“He’s not going to steal anything.” Piper snorts. “Being a passman is the best convict job on the whole island. Why would he risk losing a job like that?”
I shake my head. “Why would you break the law and get yourself locked up for life? You think these guys are logical?”
Piper puffs up her chest. “Cons won’t mess with the warden. They wouldn’t dare.”
“So what then . . . your mom’s going to hand her baby over to a one-armed felon? Hands up.” I pretend to aim a pistol. “I have a loaded diaper right here.”
Piper laughs. I like the sound of her laugh. I can’t help it, I do.
“Rock-a-bye baby, in the cell house up top,” I sing. “When the wind blows the cradle will rock. When the cons make a break, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, handcuffs and all.”
I pretend to carry a tray with one hand, the other arm tucked behind my back. “Where’s Willy One Arm’s other arm? Think about that after he serves you your supper.”
Now Piper is doubled over laughing.
I strum an imaginary guitar and sing, “Where, oh where, do the stray arms go? Where oh where—”
“Moose, stop it, okay? We have to talk,” Annie barks.
“Uh-oh. She’s serious.” Piper mimics Annie, waggling her head.
Annie glares at Piper, then her eyes find me.
“Oh by all means talk, then,” Piper says, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
“We don’t need to talk,” I tell Annie.
Annie glowers at me. “Yes, we do.”
Piper’s laugh turns raspy again. “You guys sound like Bea and Darby Trixle when Darby forgot their anniversary. Remember how she locked him out of the apartment and he had to stay in the bachelors’ quarters?”
Annie and I stare at each other, ignoring Piper.
Piper shrugs her shoulders. “Okay, fine, don’t tell me what’s going on, I don’t even care.” She pauses as if she’s waiting for us to fill her in.
Annie and I continue to stare at each other, like we’re in a competition and we lose points if we blink.
Piper flicks at the cement with her skate. “You want to have secrets, go right ahead,” she says as a bullhorn booms across the parade grounds.
“Moose Flanagan! ”
Uh-oh . . . not Trixle again. He’s got Janet with him too. She’s carrying her own bullhorn—a small one, but it works. There’s no separating either of them from their bullhorns. They probably use them at the dinner table. “PLEASE PASS THE POTATOES! ”
I grasp the ball in my glove and run across the parade grounds. “Yes, sir,” I say. Janet has her hair braided so tightly it gives me a headache to look at her. She stands behind her father, holding the bullhorn at the ready. Theresa says whenever they play together and Janet doesn’t like something, she bellows into her bullhorn and her parents come running.
“You have a friend visiting today?” Darby asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“His name?”
“Scout McIlvey.”
Trixle takes out his handkerchief and blows his nose. His jacket is too small. It pulls across his back, making his muscles bulge and his shoulders pinch together. He puts his handkerchief back in his pocket and looks down at his clipboard. “Supposed to be on the one o’clock boat. You understand that you must get a signed permission for the exact boat a visitor is on?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you must meet the boat your visitor is taking?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And keep your visitor with you at all times?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not sure who let him on—”
“What do you mean, sir, who let him on? He’s here now?” I ask.
“Not now. No. Without the correct paperwork, I had to send him on his way.”
“You sent him away?”
Janet can’t cover her smile now. It’s popping off her face. She lives for stuff like this.
“He’s not supposed to be on the ten o’clock. What did I just explain to you?”
“Mr. Trixle, please . . . Scout was here and now he’s gone?”
He nods his pin head. “Without the correct John Hancock I had no choice but to—”
I’m practically flying down the switchback, my feet barely making contact with the road. But I don’t need to get too far before I see the Coxe, our ferry, on its way back to San Francisco.
The boat was in the dock for twenty whole minutes before it headed out again. Trixle had waited until they weighed anchor to come find me. Of course he did.
4.
MURDERERS AND MADMEN
Same day—Monday, August 5, 1935
I head for San Francisco on the next boat, but Scout isn’t waiting for me at Fort Mason. I’ll bet Trixle didn’t bother to tell him there’d been a mix-up on the time. I’ll bet he just said Scout didn’t have permission to visit.
