Al Capone Does My Shirts (8 page)

“I’m afraid she . . . there was a bit of a skirmish over a box of buttons and some unfortunate behavior. Your daughter is ten, you said, Mrs. Flanagan?” Mr. Purdy’s watery eyes are suddenly sharply focused on my mom.

“Yes,” my mother says, her white-gloved fingers closed into a tight fist around the handle of her green pocketbook.

“She gets up early?”

“She likes to watch the sun rise,” I say.

Mr. Purdy looks at me, then back at my mom. “As you can see, we are located in Presidio Heights. It’s a fine residential neighborhood, but perhaps not an ideal spot for someone like your daughter . . .” His voice trails off.

My mother waits.

“And though our neighbors are largely encouraging of what we’re trying to do here, we must be cautious about taking children who might strain the relationships we’ve worked so hard to build. Children who are, one might say, overly vocal.”

“She screamed?” my mother asks.

“Yes, she did. For the better part of an hour, I’m afraid. Your daughter’s voice is quite shrill, and coupled with her early-rising habits . . .”

“But you think this is something that”—my mother holds up the folded slip of paper—“Mrs. Kelly can help us with.”

“Indeed I do,” Mr. Purdy says, standing up again. He has his good-bye smile on and he’s looking at his watch.

“And why is this different for boys?” she asks.

“The boys’ cottage is located in the old maids’ quarters, which is farther from the neighbors.” Mr. Purdy sits down again. He sketches a quick map for us. It looks like a bad pirate’s map with
X
’s marked for the treasure.

“Did you take her buttons away?” I ask.

My mom looks at me, then back at Mr. Purdy.

“We can’t have a child who screams like a banshee at five-fifteen in the morning in a neighborhood like this. Now, if you’d like to spend some time working with Mrs. Kelly, there’s a good possibility she can help Natalie bring this problem under control. I can’t promise you, of course, but if Mrs. Kelly feels that Natalie is ready for our program, we’ll consider her application again in May.”

My mother is up now, offering her hand to Mr. Purdy to shake. “Of course, my husband and I appreciate all the help you’ve given us.”

In the waiting room Natalie’s legs are open, the way my mother always tells her not to sit. She is seated on a needlepoint brocade chair and I see by the way her finger is moving that she is counting the stitches in the seat.

We wait until she finishes the last stitch at the bottom, before she starts again with the first stitch at the top. Our timing is perfect. We’ve had a lot of practice at this, my mother and I. I grab the old brown suitcase that says NATALIE FLANAGAN on all six sides and we hustle Natalie out the door. She is walking behind us now, a teenage girl acting as if she’s eight.

 

The next morning seems just like normal, with Natalie watching the sun rise and then asking for lemon cake. And my mom telling her she’s a silly sweet pea and she can’t have it. My mom has the little slip of paper Mr. Purdy gave her taped to the icebox door. Twice now she’s asked my father how early he thinks she should call.

I hurry past the Mattamans’ on the way down to the boat for school. The fog’s in and everything is gray. The foghorns bellow deep low notes. First one end of the island. Then the other.

When I get to the Trixles’, Theresa Mattaman sticks her head out. “Moose! Can I come with you?”

“To school?” I ask. “Don’t you have kindergarten at the Caconis’ apartment?”

Theresa ducks her head back inside. “Janet, I’m sorry. I have to go to school with Moose today!” I hear her yell. Janet is Bea Trixle’s daughter. She is the same age as Theresa, but that is the one and only similarity they have.

“Mommy!” Janet whines. “Theresa’s escaping
again
!”

“Theresa. You can’t go out. I told your mommy I’d look after you, you know that!” I hear Bea Trixle call.

“Uhhh,” Theresa groans. “When is my mom getting back from the hospital? Having a baby couldn’t possibly take this long. Do you think she went shopping?”

“Theresa!” Bea Trixle calls.

“Come get me as soon as you get home!”Theresa hisses, and ducks back inside.

