Al Capone Shines My Shoes

by Gennifer Choldenko

  “But Dad,” I say when they’re gone. “I don’t understand this. The toilet is working fine.”

  He shrugs. “Pipes are all hooked together, Moose. One person’s having plumbing troubles and we all are. The whole building needs to be replumbed.”

  “Sure,” I agree, “but why today?”

  My father gives me a puzzled look. “Why not today?” he asks at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  My father looks out on the balcony. “Darby.” He heads for the door, props it open for Trixle and Seven Fingers.

  Trixle walks in, hitching up his trousers. Right behind Trixle is skinny, creepy Seven Fingers with his shaved knob of a head. I look down at his hands. Two fingers are missing from his left hand. On his right hand there is a stump like a notch where his index finger should be.

  “Come on in, Darby.” My father moves out of the way so they can come in. Seven Fingers is the picture of obedience, following along behind Darby. Seven Fingers’s eyes never leave the carpet, but it seems like he sees everything, sucks it all in without looking up.

  My father touches his officer’s cap to greet Seven Fingers. Seven Fingers nods, without meeting my father’s eyes. Darby curls his lip at my father. He and my father don’t agree about anything. Even the way my father says hello to the cons is a problem for Trixle. Too respectful. Trixle would have every convict on a leash like a dog if he could.

  “All right, then, have a look, see what you think.” My father waves toward the bathroom.

  Seven Fingers goes into the bathroom, Trixle stands outside, leaning against the wall, first one way, then the other. He shifts his feet, eyeing our living room sofa. He seems to decide that Seven Fingers will be all right, marches into the front room, and plunks himself down.

  “Can I get you something, Darby?” my father asks.

  “Don’t happen to have any of Anna Maria’s cannolis around, do you?” Trixle puts his shiny black shoes on the coffee table. “Ain’t nobody can make ’em the way she can.”

  My father nods toward me. “Moose, could you run to the Mattamans’ and ask Anna Maria if she can spare a cannoli?”

  When I get back with cannolis for Trixle on one of Mrs. Mattaman’s yellow flowered plates, Seven Fingers is in the living room. “Trouble’s worse than I thought. Them army pipes are three-quarter inch,” Seven Fingers says in a whispery tobacco voice. “They get jammered up real easy. Got some ’bout ready to burst. Need to replumb the whole dang place, sir.”

  Trixle grunts. “Not going to replumb the whole dang place, that’s for sure. Get the ones ’bout to burst, then we’ll call it a day.”

  Seven Fingers cocks his head like his hearing is bad. His eyes are on the cannolis.

  “You heard me. Get a move on,” Trixle growls. Seven Fingers sidles back to the bathroom.

  I stay on the couch until Trixle and my dad get to talking about politics.

  My dad’s eyes are riveted on Trixle. “WPA’s gonna get the whole country working again,” he insists.

  “Ain’t nothing but handouts,” Trixle shoots back.

  “Can’t say I agree with you on that.” My father grinds his teeth.

  This is my chance. I have to take it. But my legs feel like they are mortared to the couch cushion and my hands are wet with sweat.

  “I understand you got yourself a problem with your little girl, Cam. But this ain’t about that.”

  “Doesn’t have anything to do with Natalie, Darby.”

  “I’m only saying your situation’s one thing and the WPA is another.”

  I’ve made my legs move. They are walking me down the hall. Trixle and my dad don’t seem to notice. My heart is beating so hard it feels like little explosions in my chest.

  Seven Fingers has the bathroom door half closed and the water running.

  A towel is slung across the knob. “Seven Fingers?” I whisper. My mouth is so dry I can hardly get the words out.

  I peek in, but Seven Fingers isn’t in the bathroom. I take a deep breath, turn, and push open the door to Natalie’s room.

  The bottom drawer is open. The shadow of Seven Fingers stands behind the door. His tall thin chest slips past me and back into the bathroom.

  My heart pounds in my ears. My arms are stiff as sticks of wood. “You stay away from her,” I say.

  “This ain’t kid stuff,” he murmurs, the smell of bad breath and tobacco filling my nostrils. “We know where she sleeps.” The bathroom door shuts almost silently in my face.

