Photographer. I already went down this road.
Photographer is undaunted. Just the other night, he says, I was telling my old lady all about you—
You know all about Willie?
Sure. And you know what she said? She said, This cat sounds like a real-life Robin Hood.
Well, Robin Hood was real life, but anyway. She sounds lovely.
Oh, I’m a lucky guy, Willie. My old lady, she’s a teacher up in the Bronx. Studying to be a masseuse. She’s changed my life. Really raised my consciousness. You know how the right woman can do that.
Your consciousness?
Yeah. She knows all about the trigger points in the body. She’s really opened me up. Artistically. Emotionally. Sexually.
Photographer starts to giggle. Sutton stares at the Life Saver eyes framed in the rearview—Photographer is stoned. Reporter is staring too, clearly thinking the same thing.
Trigger points, Sutton says.
Yeah. She’s studying the same techniques they used on Kennedy. For his back. I got a bad back—this line of work, it comes with the territory—so every night she works out my knots. Her hands are magic. I’m kind of obsessed with her, in case you couldn’t tell. Her hands. Her hair. Her face. Her ass. God, her ass. I shouldn’t say that though. She’s a feminist. She’s teaching me not to objectify women.
You had to be taught not to object to women?
Objectify .
Oh.
Reporter clears his throat. Loudly. Okay then, he says, shutting his door, spreading Sutton’s map across the Polara’s dashboard. Mr. Sutton has kindly drawn us a map, places he wants to show us today. He insists that we visit them all. In chronological order.
Photographer sees all the red numbers. Thirteen, fourt— Really?
Really.
Photographer drops his voice. When do we get to, you know? Schuster?
Last.
Photographer drops his voice lower. What gives?
It’s his way, Reporter whispers, or no way.
Sutton bows his head, tries not to smile.
Photographer throws up his hands as if Reporter is robbing him. Hey man, that’s cool. It’s Willie da Actor—he’s da boss, right? Willie da Actor don’t take orders from nobody.
Reporter pulls the radio from the dash. City Desk? Come in, City Desk.
The radio squawks: Are you guys garble leaving the static garble Plaza?
Ten four.
Photographer puts the car into drive and they lurch forward, toward Fifth Avenue, cruising slowly past the former sites of two banks Sutton hit in 1931.
Traffic is light. It’s seven o’clock Christmas morning, the temperature is twelve degrees, so only a few people are on the street. They turn onto Fifty-Seventh. Sutton sees three young men walking, debating something intensely. Two of them wear denim jackets, the third wears a leather duster. They all have long shaggy manes.
When exactly, Sutton says, did everybody get together and decide to stop getting haircuts?
Reporter and Photographer look at each other, laugh.
Sutton sees an old man rooting in a trash can. He sees another old man pushing a shopping cart full of brooms. He sees a woman—youngish, pretty—having a heated argument. With a mannequin in a store window.
Reporter peers into the backseat. Was the homeless problem bad before you went to prison, Mr. Sutton?
Nah. Because we didn’t call them homeless. We called them beggars. Then bums. I should know. When I was your age, I was one.
Hey Willie, Photographer says, if you’re hungry, man, I bought donuts. In that box on the seat.
Sutton opens the pink box. An assortment. Glazed, sugar, jelly, crullers. Thanks kid.
Help yourself. I bought enough for everybody.
Maybe later.
Donuts are my weakness.
You’d have loved Capone.
Why’s that?
Al used to hand out donuts to the poor during the Depression. He was the first gangster who gave any thought to public relations.
Is that so?
That was the rap against him anyway, that it was all for show. I met him once at a nightclub, asked him about it. He said he didn’t give a shit about PR. He just didn’t like seeing people go
Photographer is undaunted. Just the other night, he says, I was telling my old lady all about you—
You know all about Willie?
Sure. And you know what she said? She said, This cat sounds like a real-life Robin Hood.
Well, Robin Hood was real life, but anyway. She sounds lovely.
Oh, I’m a lucky guy, Willie. My old lady, she’s a teacher up in the Bronx. Studying to be a masseuse. She’s changed my life. Really raised my consciousness. You know how the right woman can do that.
Your consciousness?
Yeah. She knows all about the trigger points in the body. She’s really opened me up. Artistically. Emotionally. Sexually.
Photographer starts to giggle. Sutton stares at the Life Saver eyes framed in the rearview—Photographer is stoned. Reporter is staring too, clearly thinking the same thing.
Trigger points, Sutton says.
Yeah. She’s studying the same techniques they used on Kennedy. For his back. I got a bad back—this line of work, it comes with the territory—so every night she works out my knots. Her hands are magic. I’m kind of obsessed with her, in case you couldn’t tell. Her hands. Her hair. Her face. Her ass. God, her ass. I shouldn’t say that though. She’s a feminist. She’s teaching me not to objectify women.
You had to be taught not to object to women?
Objectify .
Oh.
Reporter clears his throat. Loudly. Okay then, he says, shutting his door, spreading Sutton’s map across the Polara’s dashboard. Mr. Sutton has kindly drawn us a map, places he wants to show us today. He insists that we visit them all. In chronological order.
Photographer sees all the red numbers. Thirteen, fourt— Really?
Really.
Photographer drops his voice. When do we get to, you know? Schuster?
Last.
Photographer drops his voice lower. What gives?
It’s his way, Reporter whispers, or no way.
Sutton bows his head, tries not to smile.
Photographer throws up his hands as if Reporter is robbing him. Hey man, that’s cool. It’s Willie da Actor—he’s da boss, right? Willie da Actor don’t take orders from nobody.
Reporter pulls the radio from the dash. City Desk? Come in, City Desk.
The radio squawks: Are you guys garble leaving the static garble Plaza?
Ten four.
Photographer puts the car into drive and they lurch forward, toward Fifth Avenue, cruising slowly past the former sites of two banks Sutton hit in 1931.
Traffic is light. It’s seven o’clock Christmas morning, the temperature is twelve degrees, so only a few people are on the street. They turn onto Fifty-Seventh. Sutton sees three young men walking, debating something intensely. Two of them wear denim jackets, the third wears a leather duster. They all have long shaggy manes.
When exactly, Sutton says, did everybody get together and decide to stop getting haircuts?
Reporter and Photographer look at each other, laugh.
Sutton sees an old man rooting in a trash can. He sees another old man pushing a shopping cart full of brooms. He sees a woman—youngish, pretty—having a heated argument. With a mannequin in a store window.
Reporter peers into the backseat. Was the homeless problem bad before you went to prison, Mr. Sutton?
Nah. Because we didn’t call them homeless. We called them beggars. Then bums. I should know. When I was your age, I was one.
Hey Willie, Photographer says, if you’re hungry, man, I bought donuts. In that box on the seat.
Sutton opens the pink box. An assortment. Glazed, sugar, jelly, crullers. Thanks kid.
Help yourself. I bought enough for everybody.
Maybe later.
Donuts are my weakness.
You’d have loved Capone.
Why’s that?
Al used to hand out donuts to the poor during the Depression. He was the first gangster who gave any thought to public relations.
Is that so?
That was the rap against him anyway, that it was all for show. I met him once at a nightclub, asked him about it. He said he didn’t give a shit about PR. He just didn’t like seeing people go
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