You know how many Shriners I got to make happy for ten grand?

I shudder to think.

Who was your off?

Dutch Schultz.

Reporter coughs. The-Dutch Schultz?

Dutch owned a speak not far from here, Sutton says. They all talk about how ugly Dutch was, but he was no Monk Eastman. To me he looked sort of dapper. Like a British lord. Of course, he had the most horrible little claw hands. And an ugly heart. Dutch invented the gonorrhea rubout.

Eggnog's eyes grow wide. The what?

Dutch would get a bandage infected with gonorrhea and tape it over a guy's eyes. Make him blind. He was one mean SOB, but for some reason he liked me.

Eggnog points. Who this?

Photographer, carrying a brown bag, is running toward them from Forty-Third Street. He reaches them out of breath, hands the bag to Sutton. Little gift for you, Willie. Merry Christmas.

Sutton opens the bag, pulls out a pair of fur-lined handcuffs. Bracelets, he says, laughing.

So you won't feel so quote unquote naked, Photographer says. Try them on.

I'll wait till we get in the car.

So long as I get a shot of you wearing them.

Okay, Sutton says. Sure thing.

Eggnog looks at Photographer. She looks at Reporter, Sutton, the handcuffs. She holds up one finger. Hn, hn, hn, she says, walking away slowly. Willie Sutton into some kinky s.h.i.t.

Willie and Eddie stand outside a back door of the Loews theater in Ozone Park, a cold rainy night. Late.

You ready? Willie says.

Eddie nods.

Willie slides the tension wrench in the keyway, then the hook pick. Just the way Doc taught him. The lock pops. Eddie lugs the torches down the stairs, into the theater bas.e.m.e.nt, along with the hoods and tanks, while Willie grabs the sawhorses.

Beneath the bank lobby they slap together a crude platform. Willie, hooded, climbs on, fires the torch. He trains the violet flame on the ceiling. Right away he knows he's miscalculated. An article in Popular Mechanics said concrete melts like b.u.t.ter under the newest acetylenes, but not this concrete. After two hours he's not halfway through and his arms are killing him. Eddie takes a turn. They trade, back and forth, until finally they've cut a hole big enough for them to wriggle through.

Standing inside the bank at last, they hear the clock tower on top of the enamel factory bonging seven times. The guard will be here in half an hour. There isn't enough time to tackle the safe. Willie presses his palms against the safe door. They've come so far. They're so d.a.m.n close. On the other side of this door lies fifty thousand, maybe seventy-five.

They put on their topcoats and fedoras, walk out into the pouring rain. They leave everything-torch, platform, oxygen tanks. They can't carry all that gear through the streets in the daylight. But it's not a problem. They used gloves. No fingerprints.

For weeks they lie low, reading every word of the newspapers. They can find no mention of a break-in at First National in Ozone Park. Maybe the bank is keeping the story under wraps, Eddie says. Maybe they don't want to scare off customers. Maybe, Willie says, maybe.

Eddie suggests they go out, blow off steam. We need a break, he says.

A ball game, Willie says.

A beautiful new ballpark has just opened in the Bronx. The whole city is talking about it.

Swell idea, Eddie says. You're always thinkin, Sutty.

It's April 24, 1923.

Sutton looks up at the CANADIAN CLUB sign, above the fluttering COCA-COLA sign. He looks at the theater where he used to see silent films. It's now showing a twin bill: Daniel Bone and Davy c.o.c.k It.

He looks at the headlines scrolling around the building to his right. He reads them aloud. POPE CALLS FOR WORLD PEACE IN XMAS Ma.s.s ... Good luck with that ... NIXON TO CUT FUNDING FOR NASA ... Sure, that figures, what's NASA ever done for us? ... TRIAL OF CHICAGO SEVEN RIOTERS WHO DISRUPTED DEMO CONVENTION RECESSES UNTIL MONDAY ... Just delaying the inevitable.

Mr. Sutton, at the risk of being redundant, can we please move on to our next stop? The New York Times is right over there. It's a miracle we haven't been spotted yet.

BANK ROBBER WILLIE THE ACTOR SUTTON FREE AFTER 17 YEARS ... Hey! HEY! That's me! Can you beat that? I'm famous.

You've been famous all your life, Mr. Sutton.

Touche kid.

A Chesterfield dangling from the corner of his mouth, the bag of handcuffs tucked under his arm, Sutton flips up the fur collar of Reporter's trench coat and walks off, a new bounce in his hobbled step.

Where to? Photographer calls after him.

The Bronx, Sutton says.

Oh good, Reporter says. I can just see tomorrow's zipper headline. JOURNALISTS SLAIN IN XMAS MUGGING.

Yankee Stadium is packed. It's a special occasion and every man dresses accordingly-finest suit, sharpest necktie, best boater. Willie has chosen a yellow linen three-piece with a lavender four-in-hand, Eddie a gray tweed with a lime-green tie. Each of them wears a white hat with a wide black band. Eddie's cost four hundred dollars.

They splurge on premium seats, third base side. The guy in the parking lot wants two hundred bucks. Pricey, but what choice do we have, Eddie says. We can't sit with the bleacher bugs.

The seats are three rows from President Warren G. Harding, whose box is draped with red, white and blue. Eddie cranes his neck. He doesn't like Harding, a hypocrite, a connoisseur of women and whiskey despite his wife and Prohibition. He doesn't like that Harding is tight with Rockefeller. Nor does Willie. Before the first pitch Harding tries to shake hands with New York's young star, Babe Ruth. Eddie howls as Harding mugs for the cameras and Ruth pointedly doesn't.

