2.
THE SECRET PASSAGEWAY
Same day—Monday, August 5, 1935
There’s nothing like baseball to get your mind off of things you’d rather not think about. The smell of the glove, the feel of the ball, that thwack the bat makes when you crush the ball. . . . It’s enough to cure anything bad that could ever happen. And today is a baseball day, because my friend Scout from school is coming to Alcatraz this afternoon. Scout is Mr. Baseball. He has his own team and he can really play.
I tell Jimmy all about this inside the crawlspace under 64 building that runs beneath apartment 1D, a vacant apartment, to 1E, Mrs. Caconi’s place. The crawlspace is in what we like to call Chinatown because it looks like the alleyways in Chinatown in San Francisco. Normally, the crawlspace is locked, but last week Jimmy saw the screws in the door hinge were loose, so he took off the hinge and we opened the door. When we leave, we put the hinges back and the door seals up tight like no one has ever been inside.
The only problem is it’s dark in here—everything is coated with an inch of dust and you have to crawl on your hands and knees, avoid the ant holes, and watch the beams so you won’t clonk your head. The cobwebs alone could kill you the way they descend like gauze over your mouth and you breathe ’em in and hope you haven’t sucked a spider down your throat. Still, it’s a good place to talk things over. In our secret passageway, we say things we wouldn’t say anywhere else. I like that no one knows about this place except Jimmy and me.
I can’t imagine a better spot than underneath Mrs. Caconi’s apartment either. The moms on the island spend a lot of time at Mrs. Caconi’s the way the kids gravitate toward the parade grounds. I think it’s because Mrs. Caconi doesn’t have kids, so they get a break from us at her place—kind of like the teachers’ lounge at school.
Our best day last week we heard Mrs. Caconi and Officer Trixle’s wife, Bea, discussing hair that grows out of your ear hole. Apparently Darby Trixle has big bushes of ear hair Bea has to clip every week. We could hardly keep from laughing out loud when we heard this.
That’s the one thing we have to be wary of down here: noise. We’re pretty sure they can hear us in the apartments above, if we aren’t really quiet.
“Hey Jimmy, you working today?” I ask once we determine no one is in Mrs. Caconi’s apartment.
Jimmy’s been helping Bea Trixle, who runs the canteen, our island store. He doesn’t get paid for it, but whenever he works, Bea gives his mom a discount on whatever she buys. Sometimes Theresa helps too, but only if Janet Trixle isn’t around. Theresa is the same age as Janet, but she and Janet can’t stand each other. According to Theresa, Janet’s only real interests are rules and collecting stuff for her fairy jail.
“I’m off at two,” Jimmy says. “You gonna bring Scout to see the flies?”
Jimmy really likes flies. He knows a lot of unusual facts about them too. Flies puke when they land. Flies taste with their feet. Apparently they puke, then they lick the vomit up with their toes.
“Sure,” I say. “But Scout’s gonna want to play ball.”
In the last few weeks, Jimmy has become my best friend on Alcatraz, despite the fact that he stinks at baseball. If a baseball flew into Jimmy’s glove he wouldn’t know what to do with it. He’d probably use it to brush his teeth. Maybe he’d plant it in the ground to grow a big old baseball tree. The kid has no idea.
Jimmy’s nose lifts in the air—ah, ah, ah choo. He sprays me with snot and knocks his glasses off.
I wipe off my arm. “Thanks a lot, Jimmy,” I say.
Ah, ah, ah choo. He sneezes again, but this time he turns his head away and gives the ants a bath instead of me. “You want me to play?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say. “I always want you to play.”
Jim cocks his head as if he doesn’t quite believe this. “But Scout plays all the time. He’s good, right?”
“He’s not great or anything.”
Jimmy grins. “Oh, okay. Me neither.”
I don’t know what to say to this. Even in our secret place it seems better not to tell Jimmy that Scout’s “not great” is so much better than his “not great” that it isn’t fair to compare.
“C’mon, let’s go. I want to find Annie and get my arm warmed up before Scout gets here,” I say.
Crawling back, Jimmy picks his way slowly and carefully, stopping every time he has a question. “Think Scout’ll like my fly project?”
Jimmy’s latest project is to teach flies tricks. He wants to hold a circus and charge admission.
“Course,” I say.
Jimmy starts moving forward, then he stops again. “Think Scout will like me?”
“Sure. I told him all about you.”
Jimmy considers this. “Good, because I’ve got a new idea. I’m thinking the problem is quantity. I don’t have enough flies.”
