Willie the Actor Read online

‘Sutton! We’re gonna make the cocksuckers pay. ‘

  He closed his eyes, the futile, desperate action of a child trying to make the threat go away. But he couldn’t escape the screams and cacophony coming from the corridors of hell outside. He braced himself for the pain, the slam of the lead pipe against his skull, crushing and tearing of bone. He waited. Any moment now. Any con not a part of this frenzied mob was against them. . . that’s how this crazy con would see it. But he knew he could never be a part of this riot. . . never lose his sanity this way. As much as he hated the tough regime, the treatment from the brutal guards and the disgusting, pig-swill food, it just wasn’t in his nature to resort to violence. He would rather die first. He opened his eyes, expecting to catch the bludgeoning swing of the lead pipe before it crushed him. But the convict had disappeared. It had worked. His child-like action had made the monster vanish. . .

  Bill smiled as he remembered this close-call with death, and drew deeply on his cigarette. That July had been his first experience of mob rule. And the last, he hoped. Soldiers had to be brought in to quell the riot. Thankfully, he had managed to keep out of it. And when his review came up before the Parole Board, it counted in his favor.

  As the train got nearer to Manhattan, his mood began to lighten, and he thought about the lights at Times Square, and of all his old haunts, the clubs and dance halls and theatres. Before heading out to Brooklyn, he opted to spend some time aimlessly walking around Manhattan to raise his spirits. But when he emerged from Grand Central, a strange sensation, like a warning sign screeching something unintelligible, hit him right between the eyes. Nothing he could put his finger on, just a strange feeling that something was seriously wrong. No one seemed to be rushing about anymore. Everyone seemed dazed, tired. He seemed to be adrift in a city of sleepwalkers. And he couldn’t work it out. . . this black depression, a dark and somber mood that hung over the city like a threat.

  Beneath an underpass, on a vacant lot, he saw what looked like an army of hoboes camping in a shanty town, warming themselves by scrap wood fires. Then he noticed that many of them were reasonably well dressed. It confused him. Just what the hell was going on? He wanted to stop and ask but was afraid he might offend someone. With some reluctance he continued walking, thinking about what he’d seen. Well-dressed guys huddled round fires trying to keep warm, like a strange army of survivors from a war fought in city suits and collars and ties. Without realizing it, his pace quickened automatically, as if he wanted to distance himself from a scene he found too disturbing, like something out of a weird dream. His heart pounding, his breathing erratic, he hurried along East 33rd Street. In spite of the freezing temperature, he was sweating and his shirt clung to his back. He stopped to rest, leaning against the wall of a building. Gradually his feeling of panic subsided and his breathing became regular again.

  He thought about the city he loved. In particular Manhattan. It no longer seemed so familiar. Manhattan was sleepwalking and had become a stranger, distant and remote. Of course, he expected a few changes after an absence of five years, but this was too strange to take in.

  He examined his own feelings. Maybe it had nothing to do with New York. Perhaps it was him. Ex-convict attempting to crawl back into society on his first day of freedom. Maybe Sing Sing had institutionalized him and he couldn’t adjust. Maybe that was it.

  Suddenly he heard a scream. Piercing in its intensity, it cut through the traffic noise. He turned and saw that further along East 33rd, about a block away, something was happening. A crowd had gathered.

  Sensing that something terrible had happened, his first instinct was to cross the street to avoid it. But, dazed and fearful, his legs moving involuntarily, he was drawn slowly towards the circle. And as he got nearer he saw beneath the feet of the crowd a huge red stain running across the sidewalk and into the gutter. It almost stopped him short, but he felt a compulsion, a burning curiosity, to know what was going on. At the edge of the sidewalk a woman was crouched over a fire hydrant, crying and clutching her stomach. The crowd remained still and silent, stunned by what they had witnessed.

  Bill edged closer, shoulder-to-shoulder with them. He almost gagged when he looked down and spotted the body on the sidewalk. What was once a human being was now only the pitiful and bloody remnants of a carcass, a piece of meat, split open like a flimsy bag. The silence was eventually broken by the awestruck voice of a small man with a drooping moustache.