Would you get a load of that, Sutty. Rich as Croesus and Ruth's still a Democrat. Mark me down for a Ruth fan.

A boy in a white paper hat comes down the aisle selling Cracker Jacks. Eddie hails him, buys two boxes, hands one to Willie. Aint this the life, Sutty? Only thing that could make it better-a couple of ice-cold beers. G.o.dd.a.m.n Prohibition. I think I hate the Drys worse than the Dagos.

In the bottom of the fifth Ruth whipsaws a speedball high into the spring sky. For a moment it hovers like a second moon. Then it descends swiftly and lands with a plonk against a right-field seat, near the Edison Cement Sign.

That swing! Eddie says. Mother of G.o.d, Sutty, the violence in that swing.

Willie and Eddie are lifelong fans of the Brooklyn Robins, but they can't deny that this Ruth fella is the genuine article. As Ruth saunters around third base, Willie and Eddie stand and respectfully applaud. They're close enough to see the seams in Ruth's socks, the stains in his flannel jersey, the pores in his nose. Willie can't take his eyes off that nose. It's wider than Willie's, double wide, which makes Willie double fond of Ruth.

The crowd is quieting down, settling back into their seats. Wally Pipp is striding to the plate. Willie feels a hard tap on his shoulder. Leaning over him are two Ruth-size men.

You Sutton?

Sutton who?

This Wilson?

And who might you be?

Come with us.

Where to?

We'll ask the questions, Skeezix.

Look, mister, we paid good money for these seats.

You wouldn't know good money if it bit you on the a.s.s.

Who are you to be saying-?

The men grab Willie by the lapels and lift him out of his seat. They do the same with Eddie. Fans gawk. Photographers kneeling around home plate turn and look to see what the commotion is about. Pipp calls time, watches as the men push Willie and Eddie up the ramp. Holding on to his box of Cracker Jacks, Willie reaches into his pocket, palms Bess's diamond ring, then digs into the Cracker Jacks as if for one more handful-and stuffs the ring deep down in the box.

Just outside Gate 4, before the men throw him into the backseat of their car, Willie tosses the box in the trash.

Sutton stands before Gate 4. They ruined it, he says.

I was going to mention, Reporter says. While you were away, they remodeled.

You say remodeled, I say ruined.

It was old.

It was younger than me.

Photographer shoots the facade, the flags along the upper deck. You know the Yankees aren't playing today, right, Willie?

Sutton gives him a cool stare.

Just checking, Photographer says under his breath. But since every place we visit is totally changed, and since all of New York is totally and completely different on a subatomic level, what's the point of all this driving around?

I'm totally changed too, Sutton says. On a subatomic level. But I'm still me.

Photographer and Sutton look at each other, like strangers on a subway, then look at Reporter.

Every generation, Reporter says, thinks the world used to be a better place.

Every generation is right, Sutton says.

Reporter flips his notebook to a clean page. So, Mr. Sutton, what happened here at the stadium?

This is where Eddie and I got pinched after our first bank robbery. Life was about to change-to end, really. But when the Pinkertons grabbed us here, and drove us downtown, you know what was on Eddie's mind? Ruth. He kept talking about what Ruth would do his next time at bat. The jig was up and Eddie was still thinking about a baseball game.

Didn't cops call you the Babe Ruth of Bank Robbers?

That was later. Jesus was Eddie sore about missing the rest of that game. He kept talking about how much we paid for those seats. The cops at the jailhouse had the game on the radio, and every time the crowd cheered, Eddie would moan. He didn't get it. I guess I didn't either. I was thinking about that ring.

What ring?

I chucked it in the trash right there. It was a miracle those Pinkertons didn't see me do it.

Mr. Sutton-what ring?

A diamond ring. I was going to give it to Bess. If I ever got the chance.

Were you still in touch with her?

Nah, she was married by then.

To whom?

Some rich guy. In case she was ever unmarried again, I wanted to be ready. With a nice big diamond ring. But the ring was from a job I'd pulled with Doc, meaning it was evidence, so I had to ditch it.

Photographer points to the overflowing trash cans. So many garbage strikes since then, he says, maybe it's still here.

Sutton turns his back to Reporter and Photographer, looks into the breast pocket of his suit. The white envelope. He closes his eyes. Over his shoulder he says: Bottom line, I shouldn't have been thinking about rings, or Bess, or anything but my legal situation. Clearly my head was up my a.s.s. I was too c.o.c.ky.

He turns again, faces Reporter. You have a girl?

Yes.

You love her?

Well- That's a no.

Wait- Too late. I'm marking you down for no.

It's not that simple, Mr. Sutton.

It is kid. Life's complicated, love isn't. If you need to think about it for one half second, you're not in love.

She treats him like s.h.i.t, Photographer says. I've been telling him he needs to break it off. He thinks he can't do any better. He has no confidence.

Oh kid, it's all about confidence. That's the whole shebang right there. Whatever you do, do it with your nuts. That's how Ruth swung a bat-with his nuts. Court a girl, rob a bank, brush your teeth, do it with and from your G.o.d-given nuts, or don't do it at all.

Photographer puts his camera inches from Sutton's face, shoots him with Gate 4 in the background. Audacity, audacity, audacity, he says.

Sutton lifts his chin. What?

Che Guevara said that.

Audacity, eh? I like it.

Reporter frowns. But, Mr. Sutton, you just said you had too much audacity here the day you were arrested. You were too c.o.c.ky. Isn't that a contradiction?