Читать книгу Sutton - J. Moehringer R. - Страница 13

WILLIE COMES HOME TO FIND MOTHER IN THE PARLOR, READING THE Bible to Daddo. His brothers are out. For the moment they’re someone else’s problem. With a sigh of relief Willie pulls a chair next to Mother, rests his head on her shoulder. The Fels smell. It makes him feel safe and sad at the same time.

The late fall of 1911.

Mother skips back and forth from Old Testament to New, slapping at the crinkly pages, murmuring, demanding an answer. The answer. Each pause gives Daddo a chance to tap his cane and offer commentary on the sublime wisdom of Jesus. Now she lands on Genesis, the story of Joseph and his brothers. Willie’s mind floats on the lilt of her voice, the soughing of the potato sack curtains. And when they saw him afar off, even before he came near unto them, they conspired against him to slay him. And they said one to another, Behold, this dreamer cometh. Come now therefore, and let us slay him, and cast him into some pit, and we will say, Some evil beast hath devoured him: and we shall see what will become of his dreams.

Willie lifts his head from Mother’s shoulder.

And it came to pass, when Joseph was come unto his brethren, that they stript Joseph out of his coat, his coat of many colours that was on him; And they took him, and cast him into a pit: and the pit was empty, there was no water in it.

Willie puts his hands over his face, shakes with sobs. Mother stops reading. Daddo tilts his head. The boy, he says, is moved by the Holy Spirit.

Maybe he’ll be a priest, Mother says.

The next day she pulls him from P.S. 5 and enrolls him at St. Ann’s.

Photographer is peeking in the rearview, driving fast. Peeking faster, driving faster. Reporter, trying to make notes, can’t keep his pen steady. He turns to Photographer. Why are you driving like someone is chasing us?

Because someone is chasing us.

Reporter looks out the back window, sees a TV news van riding their bumper. How the hell did they find us?

We haven’t exactly been inconspicuous. Maybe somebody witnessed a certain bank robber fainting in the middle of the street …?

Photographer mashes the gas, runs a red light. He spins the wheel to the left, swerves to avoid a double-parked truck. Sutton, tossed around the backseat like a sock in a dryer, tastes this morning’s champagne, last night’s whiskey. He realizes that he hasn’t eaten solid food since yesterday’s lunch at Attica—beef stew. Now he tastes that too. He puts a hand on his stomach, knows what’s coming. He tries to roll down a window. Stuck. Or locked. Converted cop car. He looks around. On the seat beside him are Photographer’s camera bag and cloth purse. He opens the camera bag. Expensive lenses. He opens the cloth purse. Notebooks, paperbacks, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Norman Mailer’s The Armies of the Night, a plastic baggie full of joints—and a billfold. Sutton touches the billfold.

He sees the pink box of donuts. He lifts the lid, feels the contents of his stomach gathering on the launchpad. He shuts his eyes, swallows, gradually fights back the rising wave of nausea.

Photographer makes a hard right, steers toward the curb. The Polara fishtails. Squealing brakes, shrieking tires. They screech to a stop. The smell of scorched Firestone fills the car. Reporter kneels on the front seat, looks out the back. They’re gone, he says to Photographer. Nice job.

I guess it pays to watch Mod Squad, Photographer says.

They sit for a moment, all three of them breathing hard. Even the Polara is panting. Now Photographer eases back into traffic. Tell me again—what’s our next stop?

Corner of Sands and Gold. Right, Mr. Sutton?

Sutton grunts.

Sands and Gold? Christ, that’s a block from where we just were.

Sorry. Mr. Sutton’s map is kind of tough to read.

I was hitting the champagne pretty hard when I made it, Sutton says.

The Polara hits a pothole. Sutton’s head hits the roof, his ass hits the seat.

You don’t need to drive like a maniac anymore, Reporter says.

It’s not me, Photographer says, it’s these roads. And I think this Polara is shot.

Willie is shot, Sutton rasps.

The Polara hits another pothole.

One-sixth gravity, Sutton mumbles.

We’re almost there, Mr. Sutton. You okay?

Just realized something kid.

What’s that, Mr. Sutton?

I’m in the back of a radio car without handcuffs. I think that’s part of what’s got me on my heels this morning. That’s why I don’t feel like myself. I feel—naked.

Handcuffs?