When I get down to the
Frank M. Coxe,
Piper is there waiting for me. I’ve been so caught up with Natalie, I forgot all about Piper’s “project.” I wonder how long before she brings it up.

“Boys first,” she says.

For a second I hesitate, wondering if she has the gangplank booby-trapped.

“You know, Moose, I owe you an apology.” She clatters across the gangplank behind me.

“For what?” I ask, thinking of at least three hundred things she could be apologizing for.

“I shouldn’t have made you meet with my dad. I was just worried about your sister is all. But now that she’s safely off the island . . .”

What do I say to this? She’s got to know Nat’s back. My father told everyone when we didn’t show up for the party at the Officers’ Club, right?

“Oh,” I say.

“Oh? Do you accept my apology or not?”

“I accept your apology.”

“Okay,” Piper says, “and I just wanted to explain something else too. Helping me with the laundry isn’t against the warden’s rules.”

Here it comes. “Oh, really,” I say.

“You bet,” she says.

“All right. Let’s ask your dad if it’s okay,” I say.

“Do you ask permission to put on your underwear every morning?”

“I’m just pointing out.”

“I know exactly what you’re pointing out. But no one here sticks to those stupid rules. You’re the only one, Moose Flanagan.”

I shrug.

“And besides that, you’ll be going back on your word. You told my dad you’d help me. You promised.”

“Why should I help you? You treat me like something stuck to the bottom of your shoe.”

She smiles her most charming smile. “I’ll be nice now.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Well, for a little while, anyway.”

I laugh. It sneaks out the corner of my mouth before I can stop it.

She laughs too. An icy wind blows her hair off her shoulders and bites through my sweater.

“Let’s go inside,” she says.

The boat pitches in the wake of a big ferry. I walk as if I’ve just learned how. Grasping the side of the door, I get myself inside the cabin, where it’s warm and steamy like hot chocolate.

Piper’s cheeks and the tip of her nose are rosy. Her long hair is blown every which way.

The cabin is empty except for two guards and a scrawny little man in a suit. The scrawny man is handcuffed to one of the guards. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

“Oh, that’s Weasel on his way to court,” Piper says.

“What for?”

“Another appeal probably. He’s one of those convicts that knows as much about the law as the lawyers do. They call them jailhouse lawyers. My dad says Weasel could convince the hens they’re better off with a fox in charge. And then persuade the jury it was in the chickens’ best interest to be eaten.

“You know, Annie would never do this if there was even the slightest chance she’d get in trouble for it.” She’s back to her plan now. “You don’t know Annie. And neither would Jimmy. Not if it were
really
against the rules,” Piper says.

I look at Weasel again. “Forget it, Piper.”

“What if I promise to be nice to your sister? Will you then?” she asks.

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

“Well, think fast, because I’m doing it today.”

“You’ll be nice to Natalie, no matter what?”

“Promise swear to God,” she says.

“Never call her names. Never tell your dad stuff about her. Treat her really kind.”

“Double swear to God.” She holds her hand up like someone’s swearing her in.

I stare at her right through her pretty brown eyes. There’s something true in those eyes and something false too. I nod. “All right.”

“You’ll help.”

“I suppose,” I say, careful not to look at Weasel again.

She rubs her hands together. “We’re in business. All you need to do is talk about Alcatraz. Get people in the right mood. You’ll talk up the place, kind of like the warm-up, and I’ll tell a few people, then let the word spread. You must know some Alcatraz stories,” she says as the boat motor grinds beneath our feet.

Inside her notebook she shows me a small sign:

 

 

I groan. “Al Capone?”

“It’s only one little mention.” She flashes her movie star smile.

“Nope. Not doing it.”

She ignores this. We walk off the boat now, just behind Weasel and his guards.

“Follow my lead. Then, when I leave, you take over. That’s all you have to do. Talk. Did the warden say talking was against the rules, Moose Man?”

“Talking about Capone is.”

“Fine. Don’t talk about him, then. . . . He’s not the only convict we have, you know. Jeepers!”

