The Edge of Lost (25 page)

42

“W
hat’s the hurry, Capello? You got a date?”

Shan stopped. He gripped the handle on the basket of tomatoes he’d emptied and turned back to Bert. The towheaded forger from Ohio stood in the warden’s kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. The other passman, “Lefty,” was distracted across the room.

Shan shrugged, trying to discern what Bert knew. “Just got a lot to get done.”

“Plants aren’t going nowhere, unless you’re growing beanstalks.” Bert’s words were slightly garbled between bites of carrot. “I can whip you up a snack if you like.”

The direction of the topic put Shan at ease. “I’m fine, thanks—”

“Shh,” Lefty cut in. “I’m trying to listen here.” In a white house jacket and trousers, a match to Bert’s outfit, the counterfeiter from Boston had reddish-brown hair and a small scar on his chin. He was hunched over the kitchen table, cleaning. Or at least toweling the same spot over and over while leaning toward the swinging door to keep tabs on the Red Sox.

Every so often, Mrs. Johnston would just so happen to leave the radio on in the parlor at a volume that could reach the kitchen, particularly during a ballgame. Newspapers, likewise, were sometimes left lying around for quick perusal. The woman was nothing if not generous.

Shan was about to head out when he recognized a name.

“Here’s Lazzeri, giving it another go,” the broadcaster said. The Yankee slugger still ranked among Mr. Capello’s favorites. “He’s waiting for the pitch, looking confident now … here it comes … and it’s a solid hit. A single over second.”

“That’s more like it.” Bert slapped the counter. “DiMaggio’s gonna pull this out. You watch.”

Lefty hissed. “That rookie wop’s just gotten lucky. I give him three seasons tops.”

Shan envisioned Mr. Capello at home on the davenport, tuned in to the radio this very minute, saying,
Next week, you will see. With their Italian smarts, Lazzeri and DiMaggio—and Crosetti too—they will sweep the whole series.

How Shan longed to share those conversations again.

As Bert and Lefty bickered over stats, Shan slipped out the door. He walked around the corner, a path he had been treading for the past five months. The sound of the waves and birds reminded him of Dunmore, as did the air, now cooling with summer long gone. Wispy clouds feathered the Friday afternoon sky.

Riding the salt-misted breeze, scents of chocolate and coffee wafted from factories in the city. Perhaps Shan had only imagined it, but the notion drew his gaze across the bay, to the sight that taunted every con on the Rock: civilization, just over a mile away.

On days like this, free of fog, it looked even closer. Impeding that short jaunt, of course, were treacherous currents, icy waters, and sharks desperate for a meal. Or so the rumors went. Johnston must have feared inmates would attempt to swim it regardless, since the prison showers were heated above normal to prevent cons from acclimating to the cold. At least that was the word on the hill.

Some fellas even claimed to hear ladies giggling from the yacht club. Shan had yet to catch it, but even now he heard plenty of laughter right here on the island. On the south end, below the warden’s house, children were running about, antsy after the ferry ride back from school. They were strapping on roller skates and warming up for a ballgame. In lieu of cowboys and Indians, they played “guards and cons,” taking turns locking one another up.

It was an odd scene, in light of their surroundings, but one that Shan would soon miss nonetheless.

He entered the greenhouse and closed the door, stepping down into the room. A lush spread of flowers—marigolds, daisies, freesias, and more—brightened the counters that ran both lengths of the walls. He set down the basket and wiped his hands on his coveralls. A stamp of
AZ-257
blared on the denim, a reminder of his identity.

From a nearby plant, he plucked a ripe cherry tomato and took it toward the supply cabinet. At the far corner, he lowered to a squat.

And there she appeared, like clockwork. Beneath the counter, curtained by hydrangea and stacks of clay pots, was Sadie Martin. She sat cross-legged in her rust-red dress and yellow cardigan. As usual, strands hung loose from her chestnut-brown ponytail, mussed from the school day and rides on the launch.

He held up the tomato before closing his hand around it. The ten-year-old waited, her hazel eyes glinting with interest. He waved his other fingers about, blew into his fist, and opened it to show an empty palm. It was the same trick he had used the first time they’d interacted—directly so, anyhow.

Back in May, he had detected her presence from the start but went about his business for weeks. Among the rules in “Old Seawater” Johnston’s handbook was a strict ban on any contact with civilians on the island. This was rarely an issue, given the maze of fences, gates, and wires. But the girl evidently found ways to roam at will.

Shan had been determined not to jeopardize his good standing, his new detail most of all. Yet he could feel her curious eyes watching—the way Lina used to do—and one day she left a token.

Shells pasted together formed the shape of a person, eyes and mouth added with ink. The figure carried a basket, woven from weeds, making it clear the figure was Shan.

