9.
THAT YOUR BOY, BOSS?
Same day—Thursday, August 15, 1935
Mr. Mattaman is holding his baby son as gently as he can while Rocky howls.
“That’s okay, little feller. You go ahead and give us heck.” Doc Ollie smiles his big reliable smile. “It’s when they don’t yell you worry. Gonna have a mighty big sore throat. Don’t suppose it’s fun having those forceps stuck down a tiny larynx like that. Would have had the right size on hand, if I’d a known you was coming.”
Rocky’s hollering so loud I bet they can hear him clear over on Angel Island. His little face is red as a comic book devil.
“He sure didn’t like that,” my dad says. “Can’t say I blame him.”
I’m making agreeing noises but I’m hardly listening to what he’s saying, because it’s suddenly occurred to me . . . I’m standing inside the cell house hospital!
Two long rows of cells mirror each other. Our cell has been converted to Doc Ollie’s office with clear canisters filled with syringes, cotton balls, wooden sticks. Slings hang from a hook, a wheelchair with a cane seat is parked in the corner, and crutches of different sizes lean against the wall.
“Poor little guy, he’s mad as a hornet. I’m gonna give him a little whiskey and milk. Let him sleep it off,” Ollie says as he searches through a glass-faced cabinet.
“Thanks, Ollie.” Mr. Mattaman steals a glance up from his baby son. His voice is steady, but his chin is puckered from all he’s holding back.
Doc Ollie pats my shoulder with his big soft hand. “Good work there, son. Hives didn’t slow you down any I’m glad to see. That salve help?”
I’m too stunned to do much else but nod, although the answer is no.
“Cam . . .” Ollie tips his head, like he’s pointing with it out the door. “You reckon this boy of yours deserves a little treat?”
My dad holds the cell door open. “Ollie thinks I should give you a tour.”
“A tour of the cell house?”
He half laughs at this. “Not the cell house, no sir. If I took you down Broadway Warden Williams would give me my walking papers.”
Broadway is what they call the center row of the cell house. Even the littlest kid on Alcatraz knows this. Janet Trixle’s fairy prison has a Broadway too.
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t have my own little surprise.” My dad smiles now, clearly pleased with himself.
I follow my father down the hospital corridor with cells on one side and cells on the other. Each one is painted mint green with four cots scooted against the walls or side by side in the center. It smells vaguely of shoe polish and bleach and something acid like pee. The cells are all empty at first, then, as we walk deeper into the building, I see men sitting on beds, hanging against the bars, all of them wearing prison blue shirts, all of them watching me.
They’re the ones in prison, but I’m the one being stared at like a zoo animal. I don’t like this.
My father stops near the bars of a cell on the west side. Just one man in this cell, a big beefy guy with dark black hair, dark eyes, a round face, big lips, and the kind of smile that makes you like him without thinking twice about it. He’s got shoe polish and a buffing rag on his bed along with a pair of shiny black guard’s shoes.
The man stands up and sticks his pudgy hand through the bars. In the shadow of his left side a jagged line cuts across his face—a scar. “That your boy, boss?” he asks.
My father nods. “Moose, meet Al Capone.”
I take hold of Capone’s hand. His handshake is firm, solid, trustworthy. I squeeze his hand with more strength than I planned. My mouth opens. “Thank you” pops out. As soon as the words hit my ears, the temperature in my face rises.
Capone smiles his broad, warm smile and chuckles deep in his throat. “He’s thanking me, boss.”
My father frowns. “Say hello, Moose.”
“Hello,” I parrot like I’m Natalie.
Capone angles his chin in the direction of Doc Ollie’s office. “I heard you brought the Mattaman baby in. He doin’ okay?”
“Looks that way.” My father points his toothpick toward the shoes. “Who you doin’ those for?”
“Officer Trixle,” Capone says. “Got me a special touch. You know that.”
My father snorts his disapproval.
“They like to tell people their shoes been shined up all nice by me. Looks like yours need some shining there, boss. Could do your boy’s too.” Capone winks at me.
“No thanks,” my father answers.
Capone seems to take this in. “They gonna give me a roommate in here, boss?”
“Wouldn’t know ’bout that.”
“Just as soon be on my own. One or two guys don’t like me too much.”
“Like I said, I don’t know. Depends on who’s sick,” my father says.
“Is that so?” Capone stares hard at my dad. “Seems to me a man’s got as much power as he can wrap his mind around.”
“Is that how it seems to you?”
“You bet. And I’ve done good for myself. I don’t mind saying.”
“Until now.”
Capone chuckles. “Minor setback. Now your boy here . . . he don’t know his own strength, but he sure can keep his head on straight when the pressure is on.” He points at me with his big beefy hand. “When I get out, you look me up. I got a job waiting for you.”
“He will do no such thing,” my father snarls.
Al laughs a good long laugh, deep down in his belly. “Don’t you worry, boss. You got yourself a good boy there. Kinda person keeps up his end of a deal.” Al leans in so close the bars press against his face. “I’d be mighty proud if you were my boy,” he says.
“Say goodbye, Moose,” my father barks, stepping between Capone and me.
“Goodbye, Mr. Capone,” I say to Al’s big beaming face. I turn and follow my father down the hallway, the smell of shoe polish strong in my nose.
I’m almost out of Capone’s sight when I hear it. The words drift to me in a whispery voice. “Bye, son,” he says.