We used to call them bracelets. The neighbors would say, Did you hear, they dragged poor Eddie Wilson away in bracelets?

Sutton holds up his wrists, stares at them from different angles. The purple veins, bubbled and wormy.

Photographer grins at Sutton in the rearview. If you want handcuffs, brother, we can get you some handcuffs.

Two classmates at St. Ann’s become Willie’s friends. William Happy Johnston and Edward Buster Wilson. That’s how newspapers will most often refer to them. Everyone in Irish Town knows, Willie is the smart one, Happy is the handsome one, Eddie is the dangerous one. Everyone in Irish Town knows, you better watch your step around Eddie Wilson.

He used to be such a sweet kid, Irish Towners say. Then his aunt and uncle took ill. The lung sickness. They had to move in with Eddie’s family—it was either that or a pesthouse. In no time their doctor bills wiped out Eddie’s family. This was just after the Panic of 1907, the country spiraling into a Depression. Irish Town passed the hat, saved Eddie’s family from being put on the street, but Eddie felt more embarrassed than relieved. Next, Eddie’s old man lost his job as a driller. Again the neighborhood passed the hat, again Eddie cringed. Finally Eddie’s mother got the lung sickness, and there was no money left for a doctor. She and Eddie were especially close, neighbors whispered at the funeral.

Overnight, everyone agrees, Eddie changed. His royal blue eyes turned stormy. His eyebrows drew together into a permanent V. He looked wounded all the time, ready to fight. When the Italians started to encroach on Irish Town, Eddie decided it was his job to hold them off. He was forever muttering about them Eye-ties, them fuckin Dagos. Every other week he was in another hellish battle.

The first time they meet, Willie sees only Eddie’s courage, not his pain. Something about Eddie reminds Willie of polished, martial steel. Also, he seems equally loyal and lethal. And Eddie sees Willie through the same rosy lens. Assuming Willie’s many bruises are from street brawls, not his brothers, Eddie grants Willie his deepest respect. Willie, in need of a friend, doesn’t set Eddie straight.

Happy never had to earn Eddie’s respect. They’ve been friends since birth. Their families live across the street from each other, their fathers are thick. That’s why Happy is always laughing at Eddie’s bad temper, because he remembers the old Eddie. To Willie, laughing at Eddie seems like asking for trouble, like the lion tamers at the street circus putting their heads between those pink dripping jaws. But Eddie never snaps at Happy. Happy is so happy, so damn good looking, it’s hard to be mad at him.

Some say Happy was born happy. Others say he’s happy about the way he looks. Unbearably handsome. Unfairly handsome. Most agree that some percentage of his constant cheerfulness is traceable to his family’s nest egg. The Johnstons aren’t rich, but they’re among the few Irish Towners who don’t live on the rusty razor’s edge. Happy’s father got hit by a trolley years ago and the family won a settlement. Moreover, they were smart enough not to put their windfall in a bank, hundreds of which have gone bust.

Daddo asks Willie about his new friends. He’s heard Happy’s voice from the street. He says Happy sounds handsome.

He is, Willie says. He has black hair and black eyes and the girls in school all love him.

Daddo chuckles. Bless him. What I wouldn’t give. And the Wilson boy?

Yellow hair. Blue eyes. He gets in fights. And steals sometimes.

Be careful, Willie Boy. Sounds like he has a bit of the Old Nick in him.

The what?

The devil.

Willie doesn’t understand what Daddo means. Until an older boy down the block, Billy Doyle, gets pinched. Housebreaking, shoplifting, something minor. What makes it major, what makes it the talk of Irish Town, is that Billy has given up the names of his confederates. The cops beat the names out of Billy, but that’s no excuse. Not in Irish Town.

Right after the cops turn Billy loose, he sits on his stoop, his jaw broken, his left eye purple and running with pus, a rotted plum. He’s a pitiable sight, but people walk past all day long as if he’s not there. Even mothers pushing prams give him the standard Irish Town treatment for rats. Silence.

Eddie, who grew up with Billy’s brothers, and likes him, watches from up the street for hours. After a while he can’t take it anymore. He crosses, walks up to Billy, asks how he’s feeling.

Not so good, Eddie.

Eddie leans in, puts an arm on Billy’s shoulder, tells him to hang in there.

Billy looks up, smiles.

Eddie spits in his eye.