  ‘For the love of sweet Jesus,’ he said. ‘I was walkin’ here seconds before he hit the sidewalk. I mighta broken his fall. ‘

  Someone giggled. It was a nervous giggle, but the man rounded on the crowd indignantly, as if everyone had laughed.

  ‘It ain’t no laughing matter. Guy’s welcome to end it all, but not if it jeopardizes innocent people walking along the sidewalk minding their own business. ‘

  A foul smell of excrement caught in Bill’s throat as he breathed deeply to steady his nerves. Maybe the guy next to him had shit his pants. He stepped backwards and turned his head away. He saw that the heavy traffic was crawling slowly by as cabbies and drivers slowed down to stare at the accident. A dowdy woman in a headscarf spoke in a high-pitched voice.

  ‘He must have fell at least forty floors. ‘

  The normally loquacious New Yorkers, merely mumbled and grunted an affirmative. A large, heavily built man wearing denims and a grubby windcheater disengaged himself from the crowd. He looked dazed and shocked, unable to make a decision about what he should do next. Bill walked up to him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  The man regarded Bill like he might have been a simpleton.

  ‘Guy threw himself outa the window. Up there, see. Then splat!’

  ‘I don’t mean that,’ said Bill. ‘I mean what’s going on in general? I’ve just seen what looked like a group of realtors or bankers sleeping rough like hoboes. ‘

  The man’s jaw dropped open. He stared at Bill for a moment before speaking.

  ‘You mean you ain’t heard. . . bout the Wall Street crash? Millions of pounds wiped out. Kaput! Made paupers outa rich guys. ‘

  His eyes narrowed as he regarded Bill with growing suspicion.

  ‘Say, where you been? You been stuck in an elevator or something?’ Then his eyes dropped to the suitcase Bill was carrying, and he nodded with a self-satisfied smile as he worked it out. ‘Oh, I get it. . . ‘

  ‘Yeah, well thanks,’ Bill said abruptly and hurried away. He heard the distant wail of a cop car and instinctively walked faster. As he reached the next block, and crossed the street. dodging in and out of the traffic, a cab tooted angrily and he heard the squeal of brakes. He felt as if he was running away, trying to distance himself from Manhattan’s suffering. But there was no escape. Two blocks further on, he saw a long queue of men and women waiting at a temporary soup kitchen. They looked as if they were in a state of shock, as they patiently shuffled along to collect their food. At the back of the queue, a tall, unshaven man stepped out and accosted Bill as he walked by.

  ‘Say, pal, you got any change you can spare?’

  Bill looked into the man’s eyes and saw the resigned expression of someone who has nothing left to lose. He fumbled in his pocket then handed him two dollars.

  ‘Be lucky,’ he said, realizing it sounded trite.

  The man stared down at the bills as if he couldn’t believe it. He’d been expecting a dime, hoping for a quarter maybe, but two dollars! His hand balled into a fist over the money and he shoved it quickly into a trouser pocket. Avoiding Bill’s eye, he said, ‘I’ll stand you a drink someday,’ then returned to his place in the queue.

  ‘I’ll keep you to that,’ Bill told him before hurrying on. He hadn’t much money left now, just about enough to get to Brooklyn. And he was starting to feel insecure about the shoebox that lay buried behind some rhododendron bushes in Prospect Park.

 
At 28th Street he caught the subway to Brooklyn. His parents lived in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, not far from the park. He decided he couldn’t face seeing them right away and would leave it for a few days. He was dreading the embarrassed silences. They would avoid talking about his experience, as though the last five years hadn’t existed. The only reference his mother would make, he guessed, would be to ask if he was able to attend Mass regularly. Another reason he wanted to delay seeing them was because he felt guilty. They were good parents. They had given him a good upbringing and he had brought them nothing but shame. But maybe in a week’s time, things might be different. He could sort himself out. Get a job. Prove to them that he intended to live a decent life.

