Part 34 (2/2)

Photographer holds his billfold upside down, shakes it. I know I had twenty bucks in here.

In their first month together Willie and Eddie take down eleven banks and make off with three hundred thousand dollars. If Willie and Marcus went on a spree, this is a frenzy.

Willie's disguises don't fool the cops this time. His style has become his signature. The cops even give him a nickname, which the newspapers find irresistible. Willie the Actor. Sometimes newspapers shorten it to the Actor. As in-THE ACTOR STRIKES AGAIN.

Willie doesn't care for the nickname. It's trivial, he thinks. Not to mention inaccurate. An actor is someone who plays at make-believe. An actor is someone who says lines that aren't real, because they aren't his. When Willie walks into a bank he's not playing, he's dead serious. He means, and owns, every word.

Between jobs he haunts secondhand bookstores around Philadelphia, buys up all kinds of books about acting. Some of what he reads eases his mind. He learns that the greatest actor-playwright ever was a thief-and a Willie. Arrested in Stratford for poaching, Shakespeare had to lam it to London. That's when he got into the theater. Willie reads that acting isn't about what you say, it's about what you don't say, what you vividly withhold. The audience doesn't want to know you, they want to feel that desire to know you. Since you never fully satisfy that desire, never come clean, acting is the opposite of confessing. Willie underlines this pa.s.sage in pen.

In March 1933 Willie sits with one of his acting books in his lap and a new Philco console radio beside his chair. Eddie lies on the sofa smoking. The new president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, a month after an attempt on his life, has declared a nationwide bank holiday. To quell the panic in the streets, to stem the tide of people storming overextended banks and demanding their money, Roosevelt has ordered every bank in the country shut for four days. He's also scheduled a fireside chat to explain the bank holiday and what comes next. Willie and Eddie, like forty million others, listen.

Turn it up, Willie says.

My friends. I want to talk for a few minutes with the people of the United States about banking. To talk with the comparatively few who understand the mechanics of banking, but more particularly with the overwhelming majority of you.

In other words, Eddie says, all you idiots.

It is safer to keep your money in a reopened bank than it is to keep it under the mattress.

Except the ones we hit-eh, Sutty?

You people must have faith. We do not want and will not have another epidemic of bank failures.

Yeah right, Eddie scoffs.

Let me make it clear to you that the banks will take care of all needs, except of course for the hysterical demands of h.o.a.rders.

Eddie cackles, aims a finger gun at the radio. Hysterical demands-like, say, open the vault or I'll blow your f.u.c.kin head off.

The national bank holiday is followed by many state bank holidays. It seems a good time for Willie and Eddie to take their own holiday. Tweak their script, streamline their routine. Make their work more efficient. In particular they discuss how to deal with heroes. Nothing concerns Willie more.

It comes up about every fourth job. Some manager or teller or guard refuses to cooperate. Because Willie doesn't want to hurt anyone, these moments fill him with dread. Anything can happen, and sooner or later something will. Willie and Eddie talk it over and decide that bank employees, like people in the old neighborhood, are clannish. When an employee acts up, they agree, it's no use threatening him. Better to threaten his fellow employees.

Eddie suggests another adjustment. Deadlier force. People aren't afraid of pocket guns anymore. They've seen too many movies. But there's something about a Thompson-that fat drum, that skinny barrel. And nothing shuts people up faster than a sawed-off shotgun.

Finally Willie and Eddie decide that jobs will run smoother if they bring in a third man. It's too much for Eddie, helping Willie control the employees, collecting the money, and driving.

I got just the guy, Eddie says. Joey Perlango. We were in the same cellblock at Dannemora.

Perlango? You recommending a Dago?

What can I say? He's a right guy.

October 1933. In a roadside diner Willie and Eddie have their first meet with Perlango. A few years older than them, he has droopy eyelids and a nose that looks as if it's been ironed, clearly the work of dozens of boxing gloves. His teeth are large, white, even, but separated by wide s.p.a.ces. When he smiles Willie thinks of the laces on a football. From the side pocket of his metallic gray suit, which s.h.i.+nes like the fenders of a new car, Perlango removes a fingernail clipper and uses it while Willie talks.

So, Joey, what we have in mind- Snap. A fingernail flies across the table, hangs in midair like a little crescent moon, lands in the sugar bowl. Call me Plank.

Sorry? Willie says.

Everyone calls me Plank. Even my folks.

How come?

Cause one time I hit a guy. Snap. With a plank.

Another fingernail goes flying, lands on Willie's sleeve. He picks it off, looks at Eddie.

The waitress appears. Willie orders three coffees.

I'll have tea, Plank says.

Willie looks away. Tea. Jesus.

The waitress brings their order, goes away. Willie leans across the table. We're planning to hit the Corn Exchange, Plank. Right here in Philly.

They give a fountain pen.

Huh?

With every new account. They give a fountain pen.

Uh-huh. Fine. If you say so.

Willie unfolds a map. With a red pen he marks it with x's, numbers. He puts an x where Plank will park.

I go in first, Willie says. Dressed as a cop. Minutes later I let in Eddie, also dressed as a cop. Ten minutes later, Plank, you start the car and drive here. We hop in, you drive away, along this route. The whole job shouldn't take fifteen minutes.

Plank pours his tea into his saucer, blows on it. What do I wear?

What do you-what?

What costume.

You don't wear any costume.

Plank looks into his saucer. Oh.

Something wrong?

Well. I thought I was goin to be a letter carrier, a fireman, somethin. It sounded like fun when Eddie told me.

No. You drive. That's all. But that's a lot. That's a very important job, Plank.

Plank nods. No one says anything for a minute. Plank lifts his saucer to his lips, slurps. How about a chauffeur costume? he says. You know. Cause I'm drivin.

I think you're missing the point, Willie says. No one's going to see you but us.

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