On New Year's Eve, 1947, Willie and Rat sit together, listening to the radio. A new song. What Are You Doing New Year's Eve? Margaret Whiting is wondering, asking repeatedly whom Willie will be kissing at the stroke of midnight. f.u.c.k her. Willie tunes in the news. A snowstorm hammers the Northeast-nearly one hundred people are dead. A verdict comes down in the first Auschwitz trial-twenty-three people are set to be hanged. Ancient Bible scrolls are found in a cave-somewhere near the Dead Sea. Willie turns down the volume.

Listen kid. On your next trip to the city, I need you to get me something.

Sure thing, Willie.

I need a gun kid.

He says it casually, as if he wants an extra pinch of salt on his Salisbury steak. Rat reacts just as casually. He puckers his lips. Nods.

Some saws too.

Another nod.

Willie drops his voice. And when the time's right I'm going to need to know if there are any ladders around this joint.

Rat gives a microscopic nod. Slow-motion cameras wouldn't detect it.

Days later, delivering Willie's mail, Rat hands him a small package. Wrapped in tight plastic. Covered in paint. Because it was smuggled in a paint can.

Cookies from home, Willie. Make sure they stay fresh.

Willie has no home. He stuffs the package under his mattress. Between bed checks he rips off the plastic.

A loaded .38.

And two shiny new hacksaws.

Photographer stops at Forty-Third, points. There it is, Willie.

Sutton wipes the fog from the window to his left. Now that's what I call a bank, he says.

It's a giant gla.s.s box. In the center is a ma.s.sive safe, round, seven feet tall, with a door nearly two feet thick. It looks like the kind of safe in which the formula for the atomic bomb might be kept. Photographer does a U-turn, double-parks, slaps the PRESS card on the dash. He turns to Willie.

City Desk says this bank was built because of you, brother.

How so?

Apparently you'd just knocked off some Manufacturers Trust? In 1950?

Allegedly.

And Manufacturers Trust wanted to rea.s.sure jittery customers.

Reasonable.

So they built this completely transparent branch. The idea was, customers could always see if Willie Sutton was there. Ergo, Willie Sutton would never be there.

I'll be a son of a b.i.t.c.h.

The world's first Sutton-proof bank. City Desk wants a shot of you in front of it, beaming at it, like you built it.

Apparently I did.

Sutton steps from the car, limps up to the bank. He puts both palms against the gla.s.s. Photographer fires off a dozen shots. A little to the left, Willie. Good, good. Okay, that's enough. We're all set.

Take a few more, Sutton says. I'll use them for my Christmas cards next year.

Photographer laughs, fires off a few more.

Sutton laughs and laughs, still doesn't move, doesn't take his palms from the gla.s.s. Reporter comes forward. Mr. Sutton?

They went to all this trouble kid.

Who?

They. Because of me. A punk from Irish Town. They went to all this effort.

It is-impressive.

My legacy.

Sutton stands back, tilts his head. He considers the safe from different angles. Puts on his gla.s.ses. Strokes his chin. Huh, he says. How do you like that? It's a Mosler.

How can you tell?

How can the doctor tell your tonsils need to come out?

He takes another step back, looks up and down the street. You know something kid?

What?

A good crew, a pot of black coffee, a lookout I can trust-I could still take down this f.u.c.kin bank.

Willie peers through his cell window. Snow. The storm he's been waiting for. February 10, 1947. Why is it always February, this sawed-off month, this Hughie McLoon of months, when all the big things in his life go down?

At lunchtime the cell door clatters open. Here's that book you wanted, Willie.

Thanks kid. How's tricks?

Can't complain and if I did who'd listen?

I would kid. I would.

Willie drops his voice: Pa.s.s the word to Freddie. Tonight.

Rat nods. Then lingers. Not staying exactly, not leaving. He brushes away his forelock, out of his eye, takes a step forward.

I'll miss you, Willie. A lot.

Willie looks down, clenches his teeth, curses himself for not catching the signs. While he's been working Rat, Rat has been working him. And now, if Willie doesn't handle this moment just right, the kid will go straight to the warden. Once a rat. Willie looks up. Yeah. Uh. I'll miss you too kid.

Rat takes another step. I love you, Willie.

Oh. Yeah. I love you too kid.

Willie embraces Rat in a fatherly way, but Rat isn't having that. Taking Willie's face between his palms, Rat pulls him closer. Kisses him. Willie tells himself not to pull away, not to cringe. It's either kiss Rat back or spend the rest of his life here in this cell. He has to do more than endure this, he has to act as if he likes it. No. He has to like it. When he feels Rat's tongue, he touches it lightly with his, pushes his own tongue deep into Rat's mouth. Rat moans, runs his fingers through Willie's hair, and Willie lets him, then does the same to Rat.

Rat tries for more. Willie wheels. Ah kid, he says. Please. Go. Before I don't let you go.

He waits. He hears Rat's labored breathing. He hears Rat's labored thinking. At last he hears the cell door clatter shut.

Heart pounding, Willie lies on his bunk. Our best performances in life, he tells the wall, are delivered with no audience.

