Al Capone Does My Shirts

  All I can think about is how stupid this is. If the men are that dangerous, why have women and children living on the island? I know my father says that in the event of a break the warden wants the guard corps within walking distance of the cell house. And I know that the Alcatraz apartments are cheap compared to the cost of apartments in San Francisco. Still, it seems like an incredibly stupid idea to me.

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “I have a great deal of respect for your father, and since you’re Cam’s boy, I bet you have a lot to offer. I’m looking forward to getting to know you. But before that can happen, we have to make sure we understand each other.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “We have rules here. Laws you must obey or you could endanger yourself and everyone else on this island. Rule number one: There’s no contact with the convicts. You see them on work detail down at the dock. On occasion they’ll help a family move furniture or paint their quarters.” He pulls open the curtains and there is the cell house. The little hairs on my neck stand up at the sight of it so close.

  “But”—his voice goes low and hard—“they are accompanied by a guard at all times. You may not under any circumstances approach them or speak to them. Women are not to wear bathing suits, shorts or any attire that is anything but completely modest. Undergarments are not to be sent out with the laundry.” He turns to Piper. “Cover your ears, young lady.” He beckons me with his finger.

  I walk up close and he whispers, “Some of these convicts have not seen a woman in ten or fifteen years. You’re old enough to understand what that means, Mr. Flanagan.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, almost running back to my chair.

  “You can never trust a con. Nobody came here for singing too loud in church. Do you know what the word conniving means?”

  “Sneaky, tricky,” I say.

  “That’s right. Remember that, Mr. Flanagan. Conniving men with no sense of right and wrong.”

  Oh, swell!

  “Number two: Do not enter an area that is fenced off.

  “Number three: No visitors unless you’ve made your request in writing one week prior to the visiting day.

  “Number four: Do not speak to any outsiders about what goes on here. Don’t go shooting your mouth off about Al Capone. You say his name and hordes of reporters come crawling out of the woodwork ready to write stories full of foolish lies, dangerous lies. Know anything about Capone, Mr. Flanagan?”

  “He’s a gangster from Chicago. Killed a lot of people on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Al Capone was—some people say is—the most powerful underworld figure in the country. Here on Alcatraz he’s a number like every other con. The point of this prison is to keep these showy criminals out of the limelight. If I find out you’re running your mouth about Capone, I’ll ship you back to where you came from so fast, it will make your head spin.”

  Would you please? I want to say. But then I think about my dad and how hard he’s working so we can stay here.

  The warden’s eyes flicker. He seems to sense his words haven’t had the desired effect. “I know you’re going to want to give that sister of yours a chance at school.”

  “Please, sir, don’t bring her into this,” I say, looking down at the carpet.

  I can feel the heat of his intense blue eyes watching me.

  “Fair enough.” He nods. “Number five: You must walk through the metal detector upon entering and leaving the island. No dogs, cats or pets of any kind. No play guns, ropes, metal pipes or anything that can be used as a weapon. No old hangers or nails or anything made of metal or glass goes out with your trash. These convicts can fashion weapons out of anything.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, the hairs on my arms so keen, I could pick up radio signals with them.

  “Now, my daughter tells me she’s introduced you to the other children here.” He nods to Piper.

  Your daughter hasn’t done boo. Far as I can tell, she’s a bald-faced liar, I want to yell.

  “Is there anything I missed, sweetheart?”

  “The school projects?”

  “Oh, yes. Piper is a straight-A student,” he says, pretending to whisper.

  “Oh, Daddy.” Piper blushes.

  “Her mother and I are so proud. But sometimes keeping track of all the projects she has going is a challenge for her. Annie and Jimmy both go to St. Bridgette’s, so you’ll be the only other Alcatraz child attending Marina School with Piper, and she often needs help carrying her projects and whatnot to school. We were hoping, as a favor to us, you might be willing to help out.”

  Emergency alert! Emergency alert! Moose Flanagan played for a sucker right before his very eyes. “Yes, sir.” My voice squeaks high like a rodent’s. I glance sideways at Piper.

