Al Capone Does My Homework, Page 2

  The warden’s house is a twenty-two-room mansion at the tip-top of the island. It smells like roses, and I can hear the sound of a violin concerto coming through the open window—as if it’s on Broadway Street in Pacific Heights instead of thirty feet from the most notorious cell house in North America. I take a deep breath to calm down before knocking.

  “Moose!” The warden answers the door in the three-piece suit that he wears like a uniform, his baby Walter in his arms. Even with a blue baby blanket wrapped over his shoulder, the warden is his own kind of scary.

  “Why, if it isn’t young Mr. Flanagan, Walty.” The warden waves the baby’s hand at me. “Say hi to Mr. Flanagan.”

  “Umm hi, Walty.” I wave back stupidly.

  “Big day for the Flanagan family,” the warden says. “Think you can handle the responsibility?”

  “Me?” My voice comes out strange, like I’ve sucked the air out of a balloon.

  “Who else would I mean, Mr. Flanagan?” the warden asks.

  “Yes, sir,” I mumble.

  “Your dad is going to make a good warden, you know why?” The warden taps the side of his skull. “He’s a thinker. You take a page from his book and you’ll be fine. Piper can give you a few tips,” he says as Piper comes down the stairs like she’s the queen or something. Her long dark hair is in a ponytail tied with a red bow. She has on a red blouse with her old overalls. There’s just something about Piper . . . She makes other girls look like yesterday’s tuna fish. I think I’m over her and then I see her and I know I’m not.

  We go through the large dining room to their huge kitchen with the brand-spanking-new stuff like an electric icebox and an electric mixer. Rich people don’t even need to mix their own cake batter. It’s amazing.

  Piper motions for me to sit down at the kitchen table, then follows suit, sighing dramatically. “So you need something, is that it?”

  My cheeks flush. She’s kind of right. I do only come up here when I need something. The trouble with Piper is I like her outsides, but not her insides.

  “Just looking for some advice on how to keep an eye on my dad.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know if you’re ready to hear about that,” she says.

  “Of course I’m ready.”

  She shrugs. “I’ve noticed that your priorities are confused.”

  “Which means?” I ask.

  “All you want to do is play baseball with Annie.”

  “You don’t play baseball.”

  “I’m just saying if you want to be friends with me, you have to act like it.”

  “What about you? At school, you never even give me the time of day,” I say.

  “I’m not talking about at school.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Here on the island. A little gift here and there, like flowers, say . . .” She holds her index finger in the air, like I should wait, trots out the kitchen door, then comes back with a gold gift box.

  She lifts off the box top. “This is from my secret admirer.”

  Inside is a fuzzy turquoise sweater.

  “Who gave you that?”

  She snorts. “I just told you. It’s from my secret admirer.”

  “But you must have some idea who it is.”

  “Secret. Don’t you get it?” She rubs the sweater. “I’m only showing you as an example of the kind of thing that gets a girl’s attention.”

  “Oh, I see. This is to help me,” I say sarcastically.

  “Some people know how to treat girls, that’s all. I mean, something like this makes you loyal. How do you think Al Capone does it?”

  Alphonse Capone, Alcatraz #85, is the most famous gangster in America—maybe even the world. Anybody who finds out I live on Alcatraz always wants to know if I’ve met Al Capone. Warden Williams calls him our star boarder.

  “First off, how can you be loyal to your secret admirer if you don’t even know who he is?”

  “When I find out, I will be.”

  “Why are you modeling yourself after Al Capone, anyway?” I ask.

  “People love him. They’ll do anything for him.”

  “He buys them,” I say.

  “You should see the letters he gets.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Look, it’s tricky business being the warden’s kid. And I’m the only one who can show you how it’s done. So I would be a lot nicer to me if I were you.”

  “Fine.” My hands fly up. “I get it.”

  She smiles. “All right then. I’ll tell you. Chudley . . . you’re familiar with Chudley, aren’t you?”

  Man, I hate when she does this. She knows I know the latest gossip about former Associate Warden Chudley. “Yes,” I say.

  “If your father cooperates with the cons, like Chudley did, he’ll get fired.”

  “Are you kidding me? My father would never do that. How is being a warden any different than being a guard? The guards could cooperate with the cons too, you know.”

  “A guard can only do so much. Wardens have power. I mean, who’s going to stop a warden?”

  “How does your father handle it?”

  “He’s been tested. They know he can’t be broken. But your dad . . .”

  “They know my dad too.”

  “Men behave differently when they’re in charge. Will he be fair or play favorites?” She nods, then breathes in like she’s about to swim a long distance underwater. “How will he deal with the games?”

  “Games? What are you talking about?”

  She has a piece of paper in her hand, which she sets down in front of me like it’s the Declaration of Independence. I read the neat printing.

  Spitting on a guard = 5

  Spitting on a warden = 20

  Making a shiv = 40

  Stealing a knife = 50

  Stabbing a guard = 250

  Stabbing a warden = 500

  Death Bonus: guard = 1,000

  Death Bonus: warden = 5,000

  “These are the points the cons get. And how do you get the most points?” She thumps the page.

  “Kill a warden.”

