The Edge of Lost (24 page)

Shan grinned widely at the joke of it, which the deputy warden mistook for mocking. His eyes and voice tightened.

“Considering your possession of a knife and the condition Elmer was left in, I can only assume this won’t be the last of your outbursts. The nature of your criminal conviction also speaks volumes.”

On paper, Shan’s robbery and attempted murder raps certainly topped Pudge’s smaller ones. An ironic coup. But in that moment, all Shan could think about was Pudge’s name being Elmer. The disparity, paired with sleep deprivation, actually made Shan laugh.

“All of this to say,” the warden cut in gruffly, “one of you needs a more suitable location.”

There was no questioning which of the two he’d chosen.

40

T
hey called it “Devil’s Island.”

Shan discovered why before even stepping foot on Alcatraz. He still recalled the day he was ferried over with the other new “fish” on the prison launch. Bound in handcuffs and leg irons, they’d rattled in their seats while cutting through the choppy bay. San Francisco had disappeared behind them, the fog creating a sense of being swallowed, forgotten.

Then up ahead, a guard tower had poked through the mottled grayness. A rocky shoreline had eased into view, followed by the formidable fortress, which appeared suspended in midair.

Cons considered this the end of the line. To Shan, that was precisely how it felt.

A former military prison, Alcatraz was intended to house the most incorrigible of the incorrigibles. Sometimes, word had it, a guard with a grudge was all it took to get slapped with a transfer to the Rock. But then, no cons here were angels. More than a handful of them were gangsters who’d made headlines for years, their convictions no small triumph for J. Edgar Hoover. And, of course, there were those deemed escape risks.

If Warden Johnston took pride in one aspect above all, it was the “escape-proof” title he had managed to maintain. Shan got this clear from the start. The man seemed to have thought of everything: constant standing counts, single cells with tool-proof bars, limited visitations through bulletproof glass, hawklike supervision—to the point of one guard for every three inmates. The strictness of his regimen was like no other. Rules dictated length of hair, how to eat, where to sit, when to shave, shit, and shower. Not even the way to wear a shirt was optional: only top button unfastened, sleeves always down.

“Abide by your handbooks there, and we’ll all get along just fine,” the warden announced during orientation. With the looks of a banker, he wore a suit and spectacles, his hair dove white. His manner seemed rather mild for a man controlling every facet of their lives, and that included their knowledge.

All current events were kept from prisoners through bans on radios and the censorship of mail, evidenced by marks in letters from the Capellos. Newspapers, too, were prohibited, as they featured ads that had supposedly facilitated escapes at other prisons, a tactic that would never have occurred to Shan.

Still, none of this had prevented “Dutch” Bowers from scaling a chain-link fence in the spring of ’36. Assigned to incinerator detail, he’d been outside burning garbage. Shan had been on the island six months and was working nearby in the laundry. Through a barred window, he had watched the guy ignore warning shots from a tower guard. The next bullet sent Bowers plummeting seventy feet to his death on the jagged rocks below.

Warden Johnston called it an escape attempt, a cautionary tale for others with rabbit in their veins. Some inmates said Bowers had simply lost his marbles and was trying to feed the gulls. To Shan, it seemed a blatant act of suicide. Whatever the case, after a year at Alcatraz the fellow had hit his limit, and understandably so.

Sure, the confinement was no picnic, with a five-by-nine cell that seemed to shrink every day, the stench god-awful from a saltwater-filled john. The relentless monotony could test any man’s endurance. But the real torture came from the “Rule of Silence.”

Some softer guards looked the other way when it came to whispers here and there. Except for the yard and industry buildings, however, talking was prohibited. A rule that only heightened the feeling of isolation.

Many a night, struggling to sleep through inmates’ snores and the bellowing foghorn, Shan lamented the absence of Mitty’s company. Although Shan had forbidden the Capellos from ever making the trek, part of him regretted doing so. He missed their voices, their laughter. The sounds of his life had been reduced to cues from guards’ whistles, shoes marching over tiers, the squawking of seagulls. Not to mention the thunderous rack of automated cell doors. At Alcatraz, one never had to ask why it was called the slammer.

But then January brought a change.

After more than a year of the same old grind, Shan digested the news with wary skepticism. The silence rule had been lifted—or rather, “relaxed” was the phrase Warden Johnston used. No singing or yelling would be tolerated, and definitely no whistling, but speaking in a respectful manner and at normal volume was allowed.