  The warden’s smile is kind. “If you have any problems at all, my door is always open.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s it. Welcome to Alcatraz. You can see yourself out?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” I say.

  “Bye, Moose! See you at school tomorrow.” Piper waves like she is the sweetest girl next door. For a second I almost believe her. That’s how good she is. And then I realize she is the girl next door . . . the girl next door to Al Capone.

  7. Big for Seventh Grade

  Monday, January 7, 1935

  Now I get to walk into a school where I don’t know anyone. Correction. I don’t know anyone except a piece of work named Piper. One enemy, the rest strangers . . . this is not good, for cripe’s sakes, plus it’s midyear, so everybody has made all the friends they want already. No one will need a friend except me.

  Was this how Natalie felt on the way to the Esther P. Marinoff School? Maybe some big ladies will come along and drag me inside kicking and screaming too. Sometimes it seems easier to be Natalie. People force her to do stuff. I have to force myself.

  I try to remember how I would have walked into a new class at home. I guess that’s the problem right there, at home I never would have thought about how to walk into a stupid room. I would have just done it. I take a deep breath and shove open the door.

  Everyone is looking up at the teacher, including Piper. Third row, second seat.

  The teacher is writing on the chalkboard in perfect Palmer method handwriting. I spot an empty seat and I wonder if I can get away with just sitting down like I’ve been here all year. The teacher turns around. She’s got black, black hair and a tight white little face, as if her skin’s a size too small. “And you are?” she asks.

  “Matthew Flanagan. But everybody calls me Moose.”

  “I’m Miss Bimp,” she says, looking at her roll sheet. Her pencil moves down the list. “Excuse me, Mr. Flanagan, but I don’t see your name here. Are you certain you have the right class? Seventh-grade advanced English?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  She squints at me. “Big for seventh grade, aren’t you, Mr. Flanagan?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miss Bimp clears her throat. She puts her hand to her mouth and speaks behind it. “This wouldn’t be your second time round in seventh grade, would it?”

  Piper laughs first, then the whole class busts up.

  My face burns. My ears are like two heaters attached to my head. “No, ma’am,” I say.

  “That’s enough, class. All right, fine, Mr. Flanagan. Take a seat there in the back so you don’t block anyone’s view of the board. This week we’re continuing our unit on oral reports. I’d like you each to write an outline for a two-minute speech. Remember, beginning, middle, end. Keep it short. Moose, have you written outlines before?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  “Excellent.” Her stiff mouth flips up. This is supposed to be a smile. It looks like it hurts.

  “The topic for today’s speech is”—she writes on the board—“ ‘What I Did Over Christmas Vacation.’ I’ll give you fifteen minutes. Then we’ll start right here.” She raps her knuckles on my row. That just figures, doesn’t it?
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  I take out my notebook. It seems like I’ve hardly started scribbling ideas when Miss Bimp booms, “Pens down. Listen up. Scout McIlvey, you’re first!”

  Scout has the kind of hair that grows up instead of down. He has a friendly smile and everything he does, he does quickly. I don’t pay much attention to what he says, but when he walks back to his seat, I see he’s got a baseball glove under his desk. Within seconds, I’ve dipped my pen in my inkwell. Do you play ball? I write.

  The note travels up the row to Scout. Even Piper passes it up with no comment. After Scout reads it, he turns around and smiles at me. Then his head ducks down to write his response.

  South Field, it says when it comes back. After school today. We need players.—Scout. His handwriting is big and wild. It takes up the whole backside.

  I can’t believe my luck! I’m about to write What position do you play when I see Piper walk up the aisle. She waits while Scout moves his books out of her way. Even after Scout’s done moving them, she still waits like he hasn’t moved them far enough, although he clearly has. Scout pushes the last little corner in and she sails past.

  In front of the room, Piper still waits like she’s not going to open her mouth until she has every single person’s eyes on her. She doesn’t have an apron on either, which wouldn’t be strange except every other girl in this class does.

