Al Capone Shines My Shoes (7 page)

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:

7.

ITCHY ALL OVER

 

 

 

 

In my dreams Natalie is encased in ice. It’s inexplicably hot, hotter than the hottest spot on the equator, hotter than it’s ever been before, but the ice won’t melt. She is frozen solid in her ice rectangle and nothing I can do will melt it. Annie’s big face peers down from the sky. “I told ya so, so, so . . .”

All night I toss and turn. No matter what I do, I can’t get comfortable. Every time the sheets touch my skin, I scratch, itch, burn. When I finally get out of bed, I have raised welts in wild irregular shapes all over my body.

“Mommy?”

My mom sticks her head in my room. “Hey there, sleepy-head. It’s half past nine already.”

“My skin looks funny.” I show her the welts all along my belly, my neck, my arms, my back.

She runs her finger over one of them, lightly, carefully. “Hives,” she concludes. “You used to get them when you were little.”

“What causes them?”

“Could be something you ate. Could be your clothes . . . the detergent.”

“The laundry?” My voice squeaks.

“Could be they changed the soap up top.”

Suddenly I wonder if this is intentional. What if Al Capone targeted me with itchy soap?

“You ought to take a walk up to Doc Ollie’s. See what he has to say about this. Do they itch?”

“Like crazy.”

She sits down on my bed and runs her hand over my hair, like I am six instead of twelve. “When you were little, I used to stick you in an oatmeal bath. Did you a world of good. I’ll go down to Mrs. Caconi’s now, give Ollie a call, see if he has a minute to look at this. You want me to start your breakfast?”

I can’t remember the last time my mom made me breakfast. Usually, I just pour my own self some cereal: the cold kind. I’m not going to let this opportunity slide by. “Blueberry pancakes, bacon, hash browns, toast, and some juice and ham too, if you have it,” I tell her. “Oh and maybe some scrambled eggs.”

She laughs. “That’s my Moose. Doesn’t let anything get in the way of his appetite. I’ll see what I can do.”

When she gets back, I hear her banging pans around in the kitchen and then the smell of sizzling bacon.

I hate to admit it, but it’s nice having my mother to myself this way. We’ve been three people and an octopus all of my life, and now the octopus is gone. It’s not Natalie that’s missing so much as the hubbub around her. The wild-goose chase of what to do and how to help her—one heartbreak chasing another.

What’s left now is just my mother and me. How strange this is. How quiet.

But realizing this makes my hives itch all the worse. If I tell my dad what’s happening, he’ll tell the warden and Natalie could get kicked out of the Esther P. Marinoff School and then the craziness will be back again.

It’s up to me to keep her safe.

My blanket is pulled over my head. I breathe in this dark, gray hot itchy space and scratch my skin raw and red.

My mom sticks her head in the door again. “Go on and get dressed, Moose. I want you to get some food in your belly before you go up and see Ollie. He’s got time for you at ten.”

At the table, she sits with me while I eat, as if she has nothing better to do. “You’re a good son, Moose,” she says as I help myself to another pancake. “A good brother too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

She averts her eyes when she says this, as if she has suddenly revealed too much and embarrassed us both. This is not how my mother usually behaves. She doesn’t notice me except in relation to Natalie.

“You want me to go up to Ollie’s with you?” she asks.

This is a ridiculous question. I’m almost thirteen. What if Jimmy or Piper sees me walking up with my mommy. But suddenly my head is nodding yes instead of shaking no.

“You do?” Even she is surprised.

“No, of course not,” I mumble, my mouth full of pancakes.

She nods, slowly taking this all in. “I wonder if you’ll forgive me,” she says in a voice barely audible.

“For what?” I manage to say.

Again her eyes search my face. “For being so wrapped up with Natalie,” she whispers.

I stuff my mouth full of more pancake to push the unexpected feelings down.

She picks up my empty milk glass and puts it in the sink, making movements that fill the kitchen with sound. She seems to know I’m not going to answer.

