He sounds, from these clips, like a character.

His head was shaped like a triangle, Sutton says. A perfect triangle. Imagine? And his eyes looked like waterbugs. And they never stopped moving. You meet someone whose eyes are like waterbugs, walk the other direction. But somehow I thought Marcus was a right guy. I was fooled, I think, because he was a writer. I had respect for writers back then. I should have wised up when he showed me some of his stories.

No good?

The literary equivalent of undercooked mountain goat. He became a stickup man because he couldn't sell anything.

Sutton stops, takes one last look at the stadium facade. Walled garden, he says. I think it was at Dannemora that I first became angry. A cell is a bad place to be angry. When a man's angry, he needs to move around, burn it off. Lock an angry man in a cell, it's like locking a stick of lighted dynamite in a safe.

Who were you angry at?

Everyone. But mostly myself. I hated myself. The unhealthiest kind of hate.

Were you angry with Eddie? For messing up the good thing you had going with Chapin?

Nah. I could never be angry with Eddie. Not after that wink.

What wink?

TWELVE.

Willie sits before the parole board, fifteen pounds underweight, shivering. He's been shivering for three years. He tells the board that he wants to go straight. He tells them that he wants to get married, get a job, become a contributing member of society. He tells them that the last four years in Sing Sing and Dannemora have been a torment, but also a G.o.dsend, for which he thanks them. He didn't know himself four years ago, but he does now. He knows who Willie Sutton is, and who he isn't. It's June 1927, he'll soon turn twenty-six, and he's sick about how much of his twenty-six years he's wasted. Fighting to keep his voice steady, he tells the board that he's determined not to waste one minute more.

He sees the effect of his performance. He sees the members of the parole board lean forward, soak up his words, conclude that Sutton, William F., no longer poses a threat to society, that he should be released at once.

Days later it is so ordered.

As to the matter of Sutton's accomplice, Edward Buster Wilson. Parole denied.

Willie packs his books into a paper bag. First the Tennyson. He's memorized the ballad Tennyson wrote about the great love of his youth. Come into the garden, Maud. I am here at the gate alone. Next his heavily underlined copies of Franklin, Cicero, Plato-all recommended by Chapin.

A keeper walks Willie over to the prison's parole agent, who hands him a ten-dollar bill wrapped around a train ticket. The keeper then walks Willie to the prison tailor, where he's given a release suit. Gray, with a brown tie. At the front gate Willie stops, asks the keeper: Would you please tell Eddie Wilson goodbye for me?

Hit the grit, a.s.shole.

Willie walks to the station, boards the local, arrives in Grand Central at dusk. He walks to Times Square, marvels at the new signs, the dozens of new marquees. And the lights. Someone apparently decided while he was gone that Times Square should outshine Coney Island. He sees a towering sign: WELCOME TO NEW YORK, GREATEST CITY IN THE WORLD. He stops at a newsstand, buys the papers and two packs of Chesterfields. Settles into a coffee shop. At a corner booth, not touching a plate of pastries and a cup of coffee, he stares out the window at the men and women pa.s.sing by. The population of New York City must have doubled since he left. The sidewalks seem twice as crowded. And everyone looks different. They're all wearing new clothes, using new words, laughing at new jokes. He wants to ask each of them, What's so funny? What'd I miss?

He wolfs a cruller, opens the Times. He reads the sports page. Gehrig homered, Ruth doubled, the Yanks clobbered the Sox. He reads about Lindbergh's triumphant return to the U.S. The aviator was just in New York City days ago, the papers say, and Mayor Walker and the whole city turned out to shower him with adulation and ticker tape.

Willie turns the page. Ads for vacation packages. A berth on a train to Yosemite costs $108.82. On a train to Los Angeles-$138.44. He thinks of the crumpled dollars in his pocket. He flips to the wants, runs his finger up one column, down another. Griddle man-experience required. Bookkeeper-experience a must. Driller-references only. Store detective-experience, references, background check.

He looks around the coffee shop. People are staring. He didn't realize he was cursing aloud.

