Sutton: A Novel Part 29

No.

They get stiff. Their necks arch. Foam gushes out their mouths.

How do you know all this, Marcus?

I tried it on some cats in my neighborhood.

From what I read, Mr. Sutton, it was with Marcus that you started using costumes? And makeup?

Yeah.

And apparently you had some kind of patter? To entertain the bank employees? Jokes? Poems? One employee told the FBI that being robbed by you was like being at a movie. Except the usher is holding a gun on you the whole time.

If we kept the employees happy, they were easier to control. Unhappy people are much harder to control. Ask any politician.

But you always used a gun?

Sure.

Loaded?

What good's an unloaded gun?

Willie rents a five-room apartment on Riverside Drive. He has no furniture. He doesn't want any. After prison, after the flop, he just wants s.p.a.ce. And peace. He likes the apartment well enough, but it doesn't feel like home until he learns that John D. Rockefeller Jr. lives in the same building.

As spring turns to summer Willie begins to form a grand plan. He's going to ama.s.s enough money to find Bess and persuade her to run off with him. Ireland, he thinks. Maybe Scotland. He pa.s.ses several pleasant evenings in the library, reading about remote coastal islands, where hermits used to hide from invading Romans and Vikings. No one will ever find him and Bess there. They'll live in a thatch-roofed cottage on a gra.s.sy hillside with a dozen chickens and a few sheep and a sweeping view of the sea. Bess's kid will be better off with Willie than that bruiser she's married to. And if the bruiser and Bess's father do appear, and try to make trouble, Willie will have more than enough jack to outbid them for crooked cops, judges, customs officials.

Willie sits on the floor of his new apartment, mentally totting up the money he's got in buried jars. At least half a million. The grand plan doesn't seem all that far-fetched.

Marcus also takes a new apartment. Park Avenue. He buys a sleek new desk, a new Underwood, a box of new typewriter ribbons. The words are flowing again, he tells Willie. Everything's coming up roses.

A phrase I try to avoid, Willie mutters.

Marcus invites Willie to his new digs for a celebratory dinner. Willie brings a ba.s.sinet for the baby, a box of candy for Dahlia. Thanks, she says, downcast.

You okay, Dahlia?

She mumbles something about morning sickness.

Willie wonders how much Dahlia knows about his work with Marcus. He's always a.s.sumed that Marcus had enough sense not to tell her anything. But now he realizes that he doesn't know Marcus. And he sure as h.e.l.l doesn't know Dahlia-who's giving him a bad feeling.

Marcus claps his hands, says he's been saving a bottle of top-notch bootleg gin for a special occasion. He's going to whip up a batch of martinis. He just needs some olives. He runs down to the market.

Dahlia tells Willie to sit, make himself comfortable. Pulling out a chair at the kitchen table, Willie lights a Chesterfield, gazes at Dahlia. She stands at the kitchen window, watching the traffic down below, distractedly rubbing her stomach. Willie thinks of Bess.

All at once Dahlia starts to cry.

Dahlia, honey. What's wrong?

I know, Willie.

Know what?

I know.

She turns from the window. About Marcus, she says.

Ah f.u.c.k, he thinks. What about Marcus? he says.

Tears roll down her cheeks, undulating over her moles. Please, Willie. When a girl looks like me, she can't afford to be stupid.

Willie says nothing. For the moment silence is the smartest play he can think of.

You're going to pretend you don't know, Dahlia says, sobbing. That Marcus, that Marcus, that Marcus is seeing someone.

Willie sighs with relief. Ah Dahlia, that's ridiculous.

Then why is Marcus, a dyed-in-the-wool mope, all of a sudden so confident?

Willie thinks back. He's lectured Marcus many times at the Automat about confidence. Whatever you do, do it from your nuts. Apparently Willie has created a monster.

Dahlia, he says, I'm sure Marcus is acting confident because he's writing again. He told me so himself. The words are flowing. He's not having an affair. Marcus loves you. He's thrilled about being a new father. He's just feeling-good. About his life. His work. You.

Dahlia wipes her eyes, looks at her belly. Really?

Yeah. Sure.

I want to believe you.

You can, you can. I never lie about love. I never even kid about it. It's much too important.

She laughs through her tears. All right, Willie. All right. Thanks. Hearing that makes me feel better.

He goes to her, puts his hands on her shoulders. He gives her his new phone number, tells her to call him if she has any troubles or doubts. Day or night.

Marcus returns. He mixes the martinis and Willie drinks two. Then Dahlia serves the dinner. Roast pork. Dry, burnt. Willie's glad when it's time to go. He wants a gla.s.s of bicarbonate and his bed. He tells Marcus to walk him out, he needs a word.