Rumors credited politicians and reporters for contending that severe rules at Alcatraz were causing insanity. The argument arose after an inmate chopped off his fingers with a hatchet. Doubtful cons claimed he’d faked the loony bit to earn a transfer to a cushy hospital. Either way, none of them were complaining. The result benefited them all.

At first Shan just listened to their abounding chatter. It seemed their stored-up tales couldn’t pour out fast enough. For the curious types, the same went for questions.

One evening, from the next cell, a young, jovial con known as Digs said, “Capello, can I ask you something?”

“Why not. It’s a free country.” The irony seemed missed on the guy.

“Fellas here, they say you laid out some loudmouth at Leavenworth twice your size. Put him in the infirmary for months. That true?”

The account involving Pudge had apparently followed Shan and expanded along the way. At that point, he saw no upside to deflating the story.

“So they say,” was his reply.

When first transferred, Shan had dreaded the possibility that Pudge might have pals on the Rock hankering for revenge. Or that a new initiation might land him in the morgue. This was, after all, Alcatraz. Readying himself, Shan had traded cigarettes for a shank made by a con in the blacksmith shop. Made of brass, the common weapon was somehow immune to the metal detectors, or “snitch boxes,” and hid well in a sock.

Not once, though, had Shan needed to wield it. Perhaps the exaggerated tale, more than his grim stoicism, had forged a shield. A lone reason to be grateful to Pudge.

Under the altered rule, Shan was gradually finding his voice. He was never the type to beat his gums like Mitty, but neither did he wish to become so detached he’d take an axe to his own hand. Al Capone, once one of the most highly feared mobsters, served as another reminder.

Initially “Scarface” would shoot the breeze with other cons, strum his banjo during yard time. But these days, he spent many of those hours withdrawn in his cell, sometimes mumbling to no one. Which was exactly what he was doing now.

Shan caught a peek while on his way to the picture show. Held upstairs in the auditorium, it was a monthly event few cons missed, if only for a change of pace and scenery. For many, the actual film wasn’t the attraction.

Requiring the chaplain’s approval, the features invariably starred the likes of Shirley Temple and Buster Keaton over Jean Harlow and Clark Gable. No crime, no skin, no violence. But Shan didn’t mind; they reminded him of his vaudeville days, a life outside of these walls. A time when he possessed not only freedom, but also a sense of control—over himself and the audience. He would pull their strings and make them laugh. Make them gasp or cheer.

He was remembering this as he watched
Our Relations
flicker on the screen, with Laurel and Hardy churning out their gags. A year or two after Shan moved to the States, he had seen Stan Laurel in a variety show in Manhattan. The guy’s comedy sketch had been in the same vein as Shan’s.

Boy, how different their lives had turned out.

The inmates broke into laughter, snagging Shan’s attention. Laurel and Hardy were conspiring in a telephone booth when a drunken man squeezed in to answer a call. As he slurred over the phone, the comic duo tried to wrangle their way out. Their pushing and pulling toppled the whole booth, and the crowd howled again.

Shan was savoring that sound, even more than the show, when the film halted. Stunned silence lasted only a moment before several in the room grumbled, “Not this again.”

In the dimness, an older con in charge of the event scurried to the projector in the back of the room. Digs joined him as usual, ever handy with gadgets. Borrowing an officer’s flashlight, they investigated the issue as others quietly chatted.

After ten or so minutes, “Ranger Roy”—the inmates’ name for the well-liked lieutenant from Texas—made an announcement from the front. “Well, boys. Looks like we’re not having luck this time. Reckon we’ll have to wait till next month.”

A sprinkling of boos surfaced, intermixed with orders that Digs hurry up and fix the dang thing. Some guy joked that he wanted his quarter back.

“Y’all hush down, now,” Ranger Roy said.

Digs declared, “All we need is a screwdriver. Something’s stuck in the part that feeds the reel.”

Ranger Roy exhaled, dubious. Before he could refuse, Digs added, “In the meantime, Capello there can tell some jokes. Keep everyone entertained while we wait for the tool.”

All attention cut to Shan. His muscles stiffened, shackling him to his chair. He should have guessed that if his brawling tales had reached the cell house, other details would have too.

Several cons urged him to get up. A trickle of clapping swiftly gained momentum. Surely many in the group had no idea about Shan’s history onstage. It was the threat of returning to their cells that made them instant fans.

Ranger Roy raised a brow at him, asking,
Well?

As with everything in Alcatraz, there was little choice. Unless Shan wanted to make an enemy of every con in the room, he had better scrape together a few jokes and fast.

