Sutton Read Online Free

stubborn orange freckles leaning against a red 1967 Pontiac GTO. Sutton waves, Donald hurries over. They shake hands. Donald shoves aside several reporters, leads Sutton to the GTO. When Sutton is settled into the passenger seat, Donald slams the door and shoves another reporter, just for fun. He runs around the car, jumps behind the wheel, mashes the gas pedal. Away they go, sending up a wave of wet mud and snow and salt. It sprays the reporter from Newsday . His face, his chest, his shirt, his overcoat. He looks down at his clothes, then up at his colleagues:
    Like I said—a thug.
    Sutton doesn’t speak. Donald lets him not speak. Donald knows. Donald walked out of Attica nine months ago. They both stare at the icy road and the frozen woods and Sutton tries to sort his thoughts. After a few miles he asks if Donald was able to get that thing they discussed on the phone.
    Yes, Willie.
    Is she alive?
    Don’t know. But I found her last known address.
    Donald hands over a white envelope. Sutton holds it like a chalice. His mind starts to go. Back to Brooklyn. Back to Coney Island. Back to 1919. Not yet, he tells himself, not yet. He shuts off his mind, something he’s gotten good at over the years. Too good, one prison shrink told him.
    He slides the envelope into the breast pocket of his new suit. Twenty years since he’s had a breast pocket. It was always his favorite pocket, the one where he kept the good stuff. Engagement rings, enameled cigarette cases, leather billfolds from Abercrombie. Guns.
    Donald asks who she is and why Sutton needs her address.
    I shouldn’t tell you, Donald.
    We got no secrets between us, Willie.
    We’ve got nothing but secrets between us, Donald.
    Yeah. That’s true, Willie.
    Sutton looks at Donald and remembers why Donald was in the joint. A month after Donald lost his job on a fishing boat, two weeks after Donald’s wife left him, a man in a bar said Donald looked beat. Donald, thinking the man was insulting him, threw a punch, and the man made the mistake of returning fire. Donald, a former college wrestler, put the man in a chokehold, broke his neck.
    Sutton turns on the radio. He looks for news, can’t find any. He leaves it on a music station. The music is moody, sprightly—different.
    What is this, Donald?
    The Beatles.
    So this is the Beatles.
    They say nothing for miles. They listen to Lennon. The lyrics remind Sutton of Ezra Pound. He pats the shopping bag on his lap.
    Donald downshifts the GTO, turns to Willie. Does the name in the envelope have anything at all to do with—you know who?
    Sutton looks at Donald. Who?
    You know. Schuster?
    No. Of course not. Jesus, Donald, what makes you ask that?
    I don’t know. Just a feeling.
    No, Donald. No.
    Sutton puts a hand in his breast pocket. Thinks. Well, he says, I guess maybe it does—in a roundabout way. All roads eventually lead to Schuster, right, Donald?
    Donald nods. Drives. You look good, Willie Boy.
    They say I’m dying.
    Bullshit. You’ll never fuckin die.
    Yeah. Right.
    You couldn’t die if you wanted to.
    Hm. You have no idea how true that is.
    Donald lights two cigarettes, hands one to Sutton. How about a drink? Do you have time before your flight?
    What an interesting idea. A ball of Jameson, as my Daddo used to say.
    Donald pulls off the highway and parks outside a low-down roadhouse. Sprigs of holly and Christmas lights strung over the bar. Sutton hasn’t seen Christmas lights since his beloved Dodgers were in Brooklyn. He hasn’t seen any lights other than the prison’s eye-scalding fluorescents and the bare sixty-watt bulb in his cell.
    Look, Donald. Lights . You know you’ve been in hell when a string of colored bulbs over a crummy bar looks more beautiful than Luna Park.
    Donald jerks his head toward the bartender, a young blond girl wearing a tight paisley blouse and a miniskirt. Speaking of beautiful, Donald says.
    Sutton stares. They didn’t have miniskirts when I went away, he says quietly,