He walks around the theater district, reading every marquee, every lobby card, listening to the new jazz spilling out of the clubs. He watches gentlemen and ladies skipping across the street, dancing in and out of new theaters, laughing. They walk past him, through him. When he got out of Raymond Street Jail seven years ago he felt bleak. Now he feels invisible.

Bleak was better.

He stands outside the Republic Theater on West Forty-Second Street. The show is Abie's Irish Rose. He can hear the overture. He pictures the dancers and actors warming up, the audience nestling into their seats for an hour and a half of fun. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, shuffles along. He comes to the Capitol Theater. NOW PLAYING: LON CHANEY AS A FUGITIVE IN THE UNKNOWN. Also, as an added bonus, newsreels of Colonel Lindbergh.

Willie feels as if the world is a novel he set down years ago. Picking it up again, he can't recall the plot, the characters. Or why he cared. He tells himself that he'll remember, he'll feel like part of the world once more if he can just find work. A job, that's the answer, it always was. He has no experience, no education, and no one will hire a guy coming off a four-year bit. But maybe he can find something legit through his criminal a.s.sociates. Maybe in another city.

He snaps his fingers. Philadelphia. He went there often with Doc, and though he only had glimpses late at night from the windows of moving trains, he liked the town. Brotherly Love. The Liberty Bell. Ben f.u.c.kin Franklin. He walks to Penn Station, boards the Broadway Limited. He slips into the barber car, pays a dollar for a haircut and face ma.s.sage, then finds a seat in the parlor car, by a window. He pulls Franklin's autobiography from his paper bag. Chapin told Willie that Franklin built his life around one simple idea-happiness. Before doing anything Ben asked himself, Will this make me happy? Now, reading about Young Ben running off to Philadelphia, Willie grins. He guesses there are worse footsteps to follow in.

Outside the train station in North Philadelphia he asks people how he can find Boo Boo Hoff, the erratic mobster who runs this town. Boo Boo's headquarters, people say, is a gym. He surrounds himself with fighters as a king surrounds himself with knights. Willie walks into town, finds the gym, finds Boo Boo in a humid corner working out a densely muscled featherweight.

Approaching with caution, Willie introduces himself, explains that he's out of work.

Boo Boo grins. He has one of those grins that descend from left to right at a ninety-degree angle, like a knife slash. Yeah, he says with a kind of affected impatience, yeah, yeah, Willie Sutton, Doc mentioned you. Said you was smart. Said you was a right guy.

Yes sir, Mr. Hoff. How is old Doc? Is he well?

He's getting three squares and plenty of rest if you call that well. He was pinched a couple years ago. The judge gave him a long bit. Doc being a repeat offender.

Boo Boo turns back to the featherweight, whose body has less fat than a leather belt. The featherweight stands before a speed bag, thrums it with his fists, makes it purr. He looks well-tuned to Willie, ready to step in the ring right now, but Boo Boo chides him.

Don't make love to the f.u.c.kin bag kid. What are you gun to do next, kiss it?

No, Boo Boo, the featherweight says, smiling, exposing his mouthpiece, which glistens with saliva and blood.

Why don't you kiss it kid? You seem to be kind of sweet on that bag, so gwan, kiss it.

Gee, Boo Boo. I'm doin my best.

Your best? I'm not paying you to do your best, you b.u.m. I'm paying you to hate that bag. Why will you not hate that bag? Why will you not hate and maim and kill that bag like I f.u.c.kin told you?

Okay, Boo Boo, okay. I'll hate da bag.

Boo Boo turns from the featherweight. I might have something for you, he says to Willie.

Really? Say, that's great, Mr. Hoff.

Willie hopes it's something in the fight game. Maybe he can manage some ham-and-egger. Boo Boo is one of the best fight promoters in the country. Impresario, that's what newspapers always call him, though it seems to Willie like an awfully fancy word for a man whose face looks like an a.s.s. Fat, pale, globular, the only thing missing is a line down the center. Boo Boo must know he has an a.s.s face too, which is why he wears that extra-large boater and that bow tie the size of a box kite. He's trying to distract from the obvious, even though it's futile. His face looks like someone took a great big heinie and put a boater and bow tie on it. Talking to Boo Boo, Willie thinks, is like being mooned.

