Al Capone Shines My Shoes Part 3

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 like 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 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 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." 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 baseb.a.l.l.s 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 h.e.l.lo," I say as if I do this every day.

Scout whistles long and low. "A con man, a thief, and and a looker . . . what are we waiting for?" 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 h.e.l.l.

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 b.u.t.ton-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 tortoisesh.e.l.l 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 gla.s.ses, 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 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 w.i.l.l.y I said you could have more than one. He's stingy with those brownies," Mrs. Williams tells Buddy.

"He's superst.i.tious, 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.

"Hey, Moose, sweet pea." He turns to wave at me and my invisible sister Natalie with a warm smile.

Natalie isn't here. And how's he know my dad calls her sweet pea anyway? Slowly, it dawns on me, he's doing an imitation of my dad. It's pretty good too.

"My dad, right?" I ask.

Buddy smiles, pleased with himself. He clearly enjoys the spotlight.

"Piper?" I call after her. She and Scout are already on their way to the kitchen. "Did you see that? Buddy did a good imitation of my dad."

"Yeah, I've seen it. He can do everyone. He's good good."

We both look back at Buddy Boy, who has followed Piper's mom to the front door, where he is patiently listening to her instructions on cleaning the bal.u.s.trade. The smile, the toothpicks, the wave, everything that reminded me of my father has vanished. Buddy sees us looking at him. He winks, just the way my dad would wink.

Scout and Piper are walking with their heads close together. "So wait . . . what am I supposed to call him?"

"w.i.l.l.y One Arm."

"I call him w.i.l.l.y One Arm?"

"Well, it's better than Mr. w.i.l.l.y One Arm, isn't it?" Piper is almost through the dining room.

The kitchen is larger than I remember and there's a brand-new electric icebox-the kind that doesn't need ice-and a shiny stove that looks like the pictures in the Sears, Roebuck catalog.

A short wiry man dressed in the same clothes as Buddy Boy stands in the back of the kitchen rolling out dough with his one good arm. The other sleeve hangs down flat and empty.

"w.i.l.l.y One Arm . . . Scout and Moose. Scout and Moose . . . this is w.i.l.l.y One Arm." Piper introduces us with a proud little smile on her face, like she's showing off a really great baseball card collection.

w.i.l.l.y One Arm waves his one good arm, then shakes his stump, which makes the empty sleeve jiggle in the air, but it's the pocket of his shirt that has my attention. There's something moving inside it. Something alive!

"He does sleeve tricks. Want to see?" Piper asks.

w.i.l.l.y One Arm's shoulder begins to move in a circular motion, pivoting his sleeve around with it. He gets it going pretty fast, before he catches his empty sleeve with his one hand and slows it to a stop.

"Wow," Scout says. "That was good."

My eyes are focused on his pocket. What's he got in there?

w.i.l.l.y One Arm gives a little bow. He sticks his good hand inside his shirt pocket and takes out a mouse the size of a half-smoked cigar. The mouse is a smoky brown color with dirty bitten-up ears and a twitchy pink nose. w.i.l.l.y One Arm brings the mouse close to his face, as if he's telling her a secret. "Molly, this here is Moose and Scout," w.i.l.l.y says.

Piper moves her hand toward Molly, but Molly dives back inside w.i.l.l.y One Arm's pocket with only her raw, hairless tail showing. w.i.l.l.y One Arm coaxes her out again and begins scratching her head with one yellowing fingernail. Molly clearly loves this.

"How'd you get a mouse?" I ask.

"Found you in the yard, didn't I?" w.i.l.l.y One Arm's squeaky voice tells the mouse. w.i.l.l.y One Arm lets Molly climb on his shoulder, then he lifts the wax paper off of a plate of brownies and offers us each one.