Sutton Read Online Free PDF Page B

tell you about Mrs. Adams before I tell you about Bess.
    Who?
    See what I mean?
    Right. No. But, Mr. Sutton, I just don’t know if we’ll have time for all of this.
    It’s all of this or none of this.
    Reporter laughs, but it sounds like a sob. The thing is, Mr. Sutton, your lawyer. Made a deal with my newspaper.
    That was her deal. This is Willie’s deal.
    Reporter takes a sip of coffee. Sutton watches him hunch deep into his fur-collared trench coat, thinking out his next move. Fear and anxiety are written in big crayoned letters across the pink-and-white face.
    Take it easy kid. We don’t have to get out of the car at each stop and have a picnic. Some of them we can just cruise by. So Willie can eyeball the place. Get the lay of the land.
    But my editors, Mr. Sutton. My editors make the rules and—
    Sutton grunts. Not for me they don’t. Look, kid, this isn’t a negotiation. If my map doesn’t work for you, no sweat, we’ll just go our separate ways. I’m more than happy to stay in this nice room, read a book, order a club sandwich.
    Checkout is at noon.
    I checked out early from three escape-proof prisons, I think I can figure out how to swing a late check-out at one cream puff hotel.
    But—
    Maybe I’ll even make a few phone calls. Is the Times listed?
    Reporter takes another sip of coffee, blanches as if it’s straight scotch. Mr. Sutton, it’s just that this, your map , appears to be more story than we can accommodate.
    Why not wait to hear the story before you say that?
    Also, if we could just go to certain places first. Like the scene of Arnold Schuster’s murder.
    Sure, and once you’ve got me at the Schuster scene, you don’t need me anymore, and then I don’t get my ride to all the other places. I know how you newspaper guys operate.
    Mr. Sutton, I wouldn’t do that, you can trust me.
    Trust you? Kid don’t make me laugh. It hurts my leg when I laugh. Schuster comes last. End of story. Are you in or out?
    But Mr. Sutton—
    In or out kid.
    Sutton’s voice is suddenly an octave deeper. With a serrated edge. The change stuns Reporter, who puts a finger on the dimple in his chin and presses several times, as if it’s an emergency button.
    Sutton takes a hard step toward Reporter. He concentrates on assuming an at-ease posture while also conveying an air of total control. He used to do this with bank managers. Especially the ones who claimed not to remember the combination to the safe.
    You seem smart for a cub, kid, so let’s not bullshit each other. Let’s put our cards on the table. We both know you only want a story. Sure, it’s an important story for you, your career, your newspaper, whatever, but it’s still just a story. Next week you’ll be on to the next story and next month you won’t even remember Willie. What I’m after is my story, the only story that counts with me. Think about it. I’m free. Free —for the first time in seventeen years. Naturally I want to go back, retrace my steps, see where it all went sideways, and I need to do it my way, which is the only way I know how to do things. And I need to do it right now, kid, because I don’t know how much time I’ve got left. My leg, which is thoroughly rat-fucked, tells me not much. You can be my wheelman or not. It’s your call. But you need to decide. Now.
    I won’t be your wheelman.
    Fine. No hard feelings.
    We’re meeting a shooter. He’ll be driving.
    A what?
    A photog. Sorry—photographer. In fact he’s probably downstairs by now.
    So you’re in?
    You give me no choice, Mr. Sutton.
    Say it.
    Say what?
    Say you’re in.
    Why?
    In the old days, before I’d go on a job with a guy, I always needed to hear him say he was in. So there’d be no misunderstandings later.
    Reporter takes a gulp of coffee. Mr. Sutton, is this really—
    Say it.
    I’m in, I’m in.
    Sutton steps on the elevator, cursing under his breath. Why did he stay up all night? Why did he drink all that whiskey with Donald? And all that