“Go on now. Ollie’s expecting you.”

 

Doc Ollie is a stout man with double-thick soled shoes and big deft hands that can thread needles, rock newborns, and gut fish. Doc Ollie can do anything. He’s a great whistler to boot, always starts his visits by taking requests.

“ ‘All of Me,’ ” I tell him today, and he whistles two verses.

When I show him my hives, he chuckles. “They certainly do have all of you,” he says, making sympathetic clucking noises as he questions me on what I might be allergic to.

“Far as I know, I’m not allergic to anything.”

“You doing some worrying?”

I shake my head. “Nope,” I say, sucking the inside of my cheek. He is a nice man, Doc Ollie, and I wish I could tell him everything I’m worrying about—give it all to him so it wouldn’t be my problem anymore. For a second that almost seems like a good idea. But then I imagine trying to explain to my father how in the world I got our family into this mess.

He nods again. “You nervous about school starting?”

“No, sir.”

“Everything okay with your folks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All righty then. I’ll get you some salve. Fix you right up. Be all gone in a few days, but keep it handy because they’ll be back. Might take a few weeks ’fore you’re good as new.”

The salve helps a little, or maybe it’s the fresh air. On the way home I start thinking more clearly. Capone must have decided not to send a note in the laundry because of the timing. The boat is coming this Sunday, the laundry doesn’t come back until Monday.

It had to have been Seven Fingers who left the note. Trixle is supposed to watch him when he works on the plumbing, but sometimes he and my dad get to talking.

What I don’t know is why. Why would Seven Fingers leave a note from Capone? Are they friends? Piper once told me every con is either a friend of Capone’s or his enemy. People love him or they hate him. That’s the kind of man he is.

But the note has made me wonder if Capone is crazy. Does he really expect me to buy a dozen yellow roses and hand them to Mae? If I did that, I would get my family kicked off the island in about thirty seconds. Maybe forty-five. He has to know that, doesn’t he?

Why didn’t he tell me the name of the hotel where she’ll be staying? Then I could have left the roses for her at the front desk. No one would have to know about it. And what did he mean by
Then we’re square
? Will I really be off the hook if I do this?

All of this thinking has me back to scratching again. I don’t think the salve is working so well now. It’s no match for Al Capone.

The thing I keep coming back to is this: If Capone was a regular person and he asked for a couple of lousy flowers to get Natalie in school, I’d think nothing of giving them to him. I’d give a person all the roses in the world for that.

I owe the man. I do.

8.

ICEBOX FLY

 

 

 

 

My hives are breeding with each other, merging, enlarging, engorging.

The salve is no help. It may even make them worse. The ones on my ankle are driving me nuts. I’ve scratched right through my socks. I have them on my neck too, creeping closer to my face.

By the time Mae visits there will be no me left. Just one big hive.

What will happen if I get caught? What will Capone do to me if I refuse? Does he still command his own army of hit men? And if I decide to do this, how will I get the roses? The garden behind the warden’s house has flowers, but no roses. I checked. These are the questions that chase around inside my head.

My dad says when you worry too hard, it makes your mind cramp up into a little ball. The best thing is to forget about it. Get some exercise, give your brain a little breathing space.

What I need is baseball . . . and that means Annie.

On the way up to her apartment I plan what to say to convince her to play. But when I get to the Bominis’, she isn’t even there. “Moose.” Mrs. Bomini’s blue eyes are round like Annie’s, but in a smaller, older face. She leans out the door and practically sucks me into her apartment. “Come on in. I have two new needlepoint books. I know how you love to see my needlepoint. You’re the only boy I know who likes it.”

Likes
needlepoint? The woman is out of her mind. How am I going to get out of this? Where is Annie?

Mrs. Bomini bears down on me like she’s drilling my feet to the floor. Before I know it I am sitting on the sofa with two needlepoint books on my lap and Mrs. Bomini’s veiny white hands pointing out one design after another.