  “I sang a solo for our convicts on Alcatraz. I sang ‘Silent Night’ for Al Capone, Machine Gun Kelly, Roy Gardner and the others. There were tryouts in early December and I was given the only solo spot. We walked around the outside of the cell house caroling, so I didn’t actually see Capone this time, but I’m almost sure I heard him call out, ‘Sweet as a songbird.’ ”

  “No kidding,” a fat kid says. “The Al Capone?”

  Piper nods. “The very same.”

  “How do you know it was him?”

  “I recognized his voice.”

  “You gotta be kidding,” another kid mutters.

  “Moose Flanagan lives on Alcatraz too.” Piper smiles at me like we are best friends. “Maybe he can tell you more.”

  What the heck was that? Take the little policewoman off Alcatraz and she runs her mouth like crazy. Capone this. Capone that. Exactly what the warden said never to do. And now if I don’t talk about Alcatraz, I’ll look like a chump. And if I do, she’ll tell Daddy on me. Score one for Daddy’s little miss.

  The girl who comes after Piper is up front now, but everybody is so busy talking, no one notices. Miss Bimp raps her pointer stick so hard, she practically breaks it before people settle down.

  The girl’s turn goes lickety-split and so does the next guy’s. I’m up now. I look out at the strange faces. My arms feel too long. I try crossing them, putting my hands in my pockets, holding one arm with the other. My pants are too tight in the waist and in the crotch too. How come I never noticed this before?

  “My dad is the electrician on Alcatraz. I moved there, I mean here, from Santa Monica and the most exciting thing that happened to me this vacation was my mom didn’t feel like cooking because our pans were still packed, so my dad brought home a plate of roast chicken, potatoes and cooked carrots . . .” I pause a minute. This wasn’t what I wrote in my outline. I’m going free-form now. “ . . . from the cell house kitchen. It was cooked by a kidnapper, a two-time murderer and a postal robber too!”

  “Wow!” somebody says. “Were you scared?”

  “No.” I make a scoffing noise like this is the silliest thing I ever heard. The truth is I was terrified. For the first time in my whole life I skipped supper. Told my parents I had a stomachache, which has never stopped me from eating before.

  “He could have been killed,” Piper says in a stage voice. She’s shaking her head as if it’s a wonder I’m here to tell this story.

  “They tried to poison you?” a girl with chipmunk cheeks asks.

  “No, but they could have.”

  “Any of us could be poisoned at any time,” Piper agrees.

  “Is that all, Mr. Flanagan?” Miss Bimp cuts in, tapping her pencil on the desk.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  When I get back to my seat, I trip on a girl’s foot and knock my inkwell over. Ink seeps through a crack and drips on my leg. I spend the rest of class trying to clean it up.

  After the bell rings, I catch up with Piper in the hall outside. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about Alcatraz,” I say.

  “Why did you, then?” Piper asks, shifting her books to her other arm.

  I open my mouth to answer but no words come out. Why did I, anyway? “Because you did,” I finally spit out.

  “Because I did? Isn’t that the sweetest thing?” Piper smiles at me.

  I hurry to keep up with her. Piper is a good six inches shorter than I am, but walks faster. How can this be?

  She stops and looks at my pants.

  I look down at myself and see a big black ink blotch the shape of Florida uncomfortably close to my fly.

  “So, are you going to help me with my project or not?” she asks.

  “What project?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? We’re going to sell the Alcatraz laundry service to kids at school. You know, get your clothes cleaned by famous Alcatraz convicts Al Capone, Machine Gun Kelly and Roy Gardner. We’ll charge five cents a shirt. No IOUs. Money will be split four ways. Jimmy and Annie will help us put the laundry through in their families’ bags, so they each get a cut, plus you and I.”

  “You’re going to sell the Alcatraz laundry service? Why?” I ask.

  “I just told you why. Money.” Piper starts walking again.

  “Does your dad know about this?”

  She snorts. “Not hardly,” she says, taking off again.