Nerves prickled his insides as he rose from his seat. A guy in his row directed him to the front, where white light illuminated the screen. Shan would have dismissed the suggestion except the walk gave him a chance to compile his thoughts.

Once there, he winced at the glare of the projector’s beam, and it nearly caused him to stumble. Then it came to him.

Shan proceeded to stagger around, transforming into the drunk in the picture show. An inmate was quick to point this out, and curiosity turned to amusement. Slurring, Shan expressed his need to get home to his wife—after he remembered where he lived, that was—and if he had a wife!

Laughter in the room propelled him to continue. As he went to speak, he interjected a hiccup and started his sentence all over again. It doubled as a stall tactic to form the next joke, earning even greater laughs.

From his view in the spotlight, the faces in the shadows could have belonged to any audience, the auditorium to any cozy theater. And for a moment, Shan was just an entertainer.

But one who could bomb—with greater consequence—if he didn’t keep it up.

He swiftly dismissed mimicking Laurel and Hardy; tackling them solo was a risk. Someone like Charlie Chaplin was safer, his famed Tramp character beloved by most. Hoping that held true in the pen, Shan switched to pantomime and straightened his invisible bow tie. Then he gave a signal to wait with his pointer finger and glanced around for a makeshift cane, but found none. Instead, drawing on the film
The Gold Rush,
he pulled off his shoe and reenacted the Tramp eating a boiled boot as if dining on barbecued ribs.

Some con yelled, “In the Atlanta pen, that’s about how the mush tasted too!”

And they all laughed, including the guards.

Shan yanked off his second shoe. With a hand inserted into each, he pretended they were bread rolls and guided them in a dance as Chaplin once had. As the laughs continued, so did Shan’s act. In the attic of his mind, an old trunk had opened. Characters returned to him like costumes mothballed for seasons. From memories of live shows and two-reel comedies, he became Groucho Marx with waggling brows and an imaginary cigar; Buster Keaton as a deadpanning cowboy.

By the time Digs proclaimed the projector had been fixed, Shan had forgotten his sole purpose of filling in. He took a bow and the room applauded, some fellows still chuckling. Shan reclaimed his seat in the sea of blue chambray shirts. Buzzing with an old familiar high, he found it difficult to focus on the film.

Afterward, when they were lined up to turn out, Shan was rewarded with compliments and pats on the back. But then, like every other con, he stood at his cell to be counted, and waited for the steel bars to slam.

41

A
boyhood dream: Shan had finally made it to Broadway.

Just not the one he’d envisioned.

Broadway was the nickname for the main corridor between B and C blocks; it led to an area featuring a clock, suitably dubbed Times Square. When his chain had first arrived at Alcatraz, they were paraded down that thoroughfare in nothing but their birthday suits. The whole cell house had welcomed them with a rarely tolerated ruckus of hollers, wolf whistles, and tin cups clanking on bars.

Two years later Shan still lived there, on the bottom tier, known as “the flats.” In addition to the extreme lack of privacy, the area was least desirable for the chill inherent in its long, slick stretch of cement—which made Ranger Roy’s gift such a gem.

One night after Shan’s impromptu act at the February picture show, the lieutenant caught Shan shivering too hard to sleep. Ranger Roy ordered a quiet guard known as “Yappy” to scrounge up a blanket thicker than standard issue. The task varied greatly from Yappy’s usual deliveries of a few knocks to the head if an inmate was too disruptive, namely the loony ones, referred to as “bugs,” who would otherwise make quacking sounds or repeat a single phrase for hours on end. Shan accepted the blanket with gratitude; it was the first time on the Rock he slept straight until morning.

Of course, this wasn’t the sole reason he agreed to perform again. While a cruel jolt of reality would follow each sampling of his vaudevillian glory, any escape was better than none. On standby for projector glitches, he would also serve as a warm-up for the films.

Naturally, this required permission from Warden Johnston, who granted an allotment of ten minutes, no more. On the day he swung by for a personal look, this meant cutting Shan off mid-gag. The low lighting had prevented a gauge of the man’s reactions, but they must have been favorable enough; soon after, Ranger Roy invited Shan to perform at the Officers’ Club for the guards and their wives—“invited” being another word for “commanded.” Really, how could he have declined?

In that regard, Pudge’s crack about Shan being a dancing monkey wasn’t too far off the mark. But at least Shan had new activities to occupy his thoughts.

Prior to the engagement, the deputy warden gave such a stern warning—as if any sane con would make trouble in that particular company—Shan could barely contain his nerves. But a few jokes in, laughter once more proved itself a universal need, as exhibited in any giggling baby. Incidentally, that was just how one heavyset wife sounded when she laughed to the point of tears. It appeared all residents on the island, even family members of the staff, craved a break from the norm.