I sit back on my haunches and wait while Jimmy launches into a technical explanation of his breeding plans. There is no stopping Jimmy Mattaman when he gets talking about his flies.
When he finally gets to the door, I scamper after him, covering the same ground in one-third the time. “You’re fast,” he observes.
“You’re slow,” I tell him as we press our ears against the frame to listen for unusual sounds, but it’s all quiet. We crack open the door a few inches; still nothing. We push it the rest of the way and Jimmy—because he’s smaller—pokes his head out.
“All clear,” he whispers, and we jump down.
Just as Jimmy finishes replacing the screws in the hinge, we hear footsteps on the old cement stairwell. “Uh-oh,” I whisper as I spot shiny black guard shoes coming down.
“Thought you was working this morning, Jimmy?” Darby bellows through his ever present bullhorn.
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy says.
Darby peers over the railing, but he can’t see me because I’m getting the baseball gear I stashed in one of the storage rooms. “What you doing down there?” he asks Jimmy.
“Nothing, sir,” Jimmy answers.
“Nothing, huh? Do I look like I was born yesterday, Jimmy?” Darby asks.
“No sir,” Jimmy replies, skedaddling up the stairs. Jimmy doesn’t say anything about me. He knows it’s better if Darby doesn’t see me. Darby hates me on account of I’m Natalie’s brother. Natalie really bugs him.
I stand quietly, waiting for them to leave. When they’re gone, I climb up to apartment 3H, Annie Bomini’s place. Annie’s the only kid on the whole island who’s any good at baseball. What a shame she’s a girl.
I peer through the screen door, focusing on the wooden table in the Bominis’ living room. It was made by the cons in the furniture shop that Annie’s father runs. The Bominis have a lot of wood stuff plus needlepoint everywhere. Needlepoint pillows, tablecloths, tissue holders, seat covers. Mrs. Bomini has a needlepoint toilet cover for every day of the week. I don’t know why you need a Monday toilet seat cover on Mondays. Is it that important to know what day it is when you do your business?
“Annie, c’mon,” I call, hoping Mrs. Bomini isn’t around. Mrs. Bomini is a one-woman talking machine. Once she gets you cornered you pretty much have to have a heart attack and be carried away on a stretcher before she’ll stop.
Annie’s skin is pale, and her hair is so blond it’s almost white. She looks twelve but kind of old too, like forty-two. She’s squarish from head to foot, like God used a T-square to assemble her.
Annie props open the screen door with her foot. “Moose.” She gulps, her big flat face looking pinched today. “You won’t believe what happened.”
Uh-oh, what if she doesn’t want to play? That’s the trouble with girls. They have to actually feel like playing.
“What happened?” I ask.
“We got the wrong laundry. We got yours,” she whispers.
Laundry . . . that is the one word I don’t feel like hearing right now. Ever since I got that note from Al Capone, I’ve been very careful to be the first person to get my laundry in case he decides to send another note. My mom has even noticed. “Why, you’re taking care of your own laundry now, Moose, isn’t that nice,” my mom said.
“So? Just give it back.” I try to keep my voice from sounding as panicky as I feel.
“I didn’t realize it was your laundry. I started putting it away and . . . Moose, there was a note in the pocket of your shirt.”
“A-a note?” My voice breaks high like a girl’s.
My hands shake as she gives me a scrap of paper folded twice. My mind floods with things I don’t want to think about. Al Capone, the warden’s office, Natalie being thrown out of school.
The note is written on the same paper in the same handwriting as the other one. Your turn, it says.
My face feels hot and sweaty, then cold and clammy. I check the back and then the front again for any other words and stuff the note in my pocket.
Annie’s blue eyes bulge. “Your turn? What’s it your turn for, Moose?”
“I dunno,” I mutter, my mind scrambling to make sense of this.
Her eyes won’t let go of me. She seems to sense there’s more to the note than I’m saying. “Who is it from?” she asks, her face pained like she just swallowed a jawbreaker.
I hunker down away from her. “It must be a mistake,” I say, but my voice feels distant, like the words are coming out of a cave in my chest.
“A mistake?” she asks. “That’s what Darby Trixle said when the laundry cons sewed his fly shut.”
“That wasn’t a mistake, but this is,” I say louder than I mean to. “Just like you getting our laundry was a mistake.” I’m proud of myself for making this connection. It sounds so reasonable.
Annie bites her lip. She’s watching me.
“Did you tell anyone?” I ask her.
“Haven’t had time to tell anyone. It just happened.”
