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champagne this morning? And what the hell is wrong with this elevator? He was already feeling unsteady on his feet, but this sudden free fall to the lobby, like a space capsule plunging to earth, is giving him vertigo. In the old days elevators were manageably, comfortably slow. Like people.
    With a ping and a thud the elevator lands. The doors clatter open. Reporter, not noticing Sutton’s pained expression, looks left and right, making sure no other reporters are lurking behind the lobby’s palm trees. He takes Sutton by the elbow and guides him past the front desk and past the concierge and through the revolving door. There, directly in front of the Plaza, stands a 1968 burnt sienna Dodge Polara, smoke gushing like tap water from its tailpipe.
    This your car kid?
    No. It’s one of the newspaper’s radio cars.
    Looks like a cop car.
    It’s a converted cop car, actually.
    Reporter opens the passenger door. He and Sutton look in. A large man sits behind the wheel. He’s roughly Reporter’s age, twenty something, but he wears a fringed buckskin jacket that makes him look like a five-year-old playing cowboys and Indians. No, with his shoulder-length hair and Fu Manchu mustache he looks like a grown man pretending to be a five-year-old playing cowboys and Indians. Under the buckskin jacket he’s wearing a ski sweater, and around his neck a knitted scarf the colors of a barber pole, all of which spoil whatever Western look he was going for. He smiles. Bad teeth. Nice smile, but bad teeth. The exact opposite of Reporter’s teeth. And they’re as big as they are bad. His eyes are big too, and flaming red, like cherry Life Savers. Sutton would kill for a Life Saver right now.
    Mr. Sutton, Reporter says. I’d like you to meet the best shooter at the paper. The best .
    Reporter says the photographer’s name but Sutton doesn’t catch it. Merry Christmas, Sutton says, reaching into the car and shaking Photographer’s hand.
    Back at you, brother.
    Sutton climbs into the backseat, which is covered with stuff. A cloth purse. A leather camera bag. A pink bakery box. A stack of newspapers and magazines, including last week’s Life . Manson glares at Sutton. Sutton flips Manson over.
    Maybe you’d be more comfortable up front, Reporter says.
    Nah, Sutton says. I always ride in the rumble.
    Reporter smiles. Okay, Mr. Sutton. I’m happy to ride shotgun.
    Sutton shakes his head. Riding shotgun —civilians use the term so blithely. He’s actually driven countless times with men riding shotgun, holding shotguns. There was nothing blithe about it.
    Photographer squints at Sutton in the rearview. Hey, Willie, man, I’ve just got to say, it’s a trip to meet you, brother. I mean, Willie the Actor—holy shit, this is like meeting Dillinger.
    Ah well, Sutton says, Dillinger killed people, so.
    Or Jesse James.
    Again—killed.
    Or Al Capone.
    A pattern seems to be developing, Sutton mumbles.
    I asked for this assignment, Photographer says.
    Did you kid?
    Even though it was Christmas. I told my old lady, I said, baby, it’s Willie the Actor . This guy’s been fighting the Man for decades.
    Well, I don’t know about the Man.
    You fought the law, brother.
    Okay.
    You were an antihero before they invented the word.
    Antihero?
    Hell yes, man. This is the Age of the Antihero. I don’t have to tell you, Willie, times are hard, people are fed up. Prices are soaring, taxes are sky high, millions are hungry, angry. Injustice. Inequality. The War on Poverty is a joke, the war in Vietnam is illegal, the Great Society is a sham.
    Same old same old, Sutton says.
    Yes and no, Photographer says. Same shit, but people aren’t taking it anymore. People are in the streets, brother. Chicago, Newark, Detroit. We haven’t seen this kind of civil unrest in a long long time. So people are crazy about anyone who fights the power—and wins. That’s you, Willie. Have you seen today’s front pages, brother?
    It’s a nonstarter, Reporter whispers to