Weeks later Billy Doyle drinks iodine. There is no funeral.

Sutton sees a family walking along the street, dressed for church. Dad, Mom, two little boys. Father and sons are wearing identical suits. In the old days, Sutton says, his voice weak, the worst thing you could be was a Judas.

Reporter glances into the backseat. Are you referring, by any chance, to Arnold Schuster?

No.

That whole ratting thing, that whole Code of Brooklyn—where does that come from?

Sutton taps his chest. From in here kid. The deepest part. When I was ten years old the cops found a man lying in the middle of our street, a baling hook in his chest. He was a stevedore, got crossways with some of the boys on the waterfront. As the cops took him to the hospital they asked who did this to him. He told the cops to go fuck themselves. Those were his last words—imagine? Three days later the whole fuckin neighborhood turned out for his funeral, including the guys who offed him. There was talk of petitioning the city to name a street after him.

All because he didn’t name the guys who murdered him?

People are clannish, Sutton says. We didn’t become human a million years ago until we hopped out of trees and split into clans. You betray someone in your clan, you open the door to the end of the world.

But the people who murdered him were in his clan? Didn’t they betray him?

Ratting is a hundred times worse than murder.

It all sounds kind of—barbaric, Reporter says. It sounds like people making life harder than it needs to be.

No one is making anything kid. It’s just how human beings are built. Two thousand years later, why do we know the name of Judas and not the soldier who nailed Christ to the cross?

In 1913 Willie’s brothers move out. One gets a job at a factory in West Virginia, the other joins the Army. They give Willie one ferocious goodbye beating in the shadow of St. Ann’s, but Willie doesn’t feel it. Knowing they’ll be gone in a few days, knowing they won’t be part of his world anymore, makes the blows bounce off. But the Lord was with Joseph, and shewed him mercy, and gave him favour in the sight of the keeper of the prison. Watching Big Brother and Bigger Brother saunter away, Willie picks up his hat, licks the blood from his lip, laughs.

Sutton kneels on the cobblestones at Sands and Gold. He looks as if he’s about to propose to Photographer and Reporter.

Mr. Sutton—what are you doing?

St. Ann’s, my grammar school, used to be right here.

A gust of wind sends a few loose newspaper pages fluttering like birds. Sutton pats the cobblestones. These are the same cobblestones I walked on as a kid, he says in a half whisper. Time—the subtle thief of youth.

What? Who’s a thief?

Time. Some dead fuckin poet said that. Father Flynn quoted it all the time. Made us memorize it. He probably stood right there, where you two are standing, saying that line, which is pure horseshit. Time is a thief, but he’s not subtle. He’s a thug. And youth is a little old lady walking through the park with a pocketbook full of cash. You want to avoid being like youth? You want to keep time from robbing you? Hold on for dear life, boys. When time tries to snatch something from you, just grab tighter. Don’t let go. That’s what memory is. Not letting go. Saying fuck you to time.

Photographer puts a Newport between his lips. Uh—Willie?

Sutton looks up. Yeah kid.

Willie, this isn’t really working for me—creatively? You, at the site of your former school? It’s static, brother.

Static.

Yeah. Also, you’re kind of freaking us out.

Why kid?

Well. You’re talking to yourself, for starters. And you’re not making sense. Compared to you, most of the cats I met at Woodstock were acting straight.

Sorry kid. I’m just. Remembering.

Reporter steps forward. Mr. Sutton, maybe you could tell us some of what you’re remembering? Share something about your early life? Your childhood?

I don’t remember much.

But you just said—

Okay, Sutton says. Let’s go. Stop Number Three—Hudson Street.

Photographer helps Sutton to his feet. Willie, can you at least tell us the point of Stop Number Two?

Youth.

Youth?

Yeah. Youth.

What about youth, Willie?

She’s just fuckin asking for it.

There are no ball fields in Irish Town. No playgrounds, no gyms, no rec centers. So the neighborhood boys all gather at the Hudson Street slaughterhouse. In their short pants and vests, their collarless shirts and ragged shoes, they hang around the loading docks, mooching hooves and feet, heckling the animals on their way to die.

None of the boys respects the slaughterhouse like Eddie. None but Eddie roots for the butchers. If there were trading cards of butchers, Eddie would collect them. He cheers when the butchers slit a pig’s throat, laughs when they stab a cow in the eye or lop off a sheep’s head. He gazes worshipfully when they dip a mug into the raw blood at their feet and slurp it down for nourishment.