It's a little job, Boo Boo is saying.

No job too small sir.

Real little.

Well. Like I said.

I need for you to b.u.mp someone off.

Uh.

A real little-pest.

Well.

A f.u.c.kin pisher.

Er. Gee.

What. You just said.

I know. But I don't think. Kill a guy? Holy.

Relax. It's not what you think.

Okay. Phew. For a second there.

It's only half a guy.

I'm lost again.

Half man. Full pay.

I don't think. See, I'm not.

A dwarf. A little hunchback dwarf traitor c.o.c.ksucker who works for me but also for the cops, which therein lies the problem. Ooo what a mouth on this little pest. He tells cops whatever they want to know about my operations, they don't even have to slap him, they just pinch his little cheek and he sings like Jolson. Plus I think he's skimming. He needs offing in the worse way. Look. Here's his name. I'm writing it down for you on this piece of paper. I'm also writing down the name of the gin mill he owns. Go say h.e.l.lo, look him over. But do not let on that I'm wise. Let me know if you're interested.

Willie walks around Philadelphia, staring at the piece of paper, the name scratched in Boo Boo's globular handwriting: Hughie McLoon. Willie tries to picture McLoon, but he can only think of Daddo's stories about the little men back in Ireland. Willie's been afraid of little men ever since. Still, he needs a job. What would Ben Franklin do if offing a dwarf were the only way to be happy?

By nightfall Willie finds himself at Tenth and Cuthbert, standing outside Hughie McLoon's Dry Saloon. He forces himself to walk in, take a seat. He orders a whiskey, asks for Hughie. Who wants to see him? Friend of a friend. He'll be along. Willie orders another whiskey. He orders a bowl of turtle soup. Around eleven he sees a hat floating toward him along the bar, like the dorsal fin of some languorous tropical fish. You lookin for me? the fish asks.

Willie hops off his stool. Mr. McLoon? h.e.l.lo, my name's Sutton. Willie Sutton. Boo Boo Hoff sent me. Said you might have a job for me.

Hughie gives Willie the head-to-toe. More like the hip-to-toe. Oh yeah? Hnh. Fine, fine, welcome to the Dry Saloon kid. Let me buy you a drink.

Roughly Willie's age, Hughie is two-thirds as tall. He can't be four feet. More than merely short, he's all out of proportion. His brow is too big for his face, his hat is too big for his head-his voice is too high for his mouth. He sounds like a Josephine Baker record played too fast.

He tries to hop on the barstool next to Willie. He can't. He needs help, and he's not shy about asking. He places his palm on Willie's, like a deb stepping into her cotillion.

Despite Willie's nerves, despite Hughie's distracting appearance, they get on well. Hughie, it turns out, is a fine conversationalist. He reads the papers, thinks deeply about current events, politics. He's rooting for Al Smith, of course, the first Irish Catholic to be a serious candidate for president. But he also likes Coolidge, thinks Coolidge will go down as one of the best presidents in history.

Kind of a sourpuss, Willie says.

Nah, Hughie says with a wave of his hand, Silent Cal's just serious izzall. I like that. Life's serious. Cal wants what he wants, and anyone duzzen like it can jump straight up his Vermont fuggin a.s.s. And Cal wants you to get rich.

Me?

You, me, everybody. Cal takes the handcuffs off businessmen, so we can do what we gotta do. I marked him down as my kind of fella back in '19. When he stood up to them Boston cops. Any man who stands up to cops is all right by me. You wimmee?

Hughie lets out a laugh. A disturbing sound-like a Thompson machine gun. A few staccato bursts, then an ominous smoky silence. Willie makes a point to avoid saying anything funny.

The talk swings around to baseball. Like Willie, Hughie is a fan. He stabs a thumb the size of a baby carrot into his chest.

I used to be in the game, he says.

That so?