Scout doesn’t have a phone, so I have to walk all the way to his house in the Marina. When I find him, he takes out the letter I wrote him with the ferry time on it. In between the one and the colon is a blotch of ink that kind of looks like a zero. He thought it was 10:00 instead of 1:00.
Luckily, Scout can still come. In fact, he’s so excited about getting to see Alcatraz we practically run the whole way to the ferry, but that’s not unusual for Scout. Everything he does is fast. Just being around him I move faster too.
When we get to the island, I grab my gear and we head straight for Annie’s apartment and rap our bats on her door. I’ve told Annie all about Scout and I know she’s dying to play with him. Scout is humming “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” when the door squeaks open. “Annie, Scout’s here. C’mon, let’s go.” I rotate my hand in quick circles.
But Annie’s broad face is set hard. “Can’t,” she says.
“Why not?”
“You know why not,” she whispers, motioning for me to come in.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.” She glowers at me.
I groan. “Scout, just a minute, okay?”
Scout nods his fast nod, and I slip inside Annie’s apartment and gently shut the door. “What?”
She wraps one arm around the other like she’s holding herself in. I wish Annie wouldn’t do this. It’s what Nat does when she’s upset, and I don’t want to think about Natalie right now.
“I can’t play with you until you tell,” Annie announces.
“About the note?”
Annie rolls her eyes. “What do you think, Moose? Of course about the note.”
“For the one hundredth time, Annie, I can’t do that.”
Annie’s arms tighten around herself. “Then I won’t play.”
“What do you mean you won’t play?”
She frowns and shrugs her shoulders, just a little, as if the movement pains her.
“But Annie,” I whisper. “Don’t you see? I can’t wreck everything for Natalie. She’s my sister.”
Annie shakes her head. “Capone’s a gangster. A mob boss. He could kill you. You want to get shot? Jeez, Moose, do I have to explain everything to you?”
“First off, he can’t shoot me. He’s locked up. And in the second place—”
“He doesn’t do it himself, idiot. He has one of his gorillas do it for him.”
“And in the second place,” I steamroller on, “it’s a little late now. I already asked for his help. He already gave it.”
“It’s not too late. You could explain it all. You could explain everything.”
“To the warden?” I snort. “Look Annie, Capone didn’t ask for anything.”
“He will, though. You know he will.”
“And I won’t do it.”
“Yeah, and then what?”
It feels suddenly hot and stuffy in her apartment. “Look, Annie, this isn’t your problem, okay?”
Annie’s blue eyes are extra round, like the pressure inside her head is pushing them out of her skull. “I thought you were like me. I thought you didn’t lik
e to get in trouble either.”
“I am like you. But this is my family, okay? I’m not going to mess this up for Natalie. You wouldn’t either, if you were me.” I hadn’t really decided what I was going to do about all of this, but suddenly this much is clear.
Annie shakes her big square head. “My mom says a school can’t make Natalie normal anyway. My mom says everybody knows that . . . except you.”
“Annie, shut up, okay? Just shut up!” I squeeze out the door and heave the screen closed. I’m looking for a big slamming noise, but all I get is a flimsy, tinny clap.
Scout squints, looking up at me. I take big, fast steps to get us as far away from Annie as possible.
“She won’t play,” I mutter as we head for the stairwell.
Scout hops on one foot, takes off his shoe, and dumps out a trickling of sand. “Can’t imagine she’s any good anyway.”
“Oh she’s good, all right. She could strike you out.”
“Excuse me?” He pokes me in the ribs with his bat. “No girl could strike me out.”
Annie shoves open the door behind us. “This girl could,” she calls after us.
“Then prove it,” Scout shouts back. “Put your glove where your mouth is, sweetheart.”
“It’s Moose’s fault I can’t play. Blame him,” Annie shouts as we round the corner to the stairwell.
Scout snorts. “Dames, they’re all the same. Nothing is ever their fault.”
Upset as I am, I can’t help laughing at this. Scout sounds like somebody’s dad when he talks this way.
