Authors: Gennifer Choldenko

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #General, #Action & Adventure

Al Capone Shines My Shoes (16 page)

BOOK: Al Capone Shines My Shoes

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I grab the bar spreader. It’s in my hand now. We all stare at it.

“What’s it doing in Nat’s suitcase?” Theresa asks.

“Nat, how did you get this?” I ask.

Nat doesn’t answer.

“That’s what set the snitch box off. My father should have found it,” Jimmy whispers.

“He thought it was the metal buttons,” I say.

“But she’s taken her button box through before, it never set the snitch box off. He should have kept looking—” Jimmy again.

“Trixle’s not going to like this,” I say.

“My dad’s already on probation,” Jimmy says.

“They’re both on probation,” I say.

“He’ll be fired,” Jimmy says in such a low voice I can barely hear him.

“They’ll both be fired or . . . or
killed,
” Theresa says.

“Not killed, Theresa,” I tell her.

“But definitely fired,” Jimmy says. “They already think Nat’s a security risk.”

“We don’t have to tell anyone. We can just throw it away, right now,” I say.

“Bottom drawer,” Natalie mutters, taking the bar spreader, her head twitching left, then left again.

“Why’s she keep saying that?” Theresa asks.

“How’d you get this, Natalie?”

Nat’s shoulders creep up to her face. “He told me to.”

“Who did? Who is he?”

“105. 105. 105.”

“You don’t mean Alcatraz 105?” Jimmy whispers.

“105 didn’t give you this . . . did he?” My voice cracks high.

Nat’s green eyes pass by my face. She cocks her ear to her shoulder and freezes.

“When did you see 105?”

Natalie dives back in her button box. Stacking and restacking.

“Natalie!”

“Don’t yell at her,” Theresa barks at me.

“Okay.” I blow air out of my mouth and try again as gently as I can. “Nat, when did you see 105?”

Nat is silent.

“We got to get rid of this,” Jimmy tells me. “But we can’t throw it away. The cons pick up the trash.”

“We’ll throw it in the bay,” I say.

“We can’t just take it outside like that,” Jimmy says.

“We need a bag.” I look around Nat’s room for something to wrap around it.

Natalie’s grip is tight on the bar spreader. “Bottom drawer. Bottom drawer, bottom.” She begins to spin in her spot.

“Natalie.” I put my hand out to steady her, but she’s spinning even faster now.

“He said to put it in the bottom drawer.” She struggles to say the sentence correctly, struggles to be understood, as if that is the only problem here.

I try to make my voice as calm as possible. “That’s good, Natalie. That’s just right. But I need it, okay? Will you let me borrow it?”

“No,” she says, each time she comes around, “no, no, no.” She spins faster and faster.

The door bangs. My parents are back. I hear them in the living room. “How much do you think it put her back?” my dad asks my mom.

Natalie has her hand on the bar spreader. She won’t let go.

“We should tell,” Theresa says.

“My dad will tell the warden. And he’ll be fired,” I say.

“They won’t be fired if we tell the truth.” Theresa is firm about this.

“Sure they will, Theresa. They messed up,” Jimmy explains.

“Natalie,” I say. She’s still spinning but not so fast. “Look, I’ll give you five buttons for this, okay?”

She stops. Her eyes get suddenly bright. “Five gold buttons?”

I know the ones she means. They’re on my suit jacket—the one I wear for special occasions. She loves those shiny gold buttons. My mom will kill me if I cut them off, but what else am I going to do?

“The gold ones you like,” I tell her, trying to wiggle the bar spreader out of her grasp.

She nods, but doesn’t let go.

I get the scissors and my good suit jacket and snip off the gold buttons, while she plays with the bar spreader, absorbed in twisting the little screw and washer up and down.

“Here. Five gold buttons.” I toss the buttons in my hand. They make a satisfying clinking sound.

Nat seems not to hear. All her attention is on the bar spreader.