I was batboy for the A's. I was fourteen. Skinny as a bat back then too. Which made my hump look bigger. One day we're playin Detroit, see? And here comes Ty Cobb walkin up to the plate. All of a sudden he stops, gives me the stink eye. Before I know what's what, he's rubbin my hump for luck. The fans is laughin, all the other Tigers is laughin. Even my own team is laughin. Then, wouldn't you know, Cobb laces a triple up the gap. Goes on to get four hits that day. Well you know how superst.i.tious ballplayers can be. From then on, every player has to rub my back. For luck. They practically rubbed the skin off.

Willie takes a long look at Hughie. Poor little fella, Willie thinks. He should rub his own back, because his luck's about run out.

Hughie's favorite topic is women. He's girl crazy, he admits, and girls are twice as crazy for him. They like to pick him up, cradle him, cootch him under the chin. He's a half-pint Valentino, he claims, but he can't enjoy it, because his heart belongs to one heartless b.i.t.c.h.

She comes in here once a week, Hughie says morosely. With her husband. She's got long red hair, stands about five nine in her silk stockings. She's my Everest. I don't want to go on livin if I can't never make it to the top.

Plant your flag.

Zactly.

Have you told her how you feel?

Teller all the time. Teller I'd be the happiest man inna world if only she'd lummy. She don't lummy. Says I'm cute. Says she'd like to put me on a charm bracelet. Aint that a low blow?

Hughie is drunk. Willie too. At last call they stagger out, arm in arm, and say a fond good night on the sidewalk. Before waddling away Hughie tells Willie to come by in the morning about that job. Willie watches the hump fade slowly into the darkness, then staggers in the opposite direction. He keeps staggering until he finds a two-dollar flop. He falls onto the filthy bed, his clothes still on, and before pa.s.sing out he realizes he can't kill Hughie. He's ashamed to admit it, but he can't kill anyone, especially not Hughie.

On the other hand he also can't warn Hughie. As he told the parole board, he knows who Willie Sutton is, and who he isn't. He thought briefly that he might be a killer, but he knows he's no rat.

A few light snowflakes fall as the Polara pulls away from Yankee Stadium. Photographer turns on the wipers. Reporter turns on the AM radio. News. The announcer sounds as if he's had too much coffee. And a line of cocaine. His jangled nerves can't be helped by that Teletype machine clacking in the background.

Our top stories this hour. Willie the Actor Sutton is a free man today. Governor Rockefeller pardoned the sixty-eight-year-old archcriminal late last night. No word where the most prolific bank robber in U.S. history is spending Christmas. Checking holiday traffic ...

Reporter and Photographer look at each other, look in the backseat. Sutton smiles sheepishly. Archcriminal, he says. He looks out the window-the Bronx. In the distance he sees a building on fire. Flames pour from the top floor. Where are the firefighters? In a vacant lot along the highway he sees a dozen boys tossing a football. Collarless shirts, ragged shoes. Not sneakers, not cleats-but old dress shoes? A b.u.m lies sleeping in the end zone.

Dark clouds move in from the north.

When I got out of Dannemora, Sutton says, almost to himself, that summer of '27, I couldn't find a job.

Even in the roaring twenties?

Everybody thinks the twenties were roaring. People getting rich overnight, all that F. Scott Fitzgerald bunk, but you boys listen to Willie, the decade started with a Depression and it ended with a Depression and there were plenty of white-knuckle days in between. A few people were living high, but everyone else was circling the drain. Times were hard, and you could see worse times dead ahead. A crash was coming, you could feel it. Of course, that's always true. You want to be a prophet? You want to be f.u.c.kin Nostradamus? Predict a crash. You'll never be wrong.

Reporter spreads the map. Our next stop is Madison and Eighty-Sixth. What happened there, Mr. Sutton?

That's where Willie finally found one of the two sweetest things a man can hope to find.

In a phone booth at Penn Station, Willie calls Boo Boo. Collect. He says he won't be able take that job they discussed. Suit yourself, Boo Boo says. G.o.dspeed.