I breathe out a big burst of relief. “Are you going to tell anyone?”
“Depends.” She squints at me. “Are you gonna level with me?”
“Look, I don’t know that much about this,” I say, but my words sound flimsy, like they need a paperweight to keep from floating away.
Annie is looking at me intently. “I thought we were best friends.”
I stare back at her relentless blue eyes. “We are best friends.”
Annie is tough. She won’t let up.
I bite my lip. “You better swear swear, double swear, hope to die if you lie.”
“C’mon, Moose. You know I keep my word. I always do.” She’s right. She always does. But this is something else again. It’s not like keeping quiet about when we saw Associate Warden Chudley relieve himself in Bea Trixle’s pickle barrel. This could get me kicked off the island. But if I don’t explain what’s happening, she’ll tell for sure. I don’t have much choice here.
“I asked Capone for help to get Natalie into the Esther P. Marinoff School and then she got in and he sent me a note that said Done.” I can’t get the words out fast enough.
“You what?” she snaps, her chin jutting out with the shock of what I’ve just said.
I explain again, slower this time.
“And then what happened? After the note?” Annie demands.
“Nothing happened after the note.”
“So Natalie went to school today because Capone got her in and you never told anyone and then you get this Your turn note. That’s the truth? You swear it?”
“It’s the truth, except somebody else knows a little. Piper. She knows I sent Capone a letter. When Nat got in, she asked me about it but I told her it was because the Esther P. Marinoff opened a school for older kids. That’s what they told my parents. That’s the reason they think she got in too.”
That’s not the only thing Piper knows that I wish she didn’t. She also knows that my sister made friends with convict #105. Having your sister, who isn’t right in the head, befriend a grown man convicted of a terrible crime isn’t my idea of fun. In fact, I’d rather run buck-naked down California Street than have that happen again. But that’s a whole other story I hope never to tell. Alcatraz 105, aka Onion, got sent to Terminal Island and then released, so he’s not on Alcatraz anymore. I don’t have to worry about him ever again.
“But no one knows about Capone’s notes?”
“Nope.”
“You know what he wants, don’t you?” Annie whispers. “Payback.”
“But how would he even know Natalie left today?” I ask weakly.
She frowns. “Cons know everything that happens on this island, you know that.”
“Yeah, but why didn’t he say what he wanted? If it had been me, I would have asked for double chocolate brownies with no nuts, the sports page, the funny papers, vanilla sucking candy, French fries, a cheeseburger, a book on the Babe. He didn’t ask for anything, Annie.”
“He wants to make you sweat,” Annie says. “He’s the cat and you’re the mouse. Back home in Omaha we had a barn cat who would get a mouse, play with it for a few hours, then take it off to a dark corner and eat the head off.”
“So nice of you to put it that way,” I growl.
Annie nods, ignoring my sarcasm. “It’s true and you know it. You sure this is only the second note?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I snap at her.
Her blue eyes have gone watchful now. “This is serious, Moose.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“So what are you going to do? I mean if anyone found out you did a favor for Capone, your dad would be fired”—she snaps her fingers—“like that.”
“Any more good news for me?”
“And you know what else? If Capone got Natalie into the Esther P. Marinoff, he could get her kicked out too.” She crosses her arms. “You’re cooked either way, Moose.”
“Thanks, Annie, that makes me feel just great,” I whisper.
Annie shrugs. “Well it’s true.”
“Look, Annie. This is good news.” I try to make my voice sound as if I believe what I’m saying. “Because really he didn’t ask for anything.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t be a fool, Moose. You should have told before. We have to tell now. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”
“You just said yourself if he got her in, he could get her kicked out.” I’m practically shouting. “It’s Nat’s life we’re talking about. This school is her chance.”
“You’re crazy if you help Al Capone!”
“I’m not helping him.”
She sighs, bites her bottom lip. “I shouldn’t have promised not to say anything.”
“Yeah, but you did promise.”
She bugs her eyes out at me. “I know, okay?”
“Look, this isn’t about you. Can’t you just pretend you didn’t find the note?” I’m pleading with her now.
“I’m not good at pretending.”
“You swore, Annie!”
“I know!” Annie growls.
I feel the stitches on the baseball in my hand, and I think back to last year when we lived in Santa Monica and my gram helped us with Natalie. Things were better back then. It’s too hard here with just my mom, my dad . . . and me.
“So are we going to play ball?” I whisper.
Annie rolls her eyes. “Jeepers, Moose. Something like this happens and all you can think about is baseball?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”