  23.

  SEVEN FINGERS’S CANDY BARS

  Same day—Saturday, September 7, 1935

  “We need to talk,” I tell my dad when Seven Fingers has gone.

  “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  A darkness falls across my father’s face. He slips his toothpick box into his pocket and motions with his head toward the door. “How about we go for a walk? Could use a little fresh air,” he says.

  We tromp down the stairs to the dock and around the agave trail, which runs low along the water. The wind blows hard, as it often does late in the day. It feels like a giant hand pushing us back. But my father is determined. He’s headed for a spot on the hillside looking out across at San Francisco. We sit down on rocks jutting out of the hill.

  I look into his kind golden brown eyes. “Dad, what if the Esther P. Marinoff School isn’t as safe as we thought?”

  “What do you mean safe?”

  “What if . . .” I work at a stone with my heel, try to loosen it from the dirt. “What if Natalie isn’t safe there?”

  His eyes squint with the effort to understand. “Safe you mean how?”

  “What if she was getting visitors?”

  “Visitors? For crying out loud, Moose. What are you driving at?”

  The rock comes free. I hold it in my hand. “I’m worried about the convict 105.”

  “105?” my father says as a gust of wind blows his officer’s cap off.

  “The gardener. He worked over here. Piper said he got released from Terminal Island a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh yes, Onion. Why in the Sam Hill are you worried about him?”

  “Because . . .” My voice trails off. I’m about to tell him how Seven Fingers said he knew where she slept. On the island? At the Esther P. Marinoff? Which is worse? I don’t even know.

  “Because?” my father prompts.

  “I dunno, I just—what if 105 visited Natalie at school?”

  My father stares at me. “What on earth makes you think he’d do that?”

  “I had a . . . a dream. A nightmare.”

  He breathes out a huge gush of air. “For Pete’s sake, Moose. You had me goin’ there for a minute.”

  “Could he find her?” I ask.

  “Why would he want to, son? She doesn’t have money. We don’t have money. They could kidnap her, I suppose, but it wouldn’t be worth their while. She’s safer there than she is almost anywhere.”

  “What about here then?”

  “Moose, look at me.” He waits until my eyes connect with his. “I’d never bring my family on this island if I thought there was any real danger. That cell house is sealed up tight as a drum. Try to stop worrying so much. Ollie thinks your nerves could be triggering the hives.”

  I find a smooth rock and sail it into the bay. “I don’t trust Seven Fingers.”

  “Good! I wouldn’t want you to trust him.”

  I find another rock and throw it as hard as I can. “I don’t want him in our apartment.”

  My father nods. “Don’t much like him there myself. I wish those city plumbers didn’t cost an arm and a leg . . . But you know what? Our plumbing problems never seem to get that much better. It’s occurred to me that old Seven Fingers likes his chocolate bars a little too much.” He fishes in his pocket for a new toothpick.

  Sometimes it feels like our life is made out of toothpicks and if I pull one out, the whole thing will collapse.

  “I like the way you’re thinking all of thi
s through. Sometimes life throws you a curveball. You can’t always accept what other people tell you; you have to reason it out for yourself.

  “Once when Natalie was little, a doctor told us what she had was contagious. If we kept her at home with us, you could catch it from her. He said we should send her away to a ranch in Arizona where she would be quarantined so as not to infect others.

  “You were so healthy. Everything I ever wanted in a son.” He sighs and presses his lips tight together. “I couldn’t risk you getting this terrible thing she has, this blackness that eats her up from the inside. But I couldn’t ship my daughter off like she was no more than livestock. I went around and around trying to reason it out, but in my gut I knew the answer. I wasn’t going to send Natalie off like that. If she were infectious, wouldn’t we have caught it already? The next week we went to another doctor who said there was no evidence her condition was contagious. None at all.

  “You got a good noggin.” He knocks on my head with his fist. “I’m not worried about you.”

  “And Natalie?” I whisper. “You worried about her?”

  He looks out across the bay to San Francisco. The streets are so straight and orderly over there. Everything makes sense in the city.