  “How many wardens are there?” She holds up two fingers like she’s my nursery school teacher. “Two. Your dad and mine.”

  I’m about to tell Piper what Indiana did, but I stop myself. I don’t want her to know that Indiana got twenty points off my father on his first morning. “What do they get if they win?”

  “A title. The toughest guy at the roughest hard-time prison in America. You know, like America’s heavyweight champion.”

  “That’s nothing to be proud of.”

  “That’s what I think. That’s what you think. It’s not what they think.”

  I squint at her. “You made this up.”

  “No.” She smoothes the page. “This showed up on the steam table in the convict cafeteria.”

  “Can’t your dad do anything?”

  “What’s he going to do . . . this is the end of the line. Alcatraz is the prison other wardens send their troublemakers to.”

  “Does my dad know about this?”

  “Of course. Look . . .” She takes a deep theatrical breath. “All I’m saying is . . . this is way more important than baseball.”

  “Yeah, okay, but I can’t follow my dad around all the time.”

  “I’ll know what’s going on. Stick close”—she shakes her finger at me—“and you’ll know too.”

  “How do you find out?”

  “I have ears. My father doesn’t like his cell house office. He prefers working here.”

  I know what she’s saying is crucial. I need to protect my father. That is more important than anything else. But there’s something about Piper that always makes me f
eel like I have a fishhook in my belly and she has the pole in her hand.

  3. Explosion

  Sunday, January 19, 1936

  It’s lucky I finished my paper on President Roosevelt, because it’s due tomorrow and now I have to babysit. It’s pretty unusual that I finished early. The last time I did anything early was when I was born and I came out three weeks before I was due.

  I even did a good job on the paper. My thesis is Overcoming polio helped President Roosevelt become the man he is today. It wasn’t that bad to write, either. I enjoyed my homework? Okay, now I’m starting to sound scary. Pretty soon I’ll be talking about the wonders of Brussels sprouts and how hygiene is fun, fun, fun!

  Tonight my parents are going out with Warden Williams and his wife to celebrate my father’s first day as associate warden. I can hear Nat in the kitchen, opening the icebox. She likes to make sandwiches, but when she’s done the kitchen looks like the Titanic after the iceberg. Now she takes her sandwich into my room and gets the light switch plate all sticky from her jammy hands as she stands there turning the lights on and off, on and off.

  I head for the kitchen to assess the damage, just as Theresa Mattaman knocks and then comes in the front door. At eight years old, Theresa doesn’t get the part about asking permission. Her knock lets you know she’s about to barge in.

  Theresa’s black curly hair is messy as usual, and she’s wearing her pajamas. She never takes them off—not for school, not for church, not for anything—she just piles her clothes over the top. If you look closely, you can always see a little pajama sticking out somewhere. Theresa lives with her two brothers—Baby Rocky and my buddy Jimmy, who is almost thirteen.

  I’m blasting cold water and rubbing a chip of ice on my itchy skin. I get hives when I get anxious. Apparently being the warden’s son makes me nervous.

  “Where’s Nat?” Theresa asks.

  “In my room.”

  She nods and trots off to find her.

  I put the ice chip on the counter and open the bread box. Nothing like a sandwich to make me feel better. I’ll clean up the kitchen later. I’m spreading the mayo when Theresa hops into the kitchen again.

  “I have a message from Piper,” she announces.

  Normally, Theresa and Piper get along like a pocket full of firecrackers. “Since when are you Piper’s messenger girl?” I ask.

  Theresa wiggles her finger like I should come closer. “She pays me. I do whatever she wants now.”

  “Really?”

  Theresa responds with a bouncy-curls nod. “Sometimes she buys me things. Really good stuff too, like licorice and root beer . . . You should get on her payroll.”

  “There’s an idea . . . What’s the message?” I ask.

  “Don’t forget the flowers.” Theresa’s voice drops to a whisper. “Are you sweet on her, Moose? Are you? Or is it Annie? I won’t tell. I promise.” She motions like she’s buttoning her lips.

  “I’m not sweet on anybody,” I say.

  “That’s what I told them.”

  “Who is them?”

  “Annie and Jimmy. They said while I was delivering my message I should find out.” Theresa beckons with her finger. “But mostly they want to know if you’re going to be different now that you’re a warden’s kid.”

  “What?”

  “Annie says you’ll worry more. And Jimmy says you might get bossy.”

  I open the butter dish, but there are teeth marks where Nat has taken a bite out of the cube. I cover the butter so Theresa won’t see.

  “Is Theresa in there?” Annie calls through the screen door.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  Theresa gives me a sour look, like I’m a cell house snitch, but I’m not going to lie to Annie. Annie’s my best friend who is a girl.

  “Come on in, Annie. And by the way, I’m not going to be any different.”

  Annie’s face turns emergency red. Since her hair is white blond and her skin is so light, when she blushes, you can see from a mile away. She’s gotten a lot taller the last few months and more, you know, girlish. And her arm is stronger. She’s always been a great pitcher, but I swear she pitches even faster now.

  “I know you’re not,” she says. “I just don’t want your dad’s new job to interfere with baseball.”

  “Nothing interferes with baseball.”

  “Glad to hear it. C’mon, Theresa, your mom says it’s time for bed.”

  Theresa’s shoulders droop.

  “You can’t stay? You just got here,” I tell Annie.

  “I know, I’m sorry. Mrs. Mattaman sent me to get Theresa. It’s past her bedtime.”

  “You’ve been at the Mattamans’?”

  Annie nods. “But I have to go home now.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  I stand watching as Annie and Theresa walk down the balcony to the Mattamans’. I’m still watching after they go inside.

  Natalie brings her blankets into my room and sets up her buttons, my books, and my toothbrush. She loves my toothbrush. Who knows why? Then she goes back to work on the light switch. On-off. On-off.

  I’m tired, but I don’t like to fall asleep when I’m babysitting Natalie. I rearrange the pillows to get my head in a comfortable position. Then I prop a pillow against the wall and scoot myself up, but I keep slipping down again. The next thing I know, I’m dreaming of a campfire. The fire is crackling. My marshmallows are a golden brown sagging off the stick.

  I’m trying to think if I’ve ever had a dream so vivid I could smell it, when my hand bumps against the edge of the pillow and touches something hot. Wait, the wall is hot! I bolt out of bed, then fly to the bedroom door. Didn’t I leave that open? Are my parents home? I wrap my fingers around the burning hot doorknob.

  The smoke billows in.

  “Natalie!” I shout, “Come on!” She’s burrowed into her blankets on my floor. I grab her arm, but she forces her hands farther underneath her, jamming her face deep into the pillow.

  “Natalie!” The smoke burns my eyes. My throat stings like pins pricking it.

  I cough, trying to snatch the pillow.

  “I don’t like the smell,” she mumbles, her voice muffled by bedclothes.

  I try to hoist her over my shoulder. She’s older than I am but a good thirty pounds lighter. I’ve carried her before, only now her body is stiff as a stadium bleacher.

  “Buttons,” Natalie says.

  I grip her beloved button box and push through the doorway.

  The smoke is getting blacker, denser. I suck it down my throat and up my nostrils as I half carry, half drag Natalie clutching her pillow, her legs bumping behind us. Through the living room we go, dodging licks of fire. My eyes smart, I can hardly see, but now that Nat has her buttons, she’s letting me move her.

  The flames have engulfed the front door. How do we get out?

  Maybe I can use the side table to break the window, but I’ll need to let go of Natalie.

  “Natalie . . . don’t move!” Her legs are so stiff, it’s as if rigor mortis has set in. She lies on the ground as she did on my floor, her head face-first in the pillow.

  Wait . . . this isn’t stupid, it’s smart. She’s protecting herself from the smoke. It’s less dense down low. The thoughts spin in my brain as I hammer the side table against the glass. The windows are thick, they won’t break. But something is cracking. The other window. The fire must have popped the glass, but the flames are too hot over there. We can’t get out that way.

  I batter the window with the table, pummel it as hard as I can and then a splintering snap and the glass shatters around me, leaving a jagged sharp-sided hole.

  I still have hold of the table leg, reeling it back through the broken glass and setting the table down in front of the windo
w. “Natalie, climb!” I shout.

  She freezes—won’t move at all. Her head is burrowed in the pillow, her arms clutching her button box. I snatch the pillow from her.

  “Come on!” With more strength than I thought I had, I pick her up and put her on the table.

  But this isn’t going to work. How can I get her through the window? The smoke is slowing my brain. It takes a long time to reason this out.

  The flames bust out of the kitchen, creating a wall of heat behind us. A hot rush of fire-fueled air whirls around us, sparks shooting, singeing my arm.

  Then all of a sudden she dives through the jagged glass and I’m on her tail. I jump through, landing in a jumble on top of her.

  “Fire!” somebody cries.

  “Fire! Fire!” More yells from all around.

  “Moose!” Mrs. Mattaman appears out of the smoke, her apron soaking wet, her dark eyes black with fear. She grasps my arm. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” I tell her, but I’m not sure the word makes it out of my throat, though it must have, because she nods.

  “Jesus, what happened?” Donny Caconi’s voice rings in from the night as a sudden shock of cold water blasts from below.

  Natalie shudders until it finally registers in my brain that I’m holding on to her and I should let go. Nat hates to be touched.

  I stare stupidly at the flames exploding out of our apartment. I can’t believe this is happening.

  4. The Flanagan Girl

  Sunday, January 19, 1936

  The balcony vibrates with boots marching up and down the stairs. Water slops our feet. Buckets clank, hoses spray a fine mist on our heads.

  Officer Trixle has his bullhorn and he’s belting out orders while standing under the balcony light. “Get the kids outta here. Aim that away. Hot spots in the kitchen.” Mr. Bomini is on the front of the bucket brigade, pouring water on the fire while Mr. Mattaman operates the hose.

  Where are my parents? What time is it? Shouldn’t they be home? The last ferry is at 11:30.

  I can’t stop shivering or keep my teeth from chattering. Nat is hunkered down next to me like an inanimate object. She doesn’t even seem to want her button box, which I’m surprised to see in my hand. I hardly remember grabbing it.