In Miss Bimp’s class, Piper moves into action. She motions me to the back of the room, where history books are stacked waist high and a bunch of kids are copying answers for last night’s homework. My head says don’t follow her, but my feet walk back there.

“It’s been a hard week, don’t you think, Moose?” Piper says to me so loud, she clearly means to be overheard. “Did you see that
shiv?
”

“What’s a shiv?” the girl asks.

“It’s a dagger made of old silverware, or carved out of a pot handle. The cons use them to stab each other or kill
our dads,
” Piper says, though she barely looks at the girl, as if relaying this information is not her aim at all.

“I guess they found it in a library book,” Piper says. “Pages carved out in a knife shape. . . . How did they find it? Do you know, Moose?”

I shrug.

“He knows, he just doesn’t want to tell.” Piper glares at me, then slips away.

“So, what happened?” the girl demands.

“Somebody got stabbed, I guess,” I say.

“What’s the inside of the cell house look like?” the fat kid asks.

“I’ve never been in there,” I say, “but my dad says the cells are like cages. Each one has a toilet, a sink, a bed and a man.”

“What about the electric chair? Anybody seen that?” a girl wants to know.

“We don’t have one,” I answer.

“How about them firing squads?” The fat kid is turned all the way around in his seat.

“This is the United States of America—we don’t have firing squads,” I explain.

“Yeah, that’s not how we knock people off here. We fry ’em. I’ve read all about it. It’s like this . . .” A skinny kid shakes all over to demonstrate.

“What about the metal bracelets . . . you know, handcuffs and whosey whatsits on their legs?”

“I think maybe they just wear them for, you know, special occasions,” I explain. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Piper talking to Del. If he goes for this, everyone else will too.

“So, what happened?” Scout asks.

“With the shiv in the library book?” The girl seems proud of herself for knowing the word now.

“Like I said, somebody sliced up a guy. Maybe killed him.” I have no idea what I’m talking about now. “That’s the thing about the cell house library,” I say, “it’s a high-risk operation.”

“Really?” a girl asks.

“Books are overdue,” I explain, “they lock you up. They have a special cell for it. Overdue library book cell. If it’s more than ten days overdue, they put you in the hole. Solitary confinement.”

“No kidding?” the fat kid asks. I can see him fingering his library book, which I’m guessing is past due.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. I’m starting to enjoy myself. “And you should see what happens when you forget to say please. Bread and water for an entire week. Forget thank you and it’s even worse.”

“Oh, come on!” somebody says.

“Forget to wash your hands before supper, they slap you in leg irons. Prison is a bad place, I’m telling you.”

Scout is biting his lip, trying not to laugh. Most everyone knows I’m kidding, but one girl isn’t too sure.

“On the other hand,” I say, “we have the politest felons in America. They say please, thank you, pardon and excuse me. If you’re going to be robbed or murdered, you really want a polite guy to do it. Somebody who offers you a chair and some milk and cookies first. It’s kind of like being shot by your grand-mother. Who wouldn’t prefer that?”

“You must learn a lot living there,” a skinny girl says. She’s taking in my every word.

“Oh, yeah, on weekends there are special classes the cons teach us . . . you learn how to blow safes, make silencers, steal cars . . . thieves school, we call it. Homework’s tough, though. Ever tried to get a dead body in a rumble seat?”

Everyone laughs. They all know I’m kidding now. Then the bell rings, thank God, because I’m out of stories. I look around and see Del has disappeared. He comes back a few minutes later with his sweater on but nothing but bare skin underneath. He rolls his shirt up and hands it to Piper, who is busy talking to Scout, sign in hand.

When we are all settled in our seats, Miss Bimp starts rattling on about the importance of good posture and how no cultivated lady or gentleman would dream of slumping during oral reports the way certain members of this class are doing. She is just getting warmed up when the notes start appearing.

How about tomorrow?
one pencil-rolled scrap of paper asks.