He lies there all afternoon. He doesn't touch his food. Doesn't read, doesn't write. After the midnight inspection he counts to nine hundred, slides the .38 from under his mattress, into his waistband, and crawls to the door. He kicks out the loose bar, wriggles through the hole. He runs down the tier and finds Freddie doing the same. Freddie leaps at Willie, hugs him, thanks him for hatching this plan. They creep back to the main door of the cellblock, crouch behind it.

Willie hands the gun to Freddie.

At the stroke of midnight they hear two voices on the other side of the door. Keys tinkling. This is it, Freddie whispers.

The door swings toward them. They lunge. The guards are quicker than Willie expected. They nearly manage to pull the door back. But Freddie hits the opening like a fullback crossing the goal line. With all his anger, all his muscle, he whams through, grabs the first guard by the throat, knocks him to the ground and shoves the .38 into his mouth.

The guards at the command center, six feet away, leap for the rack that holds their shotguns.

Willie barks: One f.u.c.kin move and your buddy's dead.

They freeze.

Willie orders them to take off their clothes. They undo their belts, drop their pants. Keep going, he says. When they're down to only their underpants, they lie on their sides. Willie hog-ties them.

Now Willie puts on one of the guard's uniforms, slips the master key off the hip of the guard captain, runs down to D Block. Kliney and Akins let out a cheer. Willie unlocks their cells, leads them back to the command center. Freddie and Kliney and Akins all put on guard uniforms. Frantic, the four rumble down to the cellar.

The ladder is right where Rat said it would be. Each man grabs a rung and like four firemen they burst through the cellar door, into the yard.

The snow is still falling. Heavy flakes the size of index cards. Willie sets the ladder against the wall and Freddie scrambles up first. The beam of a searchlight swings wildly back and forth across the snow.

You there! Stop!

Willie hears boots stomping, guards scattering in the towers above. One guard squeezes off a round. Bullets cut up the snow, splinter the ladder. Two rungs blow away like dust.

Willie yells to the tower. Hold your fire-can't you see we're guards?

The guards peer down. They see the uniforms but can't make out the faces. The snow is too heavy and the snowflakes are reflecting the searchlights. In that one moment of indecision Willie and Akins dash up the ladder and do a swan dive from the top of the wall. This is why Willie waited for the biggest snowstorm of the year: not only do the snowflakes provide cover, the deep snowdrift at the bottom of the wall makes for a soft landing.

Kliney is last. He's at the top of the wall. The guards blast away. Jump, Kliney! He lets go, free-falls, lands headfirst. Willie and Akins try to pull him out of the snow but he won't move. He's hurt, Freddie says.

I think I broke my f.u.c.kin neck, Kliney moans.

So long as it's not your legs, Willie says, dragging him to his feet.

They run. Holmesburg is surrounded by open land, parks. Willie feels strong. He feels every push-up and sit-up of the last few months. He gulps the crisp air-he's free, which gives him even more strength, a second burst. They cross train tracks, come to a stream, splash across, tearing off the guard uniforms. Their prison uniforms underneath aren't too conspicuous. Black pants, blue work shirts. At least they're not wearing grays or stripes. As they come to the main road the prison siren starts to wail.

Willie looks up and down the road. No cars.

They jog half a mile. Still no cars.

They have a minute left, maybe two, before the guards and dogs are on them. Why are there no f.u.c.kin cars?

Freddie points. Headlights.

Some kind of truck, Kliney says, kneading his neck.

Willie stands in the road, waving his arms. The driver of the truck forgets he's near a prison and stops. Freddie reminds him. He jams the .38 under the driver's chin.

They all leap into the truck. The driver is sobbing. Don't hurt me, please don't hurt me.

Drive, Freddie says.

Where?

Drive, you mutt.

The driver hits the gas. Willie hears a loud clanking and jingling. He looks around. It's a milk truck. His burst of strength is suddenly gone. He remembers he hasn't eaten all day. He's so weak, he can barely turn the cap on a bottle. He takes a long drink, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, pa.s.ses the bottle to Kliney, opens another. He samples a b.u.t.termilk, a cream, a skim. The finest wines, the rarest champagnes have never tasted this good. He closes his eyes. Thank you again, G.o.d. You must be pulling for me-you must. Why else would you keep sending me these gifts, blessings, every time I crash out?

For the rest of Willie's life the taste of milk will bring back memories of this moment. The milk running down his chin, the snow-packed roads, the drifting snowflakes. And all the memories will be bathed in radiant white. The color of innocence.

Reporter checks his watch. We should go, he says.

They get back in the car, quickly, as if the bank alarm is going off, and peel away.

After the tunnel didn't work out, Mr. Sutton, I'm amazed that you were able to work up the will to attempt another escape. Not to mention that officials at Holmesburg must have been keeping a close eye on you. It seems impossible.

It was.

So how did you manage it?

The main reason no one escapes from prison is they think they can't. They're told they can't, every day, by the guards and the warden and their fellow prisoners. And by all the outward signs-the bars and walls. Step One in every escape is believing you can do it.

And Step Two?

There was this pip-squeak trusty rat. I worked him, charmed him, got him to sneak me a gun and some saws.

Like Egan.

Yes and no.

Someone tell me where I'm going, Photographer says.

Staten Island Ferry Terminal, Sutton says.