In 1914, however, Eddie sees something at the slaughterhouse that haunts him. One black castrated male sheep leads all the other sheep up the ramp to the killing door. At the last minute the black sheep does a shifty little sidestep, saving himself.

What’s with that sheep there? Eddie asks.

That’s the Judas sheep, a butcher says. It’s actually a goat that looks like a sheep.

Sutty, get a load of this fuckin sheep. Look how he double-crosses his buddies.

He’s just a sheep, Ed. Or a goat.

Eddie punches his palm. Nah, nah, that rat knows what he’s doin.

A few nights later Eddie rousts Willie and Happy from their beds and drags them down to the slaughterhouse. He jimmies the lock on the door to the loading dock and leads them into the filthy pens where the river barges unload the animals. In a far corner they find the black Judas sheep lying on its side. The sleep of the innocent, Eddie says, grabbing a board and giving the sheep a whack on the head. Blood goes everywhere. It spurts into Willie’s eyes and sprays the front of Happy’s white shirt. The sheep scrambles to its feet and tries to run. Eddie chases. Come here, you. He swings the board like a baseball bat, hits the sheep on the backside. Where you think you’re going? He gives the sheep another whack, and another. When the sheep is down, Eddie leaps on it, puts a tourniquet around the fleecy neck. Happy holds the kicking legs while Eddie slowly tightens.

Sutty, grab that board, give him one.

No.

Willie could never hurt a defenseless animal. Even an animal that rats out other animals. Besides, the sight of Eddie and Happy holding down the Judas sheep reminds Willie of his brothers. I seek my brethren: tell me, I pray thee, where they feed their flocks. Willie keeps his distance, though he doesn’t look away. He can’t. He watches Eddie and Happy torment the sheep, watches Eddie pull out a knife and stab it and stab it until the frantic baaa becomes a pathetic ba. Eddie and Happy are his best friends, but maybe he didn’t know them until now. Maybe he’ll never know them. He watches them laugh at the sheep’s lacquered black eyes going white, then pearly gray. He closes his own eyes. Tattle-tale gray.

Sutton paces up and down Hudson Street. He inhales deeply through his nose. Wet hide, offal, blood. Smell that, boys? Somehow that stench didn’t bother us as kids.

I don’t smell anything, Photographer says to Reporter.

Sutton points to his feet. Daddo said Eddie had the devil in him—I found out on this spot what that meant. Eddie’s first kill.

Now we’re talking, Photographer says, pushing Reporter out of the way, shooting as Sutton points to the ground.

Reporter sets down his briefcase, clicks it open, pulls out a stack of files.

What are those? Sutton asks.

The newspaper’s Willie Sutton files. Some of them anyway. There’s an entire drawer devoted to you, Mr. Sutton. You mentioned your grandfather. I saw him in one of these files. Was he the actor?

No. The actor was my father’s father. Back in Ireland. They say he knew most of Shakespeare by heart. I’m talking about my mother’s father.

Photographer keeps shooting. But who got killed here, brother?

A sheep, Sutton says.

Photographer stops, lowers his camera. A what?

There was a slaughterhouse here. I used to come with my best friends, Eddie and Happy. One night they killed a sheep. Or a goat pretending to be a sheep.

Why?

It ratted on the other sheep.

Photographer rests his camera on his hip. The sheep ratted, he says to Reporter. You hearing this?

Mr. Sutton, you mentioned Eddie. Do you mean Edward Buster Wilson? With whom you were arrested in 1923?

Yeah.

In this one clip, the judge said you were like outlaws in the Old West.

Nah, the judge said that about me and another guy. But it was sure true of me and Eddie.

Reporter flips open a file. Okay. Here we go—Sutton and Wilson. Unlawful entry, armed robbery.

Sounds about right, Sutton says.

And Happy—now, Mr. Sutton, is that William Happy Johnston? With whom you were arrested in 1919?

The same.

Burglary. Larceny.

Good old Happy.

Kidnapping. Wait—kidnapping?

You had to be there, Sutton says. You had to know Happy. Not that anybody really knew Happy. Not that anybody fuckin knows anybody.

Who did you and Happy kidnap?

Chronological order kid.