  “Her life isn’t gonna go the expected way. But just because she doesn’t see the world like you and me doesn’t mean she isn’t getting just as much out of her days as we do. Who are we to say what life’s supposed to be about, Moose? Who are we to say that?”

  24.

  A DEAL WITH THE WARDEN’S DAUGHTER

  Same day—Saturday, September 7, 1935

  First things first. I have to get my dad and Mr. Mattaman off probation. Then if something happens, they won’t automatically be fired. This means I need to talk to Piper. I still don’t think she’s the culprit, but everybody else is sure she is.

  I consider taking Jimmy to Piper’s, but I decide against it. It will be better if she doesn’t feel we’re ganging up on her.

  Okay, there’s another reason too. It has to do with how her ears poke out of her hair and the softness of her skin—like a brand-new baseball, only better.

  I’m on my way up to the warden’s house, a warm wind battering me backwards, making it twice as hard to walk uphill, when my mom waves me down. She has her hat and her gloves on, and her music satchel is tucked under her arm. “We’ve been looking all over for you, Moose,” she says. “Could you keep an eye on Natalie for a few hours? I just got a call from a family in the city. They want me to interview this afternoon . . . four private lessons at full freight . . . now that’s good money.”

  “Now? I was just headed for Piper’s house.”

  My mom’s face clouds. “I need to get a move on,” she says. “I have to give myself time to find the place.”

  “Could I take Natalie along?” I don’t look directly at my mom when I ask this. I’m afraid of what she’ll say.

  “To the warden’s house?” My mother’s voice is incredulous.

  “She’s been there before with me,” I wheedle.

  “Yeah, but with Mrs. Williams feeling so poorly, I don’t think it’s a good time. And you know Daddy’s still on probation, Moose.”

  I’m itching to tell her that’s exactly why I need to go up there. I want her to know this isn’t kid stuff, but I’m afraid she’ll say this is Daddy’s business, not mine. “Mom, it’s important.”

  She takes a deep breath and asks, “Why?”

  “What if Dad says it’s okay?” This is a gamble. Sometimes it makes my mom mad when I suggest consulting with my dad, as if her opinion isn’t enough.

  “Let’s see what he has to say,” she answers, hurrying on her high heels to the electric shop.

  So far so good, I think as she pokes her head in the electric shop door. “Cam!” she says. “I have a chance at four new privates but I need to go in and interview this afternoon. What do you think about Moose taking Natalie up to the warden’s house?”

  My father is up on a stepladder, pulling down a wooden soda pop crate where he keeps nails and screws and bolts organized by size. He fishes his hand in one of the squares. “What business do you have up there? And how long will it take?”

  “I have to talk to Piper and it won’t take long. An hour maybe.”

  “You’ll keep a close eye on your sister?”

  “Of course.”

  “You can handle this, right, Moose?” He jingles wing nuts in his hand.

  “I can handle it,” I tell him.

  My father nods to my mother but doesn’t meet her eyes. “We can’t keep her locked up in the house all week, Helen.”

  My mom’s bottom lip puckers out.

  “Sadie will read us the riot act if we don’t let her go with the other kids,” my dad continues. “You know that as well as I do.”

  My mother nods a small unwilling okay to me. She watches me and Nat walk up the switchback. I know she’s worried about Natalie, like always, but there’s something else in her eyes—something I’m not used to seeing She’s worried about me too.

  In the distance, the boarding whistle blows and the buck sergeant hollers last call. I hear the clickety-click of her high heels as she runs down to the dock, clutching her music bag in one hand and keeping her hat on her head with the other.

  Natalie walks along at her own pace oblivious to the gusty wind that picks up a leaf and blows it against her cheek. She operates out of her own cocoon, which she takes with her wherever she goes. She doesn’t follow me, lead me, or walk by my side but seems to drift along like we are caught in the same gust of wind. I explain we’ll be visiting Piper. I tell her if she’s good, I will bake her a lemon cake.

  She appears to be ignoring me, but then I hear her say almost to herself, “No bake.”