Shan realized how comfortable he’d become when he nearly used the giggling woman as a spontaneous comedic target, a potential mistake. As was true when entertaining the cons, while mimicking or mocking, it was best not to offend people with the power to beat or stab you, or toss you in the hole.

The discretion paid off. Shan was asked to perform at the club twice more before being called to the warden’s office. Though he was certain he’d done nothing wrong, the trip still made him question it until Johnston stated his purpose. “I’ll be hosting a birthday celebration for my wife next week, down at our house, and she’d very much like you to liven up the festivities.”

Struck with as much surprise as relief, Shan tripped over his answer. “Y-yes, sir. Of course, sir. I’d be honored.”

“Some very dignified friends will be coming from the mainland.” Johnston removed his glasses from his mottled, blue-veined nose and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief. “Therefore, I’m confident I don’t have to explain how important it is that you continue your model behavior.”

He was right about that, and Shan didn’t disappoint in any way.

In fact, promptly afterward, Mrs. Johnston made a point of finding him in the kitchen, where he was packing up to leave. By then, he had acquired a passable tuxedo made by cons in the tailor shop, with handy pockets for small props like a fan and harmonica. He’d even acquired a hooked cane and shoes with wooden taps, thanks to the carpenter and cobbler shops.

“That was lovely, just lovely,” Mrs. Johnston said. She resembled one of his schoolmarms from Ireland, with her broad shoulders and glasses, her graying hair and downturned lips. Yet in contrast, she raised her lips pleasantly and shook his hand as she would any welcomed guest. For a moment, he almost forgot he’d been marched down from “up top.”

In turn, Shan offered genuine compliments on her lavish home. Adorned with sleek, black-walnut furnishings created by inmates, the Spanish Mission–style mansion was said to contain an astounding fourteen rooms and scores of fireplaces. She smiled at his words but truly brightened when he lauded the Victorian garden in her side yard.

Soon they were discussing her blackberries and roses and poppies. Shan suggested red-hot pokers and snapdragons might do well in the seaside climate, as he recalled learning about their heartiness during the many hours he’d spent in the community garden in Brooklyn.

With his knowledge on the topic, Mrs. Johnston assumed he had been assigned to gardening detail. He told her he’d applied but was still on garbage duty. While he was grateful to have earned an outdoor job, growing plants would beat collecting trash any day.

“Well, perhaps we can do something about that,” she said, just as Ranger Roy appeared to escort him back.

Mrs. Johnston proved true to her word. Within days Shan received a work change. He was reassigned to a greenhouse on the east side of the island, down by the water tower. The improvements he made and hopeless plants he revived didn’t go unnoticed. In fact, when the con assigned to the warden’s garden and greenhouse shipped off to be paroled, his duties were transferred to Shan. This, in effect, promoted him to passman, one of the few handpicked cons who worked at the warden’s residence. The other passmen primarily cleaned and cooked at the mansion. Shan obtained the rank faster than usual, thanks to his model behavior and uncommonly short criminal record. But mainly he credited a referral by Mrs. Johnston, even supported by the deputy warden and several guards. It was fascinating how easily humor fostered trust and likability.

Since his gardening work spanned the latter half of the day, starting at the warden’s house and ending at the water tower, he served as a library orderly in the mornings. His literary knowledge often enabled him to match an inmate’s tastes with a number of fitting books, a skill even public enemies like “Creepy” Karpis appreciated. As a perk, Shan had first pick of any new titles that arrived. By far the most popular books centered on lessons in bridge.

Inmates spent so many hours in their cells; aside from dreaming up escapes, the most common pastimes were smoking, reading, and playing games. Shan used his own tobacco rations solely for trade, exchanging hand-rolled smokes for a smuggled Hershey’s bar or Jujubes. But with games as much as books, he was right in the thick of it.

After lockdown, he and Digs would often play checkers or chess from their respective cells, both with their own boards and pieces, calling out their moves. Bridge, though, was the cell house obsession. For many, that game became all they gabbed about, night and day. A caged man, more than anyone, needed a focal point to keep from going berserk.

Thanks to years of gaming strategies against Nick, Shan wound up winning three tournaments on the yard. There, cons were allowed to compete with specially marked wooden dominoes. Not only were they practical against the wind, but they also lacked the flammable coating found on playing cards.

As usual, nothing got past Warden Johnston.

Well … make that almost nothing.