At the corner he asks Marcus how much Dahlia knows about their work. Marcus looks hangdog.

Christ, Marcus. Everything?

She's my wife, Willie.

Willie nods. Then tells Marcus about his conversation with Dahlia.

She thinks you're cheating, Marcus. So you need to be better to her. Pay more attention to her. Especially since she knows everything about our-thing. You mustn't give her any reason to seek revenge.

I am.

You are what?

Cheating on her.

Willie covers his eyes. Holy Mother of G.o.d.

I've met the love of my life, Willie. She's from St. Louis. A true midwestern gal. Wholesome. But kind of naughty too. She likes me to spank her. Can you imagine, Willie? Spank her. She had a falling-out with her family, I guess, and she moved to the East Coast, and she was selling dances to stay afloat. Until she met me.

Willie takes off his fedora, wipes his brow.

The things she says in bed, Willie, you can't imagine. She's from the Soulard neighborhood. That's one of the oldest parts of St. Louis.

Has Marcus lost his mind? Lighting a cigarette, taking the deepest possible drag, Willie stares at the tip. It looks brighter than normal, like a drop of blood.

We met at Roseland, Marcus is saying. I'll never forget our first dance. I'm Good For Nothing But Love.

Again, stunningly irrelevant information. Willie and Marcus keep walking, and Marcus keeps talking. They stop under a streetlight on Seventy-Ninth. Willie feels as if he can't take one more step. He reaches into his breast pocket, fondles the strychnine. This is all very bad news, Marcus.

Relax, Willie, I've got it under control.

Sure you do. Sure. Control. Look, Marcus, I don't care who you love, or who you bed, but Dahlia must be kept happy, do you understand? Dahlia's happiness comes first. Dahlia's happiness is essential to our happiness. My happiness.

Marcus nods.

Keep your taxi dancer well out of sight, Willie says.

Millicent.

What?

Her name's Millicent. I can't wait for you to meet her.

Willie glares, flicks his cigarette into the gutter, walks off.

Days later Willie gets a call. Dahlia. She's hyperventilating. She found a batch of letters written on Marcus's new Underwood.

Letters? To who?

Marcus's wh.o.r.e.

If they're to her, how did you find them?

They're carbons.

Willie puts his palm over his mouth. Carbons.

Willie, you said you never lie about love. But you did. You lied. You and Marcus both need to be in jail.

Jail? Dahlia, honey, what're you saying? You're jumping to conclusions. Let's talk this over. I can explain.

So explain.

Not on the phone. Meet me at the Childs restaurant in the Ansonia. Believe me, things are not what they seem. One hour. Childs. Please?

She hangs up without answering.

He arrives early. Dahlia is already there. She's sitting at a small table in the back, next to the kitchen, wearing a dreadful dress and a felt skullcap that looks like a leather football helmet. Willie kisses her on the cheek, drops his hat on the table. He orders a slice of pie and a cup of coffee for each of them, sits directly across from her.

How you feeling, Dahlia?

Baby's kicking like crazy this morning. Like he's trying to get out.

Know just how he feels, Willie thinks. Now, Dahlia, he says, those letters.

The waitress brings their pie and coffee. He waits for her to go away.

Yes? Dahlia says.

It's so simple, Dahlia. The novel, Dahlia. Marcus's novel.

The novel.

Sure. Those letters are from Marcus's novel. Obviously it's a novel in the form of letters. They call it an epistolary novel.

Oh please.

Sure, sure, those letters are nothing more than pa.s.sages from a work in progress. It's laughable, really. I can understand why you thought- But he signed them, Willie. With his own name.

Well, fine, Marcus has probably taken some true incidents from his romantic past, old affairs and so forth, and twisted them into a mix of fact and fiction. Writers do it all the time.

You're saying there's no taxi dancer named Millicent? From Soulard?

Willie eats a forkful of pie. Of course there's a Millicent, he says. But she doesn't come from Soulard. She comes from the fevered mind of Marcus Ba.s.sett. Your husband. Father of your unborn child.

He goes on at length about Marcus's literary aspirations, about how much words and books mean to Marcus, to both of them. He talks about b.u.mping into Marcus on the steps of the library, about how they both took refuge there in bad times. The more credible he sounds, the more despicable he feels. He was telling the truth the other night when he said that he never lies about love. He feels something in his throat, his gut, something he hasn't felt in a long time. Conscience, remorse, guilt, he doesn't have a word for it.

You swear, Dahlia says. You swear to me that those letters are fiction.

I swear.

Because if you're lying-a second time-after swearing you never would-I'd actually enjoy turning you in.

Turning me-what are you saying, Dahlia?

I know what you and Marcus have been up to.

Honey, please, keep your voice down.

Your-spree!