  “Hey.” I hurry after her as she ducks into a doorway. “I didn’t say—”

  “Get out of here, you big baboon! This is the girls’ bathroom,” a blonde with angry pop-out eyes shouts. Three girls are putting on lipstick. Another is closing the stall door.

  All the way to my next class I hear the sound of Piper’s laugh. It plays over and over in my head.

  8. Prison Guy Plays Ball

  Same day—Monday, January 7, 1935

  After school, I head for South Field, thinking about Piper. What is it about her, anyway? There were plenty of annoying people at home. I stayed away from them. It’s living on a stupid island. It’s like a prison. Okay, it is a prison. There’s the problem right there.

  It’s only a half day at school, which I’m hoping my mom doesn’t know so she won’t wonder why I’m late.

  “Hey, look, it’s the Alcatraz guy,” says a kid I recognize from my class.

  “Who let you out?” another asks as he warms up his pitch.

  “I can’t stay late or they lock the cell house door. Gotta watch out for that. Nobody’s home late on Alcatraz. Nobody gets bad grades either or they chain you up,” I say.

  “So hey.” Another kid walks over. “I heard what you said in Miss Bimp’s about almost getting poisoned, and I was wondering. Do you eat supper with them murderers?”

  “Only snacks. Snack time is with murderers. Suppertime is reserved for con men, counterfeiters and armed robbers.”

  Scout laughs.

  “What about Capone?” another kid hollers. “You met him yet?”

  “No, I haven’t had the pleasure of making his acquaintance,” I say, holding my nose so my voice comes out like my great-aunt Elizabeth’s.

  They all laugh now.

  “Does your dad carry a gun?” Scout wants to know.

  “Nope,” I say.

  “Does he come home with blood on his hands?”

  “Nah,” I say. “He washes up first. My mom makes him.”

  I borrow Scout’s glove. “Just don’t get any bullet holes in it or anything,” Scout says as I start warming up with a kid named Stanford.

  Everyone seems to already know that this guy named Del and Scout will be captains. They call us in and start picking
players. They make their choices the way my dad moves cards around in his gin rummy hand. The only wild card is me. I figure I’ll be last pick because no one knows how I play, but Scout picks me third on his side.

  Del and Scout measure hands up the bat. Scout wins, so I head for the dugout. Scout pulls me aside. “Hey, Mr. Alcatraz, can you hit?” he whispers.

  I shrug. “I don’t stink or anything. But I’m better in the field.”

  “But you can hit, right?”

  “Yeah, I can hit,” I say.

  “You’re leadoff. I’m second. Stanford, you’re third. Meeger, you’re cleanup. We’ll see where we are after that.”

  I pick up the bat and give it a swing. It’s too light. No clobber to a bat like that and the swing is faster than I like. I get into my ready stance. My head clears. No Natalie. No Mom. No Alcatraz. There’s nothing but me and the ball.

  The ball comes at me slow. Wait for it, wait for it. I swing. The bat whistles through the air. The ball sails by.

  “Strike one,” the catcher calls.

  Don’t think. My coach at home always said, “You start thinking, you get your drawers all in a twist.” I glance up to see a group of girls watching. I wonder if Piper will walk by. She has to go this way to get to the boat.

  I swing the bat back to ready position. The pitcher does his prepitch dance. Take your time. Turn your hips to the ball. Meet it. Meet it. I watch it arc out. Hold.

  “Ball one.”

  What an eye. I can’t help sneaking a smile at Scout.

  But the pitcher’s antsy now. He’s ready to go. I swing my bat to ready and wait. The ball comes close. Too close. I hold.

  “Strike two.”

  I stand up. “That was a ball. It almost hit me.”

  “It didn’t though, did it, prison boy?” the curly-haired catcher says.

  “It was a ball,” I mutter. Doesn’t this guy know the strike zone? Are we playing baseball or what? I nod to Scout, like he should watch the calls.

  He seems to understand and positions himself behind the catcher.

  The pitcher smiles. He wipes his hands on his shirt and sends a fastball. His best pitch yet.