She’s leaning so close, there’s no way to get away. Why does this always happen to me?

“Do you think that border is a little too busy?”

“Um, ma’am . . . is Annie around?”

“I sent her down to Bea’s to get a few things. But—” She beckons with her finger. “Annie doesn’t care for my needlepoint. She’s not like you, Moose. Now lookee here, what if I took off some of that blue. Or I could just do this one here?”

“The other one, ma’am, without the border.”

“Aren’t you a wonder, Moose!” She smiles at me, glowing with pleasure, and turns to another page, where there must be twenty designs marked. This is worse than reading my dad’s electrician manuals.

“Now this one, what do you think of this?” She is so close I can smell the tooth powder on her breath. “Such a big flower smack in front like that, I’m concerned it’s overpowering. I’m wondering if I might—”

Annie appears suddenly in the door, a bag of groceries in her hand. “Mom!” she snaps.

Mrs. Bomini’s head drops low on her shoulders. “Now, Annie . . . Moose likes this, don’t you, Moose?” Mrs. Bomini puts her finger to her lips. “It’s our little secret, isn’t it, Moose?” She giggles.

Annie puts the grocery bag down with a thud. “What’s your little secret, Mom?”

“Oh don’t you worry.” Mrs. Bomini flutters her finger at me. “My lips are sealed about . . . you know.”

Annie pulls the flour out of the bag, thumps it on the counter. “Let him get up, Mom.”

“Oh for goodness’ sake! If a girl can like baseball, surely a boy can like needlepoint.”

“Mom, let him up!” Annie barks.

“I have to talk to Annie, ma’am. It’s pretty important. Could we finish this later?”

Mrs. Bomini’s shoulders sink down, her mouth forms a little pout. “Oh all right,” she concedes. “But you bring him back, you hear?” She waggles her finger at Annie.

Annie races around the kitchen unpacking groceries, pouring the flour into the canister, and putting the milk in the icebox. After she’s done, she heads outside with me.

“Thanks,” I say when we’re safely out of earshot of her mom.

She snorts.

“I’ve been thinking,” I tell her. “You know that thing with Capone, you don’t need to worry about him. I’ve worked it out. It’s not a problem anymore.”

Her eyes move from side to side like she’s thinking about this. “Why not?”

“Because. I’ve taken care of it.”

“Which means?” She takes a deep breath and lets it out in one big burst.

“Because, Annie, please, oh please—” I get down on one knee.

Annie smiles a little at this. “You’re cute when you beg,” she says.

“Annie, I’ll do anything if you’ll just play.”

“You wanna come back with me?” She bites her lip to keep from laughing. “You know it’s okay for a boy to like needlepoint.” Annie does a whispered imitation of her mom.

“Anything
except
that.”

We both laugh. I think I’ve got her now, but when we stop laughing she walks the rest of the way up the stairs and back into #3H without another word.

Girls are impossible. Once they decide something, that’s it. Guys make deals, make compromises, make things work. Girls just make trouble.

I head down to the canteen to find Jimmy. He’s behind the counter, paging through Bea Trixle’s receipt book. He sees me and looks down again really quickly.

“Hey, Jimmy,” I say.

“Hi, Moose.” His voice is cool. He can’t still be mad about Scout and the baseball, can he?

Theresa is back in the corner with Baby Rocky on his blanket. Jimmy, Theresa, and the baby of the family, Rocky, all look alike: curly black licorice-colored hair, fair skin, and dark eyes. “We only make one model,” Mrs. Mattaman said right after Rocky was born. Theresa has her strange stuff on Alcatraz book out and she’s recording things in it.

I wonder where Janet Trixle is. I heard there was a new rule. Theresa is supposed to play with her when she’s down here. It’s Janet’s mom’s canteen, after all. But knowing Theresa, she’s figured a way to squirm out of it.