  As he reached the entrance to Prospect Park, he felt a sudden dryness in the throat and his stomach lurched. Memories of Bessie, the first real love of his life, returned to tease and taunt him. He remembered the idyllic summer nights they had spent in the park, making love in the shadier corners of their own small world. Although it was ten long years ago, he recalled every detail of their affair as if it had happened only yesterday. And that was the first time he had been in trouble with the police. Bessie’s father owned a ship repair yard and she provided Bill with the inside information he needed to steal the firm’s wages by breaking into her father’s office. It had been easy pickings; the easiest ever. It was an old safe that was unlocked with a key. But the most surprising thing of all was the amount of money it contained. They had been expecting a haul running into hundreds of dollars, but. . .

  ‘We’ve hit the jackpot!’ Bill said as he counted the last note. ‘There’s sixteen thousand bucks there. ‘

  Bessie pursed her lips and whistled expertly. ‘I can hardly believe it. ‘

  ‘Me neither,’ said Bill. They were holed up in a small hotel in Albany. Bessie had a cheap wedding ring on her finger and they had checked in as a married couple, using a false name. The money was spread out on the bed and they sat on the edge. Bill rose suddenly, pulled Bessie to her feet and held her close. She could feel his erection through her thin, cotton dress.

  ‘Hey, Mr Sutton,’ she teased. ‘Is it me or the money that arouses you?’

  ‘Both,’ he said.

  She giggled. He shoved the money to one side, and they both fell back onto the bed and tore and tugged at each other’s clothing, frenzied and feverish, giddy from the enormity of the crime they’d pulled off.

  ‘I love you, Bessie,’ Bill panted. ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Bessie tittered.

  ‘I take it that’s a ‘yes’?’ said Bill, as he slid a hand up her stockings to the cool, smoothness of her thighs.

  ‘Oh, Bill honey,’ Bessie moaned. ‘You betcha. ‘

  But their elopement was short-lived. They froze as a fist pounded the door.

  ‘Open up! Police!’

  Bill’s last memory of Bessie, was of her frightened, fearful expression, like a deer startled in a forest. It was the last he saw of her. She was taken away, back to her father, and he spent what he hoped was going to be his wedding night in a police cell. Then Bessie’s father, who couldn’t face the disgrace it would bring on his daughter, decided not to press charges, providing Bill agreed never to see his daughter again. He was twenty one years old, and faced with the prospect of at least a five stretch in the penitentiary, had no alternative but to agree.

  Troubled by memories of Bessie, and wondering if she ever thought of him, Bill walked carefully along the treacherously icy, winding path until he came to the spot where Bessie and he had made love all those years ago, behind a large cluster of mature rhododendrons. Somehow it had seemed a fitting spot to bury the money, because he saw it as a magical, lucky place.

  He glanced around to see if there was anyone about but the park was deserted. It was too cold and too slippery to be out walking. He went quickly behind the cluster of shrubs and bushes, found the small trowel he had buried close to a rhododendron, and began to dig. He dug for ten minutes, until he had made a hole about a foot deep. And there he found the remains of what had once been a shoebox and was now just remnants of soggy cardboard blending with the earth. But the contents of the shoebox, a bundle done up in a waterproof bag, was safe. The string around it had rotted and Bill broke it apart effortlessly. From inside the bag he removed bundles of money, no longer crisp, but at least intact. A little over ten thousand dollars. This would see him all right until he found himself a job, because now he had every intention of going straight.

  That evening Bill wandered the streets on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He needed a place to stay, but each time he approached several smart-looking hotels, he lost his nerve and couldn’t bring himself to check in. He was finding it difficult to adjust to being a free man of some substance. He felt disoriented, as if he was walking in a strange world in which he didn’t yet belong. He crossed Park Avenue into East 63rd Street and stopped when he saw a small hotel, flanked by two enormous apartment buildings. The hotel was thin, like a meager filling between two thick slices of bread, and the discreet sign over the entrance said almost apologetically: The Barnes Hotel. Bill warmed to the place. It was the sort of place one might describe as ‘homely’. He looked down at his rather sorry-looking case, then decided what the hell. At least it contained $10,000. Enough to afford him somewhere far more luxurious than this small hotel. Feeling more confident, and knowing it was just a question of time before he could make the adjustment to a more urbane life-style, he went inside and checked in.

