Part 40 (1/2)

On New Year's Eve, 1947, Willie and Rat sit together, listening to the radio. A new song. What Are You Doing New Year's Eve? Margaret Whiting is wondering, asking repeatedly whom Willie will be kissing at the stroke of midnight. f.u.c.k her. Willie tunes in the news. A snowstorm hammers the Northeast-nearly one hundred people are dead. A verdict comes down in the first Auschwitz trial-twenty-three people are set to be hanged. Ancient Bible scrolls are found in a cave-somewhere near the Dead Sea. Willie turns down the volume.

Listen kid. On your next trip to the city, I need you to get me something.

Sure thing, Willie.

I need a gun kid.

He says it casually, as if he wants an extra pinch of salt on his Salisbury steak. Rat reacts just as casually. He puckers his lips. Nods.

Some saws too.

Another nod.

Willie drops his voice. And when the time's right I'm going to need to know if there are any ladders around this joint.

Rat gives a microscopic nod. Slow-motion cameras wouldn't detect it.

Days later, delivering Willie's mail, Rat hands him a small package. Wrapped in tight plastic. Covered in paint. Because it was smuggled in a paint can.

Cookies from home, Willie. Make sure they stay fresh.

Willie has no home. He stuffs the package under his mattress. Between bed checks he rips off the plastic.

A loaded .38.

And two s.h.i.+ny new hacksaws.

Photographer stops at Forty-Third, points. There it is, Willie.

Sutton wipes the fog from the window to his left. Now that's what I call a bank, he says.

It's a giant gla.s.s box. In the center is a ma.s.sive safe, round, seven feet tall, with a door nearly two feet thick. It looks like the kind of safe in which the formula for the atomic bomb might be kept. Photographer does a U-turn, double-parks, slaps the PRESS card on the dash. He turns to Willie.

City Desk says this bank was built because of you, brother.

How so?

Apparently you'd just knocked off some Manufacturers Trust? In 1950?

Allegedly.

And Manufacturers Trust wanted to rea.s.sure jittery customers.

Reasonable.

So they built this completely transparent branch. The idea was, customers could always see if Willie Sutton was there. Ergo, Willie Sutton would never be there.

I'll be a son of a b.i.t.c.h.

The world's first Sutton-proof bank. City Desk wants a shot of you in front of it, beaming at it, like you built it.

Apparently I did.

Sutton steps from the car, limps up to the bank. He puts both palms against the gla.s.s. Photographer fires off a dozen shots. A little to the left, Willie. Good, good. Okay, that's enough. We're all set.

Take a few more, Sutton says. I'll use them for my Christmas cards next year.

Photographer laughs, fires off a few more.

Sutton laughs and laughs, still doesn't move, doesn't take his palms from the gla.s.s. Reporter comes forward. Mr. Sutton?

They went to all this trouble kid.

Who?

They. Because of me. A punk from Irish Town. They went to all this effort.

It is-impressive.

My legacy.

Sutton stands back, tilts his head. He considers the safe from different angles. Puts on his gla.s.ses. Strokes his chin. Huh, he says. How do you like that? It's a Mosler.

How can you tell?

How can the doctor tell your tonsils need to come out?

He takes another step back, looks up and down the street. You know something kid?

What?

A good crew, a pot of black coffee, a lookout I can trust-I could still take down this f.u.c.kin bank.

Willie peers through his cell window. Snow. The storm he's been waiting for. February 10, 1947. Why is it always February, this sawed-off month, this Hughie McLoon of months, when all the big things in his life go down?

At lunchtime the cell door clatters open. Here's that book you wanted, Willie.

Thanks kid. How's tricks?

Can't complain and if I did who'd listen?

I would kid. I would.

Willie drops his voice: Pa.s.s the word to Freddie. Tonight.

Rat nods. Then lingers. Not staying exactly, not leaving. He brushes away his forelock, out of his eye, takes a step forward.

I'll miss you, Willie. A lot.

Willie looks down, clenches his teeth, curses himself for not catching the signs. While he's been working Rat, Rat has been working him. And now, if Willie doesn't handle this moment just right, the kid will go straight to the warden. Once a rat. Willie looks up. Yeah. Uh. I'll miss you too kid.