doesn’t remember the last time someone, besides a judge, called him Mr. Sutton. He returns to the wingback chair. Reporter, carrying his paper cup of coffee, sits in the other wingback, peels off the plastic lid, takes a sip. Now he leans forward eagerly. So, Mr. Sutton—how does it feel to be famous?
I don’t think you heard me kid. I’ve been famous all my life.
Arguably you’ve been infamous.
That seems like splitting hairs.
What I’m saying is, you’re a living legend .
Please kid.
You’re an icon.
Nah.
Oh yes, Mr. Sutton. That’s why my editors are so keen for this story. In the page one meeting yesterday, a senior editor said you’ve achieved a kind of mythic status.
Sutton opens his eyes wide. Boy, you newspapermen love myths, don’t you?
Pardon?
Selling myths, that’s what you fellas do. The front page, the sports page, the financial pages—all myths.
Well, I don’t think—
I used to buy in too. When I was a kid. I used to lap it all up. Not just newspapers either—comic books, Horatio Alger, the Bible, the whole American Dream. That’s what got me so mixed up in the first place. Fuckin myths.
I think maybe I haven’t had enough coffee.
Try some champagne.
No. Thank you. Mr. Sutton, all I’m saying is, America loves a bank robber.
Really. America has a funny way of showing it. I’ve spent half my life locked up.
Take your famous line. There’s a reason that line has become part of the culture.
Sutton stubs out his cigarette, shoots two plumes of smoke through his nostrils. Because the nostrils are different sizes, the plumes are different sizes. It’s always bothered Sutton.
Which line is that kid?
You know.
Sutton makes his face a blank. He can’t help having fun with this kid.
Mr. Sutton, surely you remember. When you were asked why you robbed banks? You said: That’s where the money was .
Right, right. I remember now. Except I never said it.
Reporter’s face falls.
One of your colleagues invented that line kid. Put my name to it.
Oh no.
Like I said. Myths. All my life, if reporters weren’t making me out to be worse than I am, they were making me out to be better.
Wow. That makes me embarrassed for my profession.
We all pay for the sins of our colleagues.
Well, Mr. Sutton, rest assured, I won’t be putting any words in your mouth today.
Sutton cocks his head. How old are you kid?
Me? I’ll be twenty-three in February.
Young.
I guess. Relatively.
If Willie’s such a hot ticket, like you say, how come your bosses sent a cub to be my chaperone?
Um.
You draw this assignment because you’re Jewish? No one else in the city room wanted to work Christmas?
Reporter sighs. I won’t lie to you, Mr. Sutton. That might be the case.
Sutton gives Reporter a long slow once-over. He misjudged this kid. Reporter isn’t a Boy Scout, Sutton decides. He’s an Eagle Scout. And an altar boy. Or whatever the Jewish equivalent might be.
Reporter looks at his watch. Speaking of the assignment, Mr. Sutton. We should probably get going.
Sutton stands, checks his breast pocket. He pulls out the white envelope, puts it back. Then he pulls out a tourist map of New York City—he had the front desk send it up with the Chesterfields and the champagne. He’s marked it with red numbers, red lines and arrows. He hands it to Reporter.
What’s this, Mr. Sutton?
You said you wanted the nickel tour of my life. There it is. I mapped it all out.
All these places?
Yeah. And they’re numbered. Chronological order.
So these are the scenes of all your crimes?
And other key events. All the crossroads of my life.
Reporter moves his finger from number to number. Crossroads, he says. I see.
Problem?
No, no. It’s just. It looks as if we double back several times. Maybe there’s a more direct route?
We have to do it in chronological order. Or else the story won’t make sense.
To whom?
You. Me. Whoever. I can’t tell you about Bess before I tell you about Eddie. I can’t
I don’t think you heard me kid. I’ve been famous all my life.
Arguably you’ve been infamous.
That seems like splitting hairs.
What I’m saying is, you’re a living legend .
Please kid.
You’re an icon.
Nah.
Oh yes, Mr. Sutton. That’s why my editors are so keen for this story. In the page one meeting yesterday, a senior editor said you’ve achieved a kind of mythic status.
Sutton opens his eyes wide. Boy, you newspapermen love myths, don’t you?
Pardon?
Selling myths, that’s what you fellas do. The front page, the sports page, the financial pages—all myths.
Well, I don’t think—
I used to buy in too. When I was a kid. I used to lap it all up. Not just newspapers either—comic books, Horatio Alger, the Bible, the whole American Dream. That’s what got me so mixed up in the first place. Fuckin myths.
I think maybe I haven’t had enough coffee.
Try some champagne.
No. Thank you. Mr. Sutton, all I’m saying is, America loves a bank robber.
Really. America has a funny way of showing it. I’ve spent half my life locked up.
Take your famous line. There’s a reason that line has become part of the culture.
Sutton stubs out his cigarette, shoots two plumes of smoke through his nostrils. Because the nostrils are different sizes, the plumes are different sizes. It’s always bothered Sutton.
Which line is that kid?
You know.
Sutton makes his face a blank. He can’t help having fun with this kid.
Mr. Sutton, surely you remember. When you were asked why you robbed banks? You said: That’s where the money was .
Right, right. I remember now. Except I never said it.
Reporter’s face falls.
One of your colleagues invented that line kid. Put my name to it.
Oh no.
Like I said. Myths. All my life, if reporters weren’t making me out to be worse than I am, they were making me out to be better.
Wow. That makes me embarrassed for my profession.
We all pay for the sins of our colleagues.
Well, Mr. Sutton, rest assured, I won’t be putting any words in your mouth today.
Sutton cocks his head. How old are you kid?
Me? I’ll be twenty-three in February.
Young.
I guess. Relatively.
If Willie’s such a hot ticket, like you say, how come your bosses sent a cub to be my chaperone?
Um.
You draw this assignment because you’re Jewish? No one else in the city room wanted to work Christmas?
Reporter sighs. I won’t lie to you, Mr. Sutton. That might be the case.
Sutton gives Reporter a long slow once-over. He misjudged this kid. Reporter isn’t a Boy Scout, Sutton decides. He’s an Eagle Scout. And an altar boy. Or whatever the Jewish equivalent might be.
Reporter looks at his watch. Speaking of the assignment, Mr. Sutton. We should probably get going.
Sutton stands, checks his breast pocket. He pulls out the white envelope, puts it back. Then he pulls out a tourist map of New York City—he had the front desk send it up with the Chesterfields and the champagne. He’s marked it with red numbers, red lines and arrows. He hands it to Reporter.
What’s this, Mr. Sutton?
You said you wanted the nickel tour of my life. There it is. I mapped it all out.
All these places?
Yeah. And they’re numbered. Chronological order.
So these are the scenes of all your crimes?
And other key events. All the crossroads of my life.
Reporter moves his finger from number to number. Crossroads, he says. I see.
Problem?
No, no. It’s just. It looks as if we double back several times. Maybe there’s a more direct route?
We have to do it in chronological order. Or else the story won’t make sense.
To whom?
You. Me. Whoever. I can’t tell you about Bess before I tell you about Eddie. I can’t
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