  The look he got from the desk clerk was cursory, though a trifle guarded and suspicious, but he seemed to pass muster. And the room he was given, he was pleased to discover, was comfortable and tastefully furnished. But he had no longer sat down and switched the radio on, when he felt edgy and impatient. Now that he was free, he couldn’t face being cooped up, however pleasant his surroundings were. And he felt suddenly very horny. It was funny, but when he was inside, he’d adapted to a life a celibacy without giving sex a thought. But now he was here on the outside. . .

  He thought about a hooker then decided against it. Apart from the partying with Doc at some brothels, he’d never been with a prostitute. And he didn’t intend to start now. Pouring cold water onto his spicy thoughts, and shifting his mind to what sort of employment he might get, he went out and spent a lot of time walking along Broadway and gazing at the flashing neon signs of Times Square like some out-of-towner. He felt restless and lonely, yet he didn’t feel like making contact with any of his old friends for a while.

  He knew it was going to be difficult getting employment at this time; following the crash, there were thousands of desperate men looking for work. But he was determined, and he figured that if he was going to stand any chance of getting a job, it would have to be some distance away.

  The next day he made a point of getting up early, breakfasted in the hotel’s small dining room, then went out with the intention of buying a brand new automobile. He hadn’t gone far from his hotel when he saw some men standing around outside an apartment block, generating a certain amount of excitement. Another suicide? He didn’t think he could take another corpse. But there was no way he could give it a miss. His natural curiosity just got the better of him. Corpse or not, he had to know what was going on. He went over to see what they were looking at. He pushed through the crowd and right away something told him it was going to be his lucky day. Parked by the sidewalk was a beautiful gleaming Pierce Arrow, the latest model. A dapper man, smartly dressed in a double-breasted pin-stripe suit and a bowler hat, was posed with one foot on the running board, and drawing the crowd’s attention to a handwritten notice placed on the windscreen.

  $100 WILL BUY THIS CAR

  MUST HAVE CASH

  LOST ALL ON THE

  STOCK MARKET

  ‘Come on,’ said the hapless investor, ‘someone’s got to have a hundred
dollars. Brand new she runs into four figures. And this baby’s less than six weeks old. ‘

  Bill was transfixed. This guy was a survivor. So what if he’d lost everything. He’d get by. His demeanor was that of a gentleman pugilist, squaring up to life’s hard knocks, telling it to take a running jump. Surviving would be a challenge.

  ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘Just one hundred bucks buys this little baby. ‘

  He patted the car like a man with lust in his eye pats a floozy’s backside.

  ‘I’m wiped out,’ said someone in the crowd.

  ‘Me too,’ said another.

  Bill quickly counted out $200 in tens, then pushed his way to the front. ‘Like you said,’ he told the man, ‘she’s worth a four figure sum. Take two hundred for her?’

  The man looked confused and hurt at first, as if he thought this was a cruel joke. Then, when he noticed the serious expression on Bill’s face, and more importantly the wad of notes in his hand, the relief in his face was expressed by a wide grin.

  ‘Cash secures this beautiful baby,’ he said. ‘Thank you, sir. She’s all yours. ‘

  He took the notice off the windscreen and the crowd began to drift away.

  After the deal was done, Bill checked out of his hotel and set off for Jamaica, Long Island. Although it was freezing cold, the sun was hard and bright, the sky clear and vivid. As he sped across the East River, the sun glinting on the water, the heady smell of the leather upholstery, and the vibrating rhythm of the engine gave him a pleasant, horny feeling, causing him to smile as he speculated that it was maybe the luxuries of life that stimulate the libido. He felt about as relaxed as any man driving an expensive automobile can feel, like a conquering warrior riding his chariot through a cheering, awestruck crowd. His bargain automobile gave him a positive outlook and he suddenly felt optimistic about finding work.

  As soon he got to Jamaica, he checked into another hotel, then immediately began his search for work. But he soon discovered ex-convicts don’t get another chance. His first interview was at a large plumbing equipment warehouse. The manager was an efficient, no-nonsense guy with a pencil-thin moustache, who had a habit of brushing it with his forefinger every few minutes as if it was his pride and joy. At first the interview seemed to go Bill’s way. The manager seemed satisfied with the answers to his questions and Bill could see he was making a good impression. Until he was asked: