6.
WHAT CAPONE WANTS
Monday, August 12, 1935
My mom goes to San Francisco to visit Natalie today, and when she gets home, her step is light and hopeful. “Went well.” She takes off her hat. “Natalie acted like she’s been going there her whole life. She settled in just fine. Made a friend of the head lady, a tiny woman named Sadie.”
My dad puts his arm around my mom’s shoulder. Her knees bend as she snuggles into my father. She is taller than he is without her shoes. In her high heels she towers over him.
“She’s going to be all right, Cam.” My mom’s voice is husky. She pats her pockets in search of a hanky.
“We’ve been around the world a few times on this one,” my dad murmurs. “But we made it, honey. We did.”
My mom smiles. Her knees sag and she collapses onto the couch as if she simply can’t take one more step.
“You look beat,” my dad tells her. “Why don’t you lie down.”
She nods and goes into their room.
My father picks up his darts. “I don’t suppose you’d like to play your old man, would you?”
“You promise to lose?”
“Me?” He pretends innocence. “You’re the one who needs to go easy. I’m not as young as I once was.” He lets a dart fly. It hits the bull’s-eye from ten feet back.
“Good day today, Moose. Red-letter day. Nothing can go wrong today. Even Seven Fingers got the plumbing working, you see that?” My dad nods toward the bathroom.
“For now anyway,” I say.
“Don’t know what the problem is with our plumbing. Trixle thinks it’s you, you know.” My father jabs me in the ribs.
“Me?” I poke my own chest. “How could it be me?”
My father laughs as he organizes the feathers of a rumpled dart.
“Why do you believe everything Darby Trixle says?” I ask.
“Oh Moose, don’t tell me you’re still mad about that tire?”
“Trixle sent Scout home because he was on the wrong ferry.”
My dad’s head wags one way then the other as he draws score columns with a pencil. He puts an M with antlers for me. “Darby thinks rules are important.”
“Okay, I understand that with Scout, maybe. But what about Natalie? He knew it would upset her if he had the guard tower shoot.”
“Could be,” he admits. He aims a dart carefully and methodically, then lets it rip. A bull’s-eye. “Guess I’d rather look for the good in people.”
“What about the cons? You look for the good in them too?”
My father shrugs. He nods toward the cell house. “Just a bunch of big kids up there. Chuckleheads every one.”“
“Yeah, but do you believe they’re good guys?”
“Nope. And don’t you believe it either.”
I’m concentrating on the bull’s-eye. I feel the dart between my fingers.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t treat them with respect. Treat a man like a dog, he’ll act like a dog. Treat a man with respect, he’ll remember that too. But trust them? Not on your life.”
“What about the passmen?” I ask. “The warden has to trust them, right?”
My dad watches me as I move the dart back and forth in the air but don’t let go.
“You gonna throw that dart or just play with it?”
“Don’t rush me,” I say.
I take a deep breath and let it go. The dart zings through the air and lands three rings from the center.
“Not bad.” My father nods, looking carefully as if he is contemplating the exact angle of the dart. “I’ll tell you the truth here, son, if you keep it between us. Can you do that?” He measures my response with his eyes.
“Course,” I tell him, straightening up to my full height.
He takes a dart in each hand. “The warden likes the help—two full-time servants he doesn’t have to pay for . . . who wouldn’t like that?” He throws first one dart, then the other. “There’s no incentive for them to escape on account of they’re a few months from release. Plus, he doesn’t think they’ll fool with him. Him being the warden and all. But I don’t buy it. The way I see it, you never get something for nothing.” He pulls the darts out, eyeing the line.
“On the other hand, the man knows his business. He ran San Quentin for ten years. I been at the prison business for what, eight months?” He shrugs. “I’m gonna keep my mouth shut on this one, Moose.”
I think about this. “So, I’m supposed to treat the cons with respect but not trust them.”
“I don’t imagine you kids have much occasion to interact with the convicts. But yes, that’s the general idea.”
“Okay, Dad, I have another question for you. Have you ever done the wrong thing for the right reason?”
He stops what he’s doing and looks over at me. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” I say.
He nods. “You want to play again?”
“You gonna lose this time?”
“Oh definitely.” He picks up a dart. “I ever tell you about when I met your mother?” He smiles. “She was going out with my cousin Harold at the time. I took one look at her and I thought, Holy mackerel, there’s the girl I’m gonna marry, Harold or no Harold. I’m not proud of that, but I’ll tell you what, I sure wouldn’t trade your mom for any woman on this planet.”
I’ve heard this story before and it doesn’t make me feel any better. I mean, he loved my mom. That’s the worst thing he can dredge up from his whole thirty-nine years?
Almost on cue, my mom comes out from her room looking perkier. She gives me a surprisingly radiant smile as she nods to the dartboard. “Let me guess, you got drubbed?”
“Pretends he can’t play,” I tell her.
“Gotta watch him. He’s up to his old tricks again.” She gathers up her sheet music.
“You’ve got a lesson?” I ask.
She blushes. “Thought I might play a bit.”
My father and I look at each other. She teaches piano, but she hardly ever plays herself.
“Really? Well, well, well . . . up at the Officers’ Club?” my dad asks.
“You see a piano here?”
“No, but maybe we’ll need to get one,” my father offers.
My mother smiles, her whole face shining like a schoolgirl’s.
That night when I climb into bed I feel great for the first time in a long while. My parents are happy. My sister has her chance. I might need to patch things up with Jim, but Scout doesn’t come to Alcatraz that often. This isn’t going to be a big problem. And Annie will come around. She loves to play ball. She’s not going to hold out for long.
My head sinks into my pillow. My chest eases down into the mattress. I’m even getting used to this squeaky old bed and the way the light shines in the doorway.
Life is good, I decide as I stick my arm under the pillow to prop my head up. My fingers graze the pillow label. Strange . . . this is the pillow I’ve always had. I never noticed a label before. I turn over the pillow. A slip of paper with green lines flutters in the air. My heart jams up in my throat, cutting off my air supply.
This can’t be another note.
But it is.
Inside the now familiar folds the handwriting looks the same as before:
My Mae loves yellow roses. She’ll be on the Sunday 2:00.
Then we’re square.