“Actually”—Scout smiles a little like he’s proud of himself for getting me out of my mood—“there are three types of girls in the world: lookers, okey-dokeys, and aunties. Lookers are beautiful. Okey-dokeys are not pretty, but not ugly either, and aunties are . . . they’re the other kind. That Annie doll, she’s an auntie.”
Mad as I am at Annie, I can’t let Scout talk this way about her. “Annie’s different. She can play ball, I swear she can.”
“Whatever you say, buddy, but that girl’s an auntie if I ever saw one.”
“Nah, she’s an okey-dokey,” I tell him. Up ahead are the parade grounds. Scout speeds up. I haven’t said that’s where we play, but he already seems to know.
“Auntie.” He drops his bat.
“Okey-dokey.” I toss my ball in the air.
Scout catches it with his bare left hand. We throw the ball back and forth, gloveless left to gloveless left.
“Pop flies,” I call, and Scout throws one up almost as high as the basement on the warden’s house, which sits on the top tier of the island. But I catch it, of course I do.
It’s impossible to stay upset when you’re with Scout.
“How come Annie doesn’t go to school with us?” Scout asks.
“She goes to Catholic school—St. Bridgette’s.”
“Any kid besides Piper live here? Anybody who can play? I thought you said there was another kid? Or you know, a stray murderer or something.” Scout’s eyes light up. “The kind with blood.”
“Everybody has blood, Scout.”
“On their hands, I mean.”
“It’s probably been washed off by now. I don’t think it’s such a good idea to wear blood to court.” I raise my hand like I’m pledging. “I’m not guilty, Your Honor, don’t mind this blood or anything.”
Scout laughs, a little burst that comes out his nose. He throws me a fastball.
“And besides, the blood will get my ball messy,” I call to him.
“And slippery too,” Scout shouts back.
Convict baseballs are collector’s items on Alcatraz. The convicts play baseball in the rec yard, but the way they play, if they hit the ball over the wall, it’s an automatic out, so they’re pretty rare.
“Piper got you a convict baseball, remember? What did you do with it?”
“Put it to good use. Can’t you get me one?” Scout gives me his aw-shucks look. “I mean if a girl could do it . . .”“
I snort. “I actually got you the one Piper gave you. And no, I can’t get you another. Maybe we could meet a con though.”
“That’ll do,” Scout agrees.
“It’s not trash pickup or laundry day, so we can’t run into a con that way,” I say.
“Al Capone ever pick up your trash?”
“Nope, never met the guy.” I know Scout would be impressed if I told him about the notes from Al, but then he’d tell everyone at school. This I don’t need. “There’s a thief and a con man who work in Piper’s house. Let’s go say hello,” I say as if I do this every day.
Scout whistles long and low. “A con man, a thief, and a looker . . . what are we waiting for?”
“Piper’s not a looker,” I snap.
Scout grins out of one side of his mouth. “Don’t get all worked up now, Moose. I just said she was a looker. I didn’t say I was looking, now did I?”
“If you weren’t looking, how’d you know she was a looker?”
“Ahh, Moose.” Scout sighs. “You’re pretty far gone,” he declares as we walk up the switchback into the shadow of the cell house, a cement building big as a football field with three floors of prisoners inside. Scout, normally the fastest walker in the world, begins to slow his pace. “That’s where they keep ’em?” he whispers, pointing to the looming fortress.
“Yep, that’s the cell house.”
Scout looks around like he’s expecting snipers on the rooftops. “And you just walk out here like this?”
“Unless we run.”
Scout doesn’t smile. He’s all business now. “When I meet the con man and the thief, what do I say? I mean, do I shake hands?”
“Don’t shake his stump. I don’t think it’s polite to shake a stump.”
Scout’s eyes dart all around as he leans in to whisper, “Do I need a weapon?”
“Uh-huh, they issue machine guns right at the door,” I tell him.