  I laugh. Natalie knows I can’t cook. I once tried to bake her alphabet cookies and they were so hard you could shoe horses with them.

  When we get to the warden’s mansion I ring the bell several times before Willy One Arm opens the door with Molly on his shoulder. “It’s Moose,” he calls out.

  Nat looks up from her shoes, directly at the mouse. “Mouse,” she whispers, her voice loaded with excitement.

  “Let him in.” I hear Buddy’s voice in the background. Willy One Arm scoots out of the way. Buddy and Piper are playing checkers in the living room. From the number of glasses, empty plates, and crumpled napkins on the table, it looks like a marathon tournament. Piper is studying the board. So many wisps of hair have come free from her ponytail that there can’t be much back there anymore. It looks as if she slept in her clothes.

  Right now, the island is being scrubbed and shined from one end to the other in preparation for the visit of the head of the FBI. Just this morning I heard the warden chewing out Associate Warden Chudley because the whitewall tires on the Black Mariah weren’t brand-spanking clean and there were dead plants in the flower beds. So why would the warden’s own house be in such disarray?

  Willy One Arm walks back to his seat at the dining room table, where he has a long list of numbers in front of him. His hands are busy shining a pair of shoes—probably the warden’s—while his eyes scan the list of numbers.

  “Mouse,” Natalie says.

  “Molly,” Willy One Arm mumbles.

  Nat’s eyes are glued to Molly, who sits on One Arm’s shoulder as if she’s supervising his work.

  I position myself between the two rooms so that I can see both Natalie and Piper.

  I know Piper sees me here, but she ignores me.

  “Could we talk?” I ask her as the sound of a bell tinkles from the kitchen.

  Buddy Boy shoves his feet in his shoes. He fishes his tie out of his shirt pocket and tosses it over his head, shimmying the knot up beneath his Adam’s apple as he heads for the kitchen.

  Piper watches him, a hollow look in her eyes. “Go away,” she says.

  “Really, Piper. We have to talk,” I tell her.

  She glares at me. “No, we don’t.”

/>   I walk over and sit down on a nearby chair, then scoot it over so I can still see Natalie. She and the mouse are transfixed as if they have just discovered something significant in common.

  Piper pushes the wisps of hair out of her face with the heel of her hand. Her foot fidgets, and she glances up in the direction of the bell.

  “Come on, Piper. Please. This is important,” I tell her as Natalie reaches her hand out to Molly, who scampers onto her palm. Willy One Arm looks up from his page. His hand hovers over the mouse, as if he’s ready for her back, but Natalie has her face right up close to Molly, whispering urgently to her.

  “Give the mouse to Willy,” I tell Natalie.

  “Her name is Molly,” Nat mutters.

  “Give Molly back,” I say, turning my attention toward Piper.

  Piper continues to study the checkerboard as if it is endlessly interesting. “Please, can we talk outside?” I ask.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “It’s private.” I motion with my thumb to the door.

  “I’m busy,” she says, but her voice is thick as if she has a cold.

  “When will you be free?” I ask as Buddy Boy comes back from the kitchen.

  “Is Mommy okay?” Piper asks in a small voice.

  “She is.” Buddy smiles warmly at her. “Don’t you worry, Piper my girl. She’s just fine.”

  Piper seems to take this in. It perks her up considerably.

  I try again to catch her eye, but she ignores me. She’s clearly not in any mood to talk today, plus it feels creepy in this house and I want to be out of here.

  “Let’s go, Natalie. Give Molly back,” I tell her.

  Natalie is petting the mouse with one finger, across her head and down her back, across her head and down her back, the exact same route each time.

  “Natalie, please,” I wheedle.

  But every fiber of Natalie’s being is focused on petting Molly.

  Willy One Arm looks up from his numbers, slips his hand around the mouse, and slides her into his shirt pocket in one greased motion.

  Uh-oh. I’m not sure how Nat’s going to take this. Once she smacked a guy who messed with her buttons—punched him right in the kisser. The guy wasn’t hurt, but my mother was mortified. She gave the man twenty whole dollars on the spot and begged him not to press charges.