“It’s nice she’s got something she’s proud about. It must be so hard for her on her own.” My mom’s voice from the other room. Then she stops. “Moose, awful quiet in there. Everything okay?” she calls through the door.

“Yeah, fine.” I try to make my voice sound normal.

“Nat,” I whisper. “Let’s take the bar spreader with us, okay? Let’s put it in this bag.” I grab my tote and offer it to her. “You can carry it.”

Nat takes the bar spreader and carefully places it inside. Then she holds the bag close to her, the way my gram holds her pocketbook when she thinks pickpockets are around. I motion to Nat, Jimmy, and Theresa to follow me.

“Dad, we’re going out,” I tell him as he walks into the kitchen and pours himself some coffee.

“Not now, Moose.” His voice cuts a crisp line.

“We’re taking Natalie with us,” I offer.

My father shakes his head. “It’s getting late. I want you to stick around here today.”

“Bottom drawer,” Natalie says, carrying the tote bag back to her room.

“Sounds like she hasn’t finished unpacking yet,” my father points out.

“Okay sure,” I say awkwardly, and then hurry Natalie back in her room before she says anything else.

Once I get the door safely closed behind us, Jimmy and I stare at each other. “What are you going to do now?” he asks.

“I’ll think of something,” I whisper.

“What?” Theresa wants to know.

“I haven’t thought of it yet.”

Theresa nods, but she’s screwed up her face.

“Natalie.” It suddenly occurs to me. “You want to give Theresa the bar spreader. She gave you those checkers, remember? You need to give her something back.”

Natalie appears to be thinking about this. She rocks back and forth. “Hair comb,” she decides.

“Theresa already has a hair comb. She wants that bar spreader. You want Theresa to be your friend, don’t you?”

“Friend.” Nat keeps rocking, holding the bar spreader tight to her chest. “Friend, friend, friend.”

Uh-oh. I don’t like the way she’s doing this. What if she throws a tantrum with the bar spreader in her hands? How in the world will I explain that?

“Nat, please don’t pitch a fit.
Please
,” I beg.

“It’s okay, Moose.” Theresa pats my arm like she is twelve and I am seven. “She’s just talking . . . aren’t you, Nat?”

“Friend, friend, friend,” Nat says, but I see her arms slowly unfurl from her chest, then her hands and fingers.

Theresa waits quietly until Nat gives her the bar spreader. “Thank you, Natalie,” she says.

“Throw it in the bay,” I whisper in Jimmy’s ear. “Get it out of here for good.” Jimmy nods, his eyes keen.

“I know! I can handle it, Moose, okay?” Jimmy snaps.

“Sure,” I whisper. “Of course.”

When he’s gone I feel better for about thirty seconds and then I begin to understand the full extent of the problem.

Somebody expects to find a bar spreader in her bottom drawer. Somebody will be looking for it very soon.

22.

TOILET’S STOPPED UP

Saturday, September 7, 1935

The next day when I get up, the sun is shining brightly on the sparkling blue water. I watch the birds fly by our front window. A gull skims low on the bay. A cormorant flies by fast like he’s late. A pelican dips and soars like a stunt plane.

Things aren’t so bad, are they? I need to relax, I decide as I head for the bathroom.

“John’s a little sensitive. Don’t use too much toilet paper,” my father calls out from the kitchen.

The door to the bathroom is open. A chocolate bar sits on the sink.

I try to keep my voice steady. “Seven Fingers is coming?”

“You betcha. He’s on his way right now. Your mom’s gonna take Nat out to the swings so she won’t be underfoot.”

“Why? We weren’t having plumbing problems last night.” I try to keep the panic out of my voice.

“We’re always having plumbing problems,” my dad says.

My mom is watching me. Her eyes are full of concern. “You worried about Trixle?”

“Yeah,” I say, though right now Trixle is the least of my worries.

“Don’t blame you. I can’t stand the guy,” my mom mutters. “C’mon, Nat, let’s get out of here.”

“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?”

BOOK: Al Capone Shines My Shoes

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