“Right, Moose,” he says, but even his sarcasm is watered down as we perch on the doorstep of the warden’s twenty-two-room mansion, which stands directly opposite the cell house. Even after living here for six months, the cell house still gives me the creeps. It’s the bars and the sounds I sometimes hear. Hollers, curse words, and metal cups clanking against the bars. The cons aren’t supposed to talk, much less yell, but sometimes all heck breaks loose. That’s when it gets scary. Still, when we face Piper’s house, it feels like we’re on some fancy street in San Francisco.
On Alcatraz, heaven is across from hell.
Scout girds himself up. He stuffs his right hand in his pocket, as if he really does have a weapon in there. He’s ready to draw as I press the doorbell, but it’s only Piper’s pregnant mom who answers.
Mrs. Williams has a round face, eyes the color of worn denim with dark shadows underneath, and the same full lips as Piper. Her pregnant stomach sticks up hard and round like a basketball under her sweater. I try not to look at her belly. It’s difficult not to think about how it got that way.
“Mrs. Williams, this is my friend Scout McIlvey. He goes to school with us.”
“Why, Scout.” Mrs. Williams shakes Scout’s hand. “What a nice surprise.”
A little smile lights up Scout’s eyes.
“Piper, honey, come on down, sweetheart,” Mrs. Williams calls up the grand staircase. Above her head hangs a spectacular chandelier, with a dozen glistening prisms. A ragtime record spins on the gramophone.
Piper’s living room is bigger than our whole apartment. It’s twice as long, twice as wide, and twice as tall too.
By the piano a man dressed in khaki pants, a white button-down shirt, and a narrow black tie holds a feather duster. His hair is short, yellow and tightly curled, and he’s wearing the kind of tortoiseshell spectacles that college professors and good spellers wear.
“Buddy Boy, this is Scout McIlvey.” Mrs. Williams is just as warm with Buddy as she is with Scout. I’m not sure where Piper got her raspy edge, but it doesn’t seem to be from
Mrs. Williams.
Buddy Boy glides across the carpet and offers his hand to Scout, whose eyes dart in my direction. Scout sucks in a big breath and shakes Buddy Boy’s hand with his own trembling one. It’s easier to be sure of myself with Scout here getting nervous for me. I stick out my hand and Buddy Boy shakes it hard and slow. His eyes, magnified behind his glasses, are sharp and gray like stones under water. He smiles at me, then smiles again as if he has a whole lot of smiles and he wants to make sure I see every one.
Piper appears at the top of the grand staircase, her hair pulled back in a ponytail with a large green ribbon.
“Scout.” Piper half skips down the steps. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m glad we finally get to meet,” Buddy Boy says in a low tone. I glance over at him thinking he’s talking to Scout, but he’s not.
“Yes, sir,” I say, hoping Scout doesn’t hear this. I don’t know if you’re supposed to call a convict sir, and I don’t want Scout to see me acting dumb around the cons. I’m the one who’s supposed to know what I’m doing.
“Come to think of it, I believe I’ve met your mother, Scout . . . Mabel McIlvey?” Mrs. Williams asks.
“Yes, ma’am.” Scout moves near Piper and Mrs. Williams.
“She’s in the choir at St. Mark’s, isn’t she?”
“I’ve heard lots of good things about you and your sister, Moose.” Buddy’s voice is low, like a cat purring on the wrong note. The sound electrifies the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Thanks, Mr. . . . um . . . Boy.” I edge toward Scout and Piper and Mrs. Williams.
“I thought so, yes, a beautiful voice. Clear as a bell. You give her my best, you hear?” Mrs. Williams has a polite smile on her tired face. “All right, you kids. I’ve got a million things to do this afternoon. You go on into the kitchen, help yourselves to the brownies, and tell Willy I said you could have more than one. He’s stingy with those brownies,” Mrs. Williams tells Buddy.
“He’s superstitious, Mrs. W. Can’t have the wrong number of brownies left.”
“What nonsense. Talk some sense into him, Buddy, will you?” Mrs. Williams smiles at Buddy, as comfortable with him as if he were her cousin. She walks back into the hall.
Buddy catches my eye. He heads toward the piano with a little jig to his step. He has three toothpicks in his mouth and he’s chomping down on all of them.
Al Capone Shines My Shoes Page 3
