the worse battles of my life. Kill-or-be-killed battles. When they cut me loose I made myself a promise: I'd never go back. I got a job moppin floors, cleanin bathrooms at a luncheonette. I showed up early, stayed late, took all the s.h.i.+t my boss could dish out. I saved my pennies, even met a girl. I was actually kind of happy. Then one day this fella walks in, starts hara.s.sin this woman. I don't know if he's her boyfriend, husband, what. I don't much care. He grabs her by the neck, starts draggin her out the door. What am I supposed to do? I knocked him cold. My boss sacked me on the spot. It was all I could do not to coldc.o.c.k him too as I walked out. That was three months ago. I aint been able to find another job.

Willie waves the newspaper. You're not alone.

Thirteen million out of work, Eddie says. People h.o.a.rdin gold. Fifty banks goin bust every week.

Food riots, Sutton says. I never thought I'd see the day.

Every man for himself, Sutty. Same as ever, only more so. We need to get ours while there's anythin to be got.

I made myself a promise too, Ed. I'm not going back to the joint either.

Then we'll just have to make sure we don't get caught.

Eddie unzips his duffel again. He pulls out a cop uniform. He stands, holds the uniform against his body. Still a forty regular?

Bartender wipes the bar top with a filthy rag. Another round, Willie?

Sure. A quick one though. Good Cop and Bad Cop look like they're ready to blow. What do we owe you?

Photographer jumps forward. We've got this, Willie.

Yes, Reporter says, put your money away, Mr. Sutton.

Photographer reaches into his cloth purse, takes out his billfold, opens it-stares. Wait, he says. What the. I could have sworn I had twenty bucks in here.

Reporter turns. Sutton turns.

When I paid for the handcuffs, Photographer says, I'm sure I saw two tens in here.

Don't worry about it, Sutton says. My treat.

Sutton reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a ten.

I thought you only had checks, Reporter says.

My friend Donald must have slipped me some cash when I wasn't looking. Sweet guy.

Sutton slaps the ten on the bar.

Willie, Bartender says, I'll only take your money on one condition. You sign it, so I can hang it over the till.

Deal, Sutton says.

Bartender hands Sutton a pen.

What should I write?

Write: To the boys at Jimmy's. That's NOT where the money is.

Willie signs, puts the pen in his breast pocket. He feels the white envelope. He takes it out, stares at it.

What's in the envelope? Reporter asks.

My release papers.