Scout picks up the bat. "I don't think so, dolly. But hey, you give it all you got, gal." Scout chews his gum, smacks it, cracks it, rubs his hands on his pants and wraps them around his bat again.

The next pitch catches a corner of the strike zone.

"Strike," I call.

"I thought you said you could hit anything," Annie bellows.

Scout glares at me like this is my fault. "That was just lucky," he mutters. She pitches again. This time it's solidly in the strike zone, but Scout's timing is off. He swings and misses.

Annie's lips quiver with the effort to keep the smile off her face. Now when she winds up, she's sure of herself. She delivers the pitch. It's good. But Scout's mad. He smacks it hard-so hard it flies over 64 building, bounces on the roof, making a tinny sound, then sails over dockside. It's the best hit I've ever seen from him.

I chase after the ball, which is apparently all I'm good for. But it's my ball, for cripes' sake. Just my luck it will roll into the bay.

Scout runs too. He makes it to base and back again, while I clatter down the 64 building steps to the dock. I see my ball over by the patch of garden the cons just planted, but it's still rolling, picking up speed. My eyes are glued to the ball, which seems to be trying to decide which way to go as I thunder after it. I'm just getting close when I notice Seven Fingers and Trixle. Seven Fingers has a shaved bald head. He's lean but strong and tall. Trixle is much shorter, more compact, and bristling with muscle as if everything inside him is combustible.

It's Seven Fingers who snags the ball with his three-fingered hand. I wonder what it feels like to catch a ball with three fingers. He switches hands and tosses the ball effortlessly. I catch it barehanded.

"You kids aren't supposed to be playin' ball over here," Trixle barks. "You know that."

"We weren't. I mean I'm not. Scout hit a good one. It cleared the building," I explain.

Trixle nods, but his eyes don't believe me. He was born suspicious. "On our way to your place, Moose. You folks got the worst plumbing problems in 64 building, and that's saying a lot."

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir," I mutter.

Seven Fingers laughs at this. "Boy can't help it if his business too big for the c.r.a.pper."

"Who the H. asked you?" Trixle growls. He turns to me. "Theresa with you?" he asks, glancing up at his apartment-the biggest in all of 64 building.

"Yes, sir," I say.

"How about my Janet?"

"No, sir."

"How come you never invite Janet?"

"Uh, sir? I never invite Theresa either. She just comes."

His eyes narrow as he smacks his chewing tobacco. "Almost time for your buddy to head home."

"No, it's not."

"You talking back to me, boy?"

"No, sir, I'm not, sir. But he's supposed to eat supper with us."

"He's on the three thirty home. That's what I got. Better get your stuff and skedaddle down there."

"He's only been here since one, sir. That's not right."

"I don't make the rules, boy. Just keepin' 'em is all. And his paperwork says three thirty."

"Yes, sir," I grumble through my grinding teeth.

I head back up the 64 building stairs-the fastest way to the parade grounds-Scout has followed me partway down. "Hey," he says, when I catch up to him. "Was that a convict you were talking to? The guy who threw the ball."

"Yep, that's Seven Fingers," I tell him.

"Seven Fingers? What happened to the other three?" Scout asks as we climb back up to where Annie and Theresa are waiting for us. Jimmy is there too, closer than he was, but still holding himself at a distance.

"That's the mystery," I tell him. "We wonder whenever our toilets are stoppered up."

"Maybe a finger will come floating back up. What did he do?" Scout whispers.

"Ax murderer."

Scout tries to swallow his gasp. "Wait until I tell my dad.

"So hey . . . Wait! Seven Fingers touched it! This is a convict convict baseball now?" Scout's eyes are wide with appreciation. baseball now?" Scout's eyes are wide with appreciation.

I shrug. "I guess so."

"Can I have it? Can I?" Scout asks me.

Annie and Theresa are all crowded around. "You can have mine," Scout says. "We could trade."

I don't like the feel of Scout's ball. The st.i.tches are too high. I shrug. "I guess so."

"So you're just going to give him your baseball?" Jimmy mumbles, his eyes focused on the cement.

I'm not sure what to say to this. "He's my friend."

"Your best best friend," Scout adds. friend," Scout adds.

"And what am I?" Jimmy asks.

"You're my best friend too, but look, Jimmy, you live here. You could just get Seven Fingers to throw you a baseball whenever you want," I tell him. "And besides, I thought you had one."

"Where did you get that idea?"

"I dunno."

"That's not a real convict baseball anyway." Jimmy points at the ball. "You're supposed to find it when the cons. .h.i.t it over the rec yard wall."

"It's close enough." I shrug. "Anyway, Trixle said you have to go, Scout. I'm sorry."

Annie's shoulders move down a notch. Theresa stamps her foot. "I'm gonna go give him a piece of my mind."

"No, you're not," Annie tells her. "You can't get in hot water with Trixle and you know it."

Scout nods. "Trixle . . . he's the muscled-up officer gave me grief this morning? The one with the little girl follows him around?"

"Yep," I tell him.

Scout nods, holding the ball carefully in his glove. He looks over at Annie. "Didn't strike me out, but you did all right."

"For a girl?" she asks.

Scout thinks about this. "For a pitcher," he says.

She smiles a tiny smile, packed solid with joy. She takes a deep breath. "Good enough to play on your team?"

Scout's forehead creases with all the thinking he's doing about this. He gives his gum an extra-loud smack. "You bet, doll. You bet."

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 M with antlers for me. "Darby thinks rules are important." with antlers for me. "Darby thinks rules are important."

"Okay, I understand that with Scout, maybe 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 pa.s.smen?" 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."