The next afternoon, he had heard her crawling back in. Always she would enter through a low, sliding panel used for water access. He was just heading out to report for his thirty-minute count—not even passmen had full free reign—but a thought came to him. He pulled from his denim pocket a hard-boiled egg saved for a snack. Below a small crack in the shell, he drew a face with potting soil and placed the egg outside of her hiding spot. When Shan returned from his count, Humpty-Dumpty had vanished, along with the girl.

For a time, they’d continued this way, furtively trading shell art—of animals and suns and flowers—for Shan’s creative makings of fruit and rolls and leaves. Then one afternoon, he’d dug out some potatoes from beneath the counter, where he was growing them in a stack of tires. Practicing for the monthly picture show, he was juggling the vegetables when he glimpsed the girl leaning out for a peek. His awareness of an audience triggered the entertainer inside, and with little thought he transformed into a clumsy clown, nearly dropping the potatoes over and over until catching them with both hands and one under his chin. Though the girl disappeared into her haven, he’d heard her stifle a giggle.

Soon after, he couldn’t say what emboldened him, exactly. Maybe it was the “relaxed” rules passmen enjoyed under Mrs. Johnston. Maybe it was the yearning to do anything that wasn’t recorded, censored, or authorized. Or perhaps it was a familiarity he sensed in the girl, a loner type with defenses not easily lowered. Whatever the cause, he’d ventured to approach her with a snap pea, its texture and sweetness worthy of Mrs. Capello’s approval. Too tentative to accept, however, the girl had withdrawn behind the pots, a fawn distrustful of a hunter offering berries.

Shan had been about to set down the gift, leaving it for her choosing, but reconsidered. Borrowing a trick from the circuits, he’d instead grandly displayed the snap pea and, with a sleight of hand, made it disappear. When she didn’t respond, he’d yielded with a shrug. He had tried.

Yet once he’d stood up, she said in wonder, “Where did it go?”

Since then, her words had increased with each trick until far surpassing them. He’d made vegetables and flowers pop out of her ear, the air above her, even from her own hand.

This time, Shan continued to exhibit his empty palm, passing it before her eyes. He then swiped it over his mouth and pretended to chew on the cherry tomato. Through the months, Sadie had become harder to impress.

“I know you’re not really eating it,” she said.

He exaggerated a swallow and wiped his chin. “Now, why would you say that?”

She folded her arms, looking on the verge of a yawn.

“So where is it, then, smarty?”

She glanced at his hands, his coveralls, and pointed. “In one of your pockets.”

He shook his head and turned his pockets inside out. “Got nothin’ here.”

She squinted, calculating.

“Or,” he said, “did you mean yours?”

She hastened to investigate the pocket of her cardigan, from which she produced the tomato. A grin spread across her round face. “How’d you do that?” she said before plopping it into her mouth.

“Do what?” He shrugged and resumed his tasks.

It was a fitting place for magic. A separate world where earth and flowers scented the air, a house of colors and blooming and hope. And the plants agreed. Several were doing so well, they had outgrown their original pots. Shan needed to transfer them while he still had the chance.

It was already the start of October, and his assignment to the warden’s garden would soon end for the year. Midsummer he’d been granted permission to expand his work to Saturdays, as there were always extra shrubs to trim or leaves to rake. But before long, his greenhouse duties would be reduced for the season, news he had yet to pass to Sadie. Though he dreaded another winter cooped up in the cell house, lately he was more concerned about leaving the girl on her own. From what he’d gathered, her initial reclusion seemed the result of her mother’s death a year ago, which prompted the move to Alcatraz—maybe the same applied to the quietness of her father, Yappy. At any rate, Shan worried that the girl, with no sibling or friend to speak of, would quickly retract into herself.

“It’s nice out there today,” he told her, arranging pots on the counter for transplant. “You should be getting some fresh air, playing with other kids.”

“It’s too windy.”

“Windy? You’re on an island. That’s not gonna change.”

“Then why do
I
need to? I like it in here.”

Shan sighed. Sadie was too clever for her own good.

“You know the last book you told me about?” she said.

With a garden trowel, Shan started loosening the first plant by its edges. “
Sense and Sensibility
.”

“I stopped reading it.”

When he had mentioned his mam’s favorite novel, which Lina equally adored, Sadie decided to borrow it from the school library. “I tried to tell you it’d be too hard,” he reminded her.

“It wasn’t that. It was just silly. Like
Little Women
.” Sadie was ripping dried leaves into little pieces. “All those girls care about are boys mooning over them, or what to wear to some dumb ball. It made me want to punch them in the nose.”

Shan couldn’t argue. His feelings over Jane Austen’s stories hadn’t been much different—though not to the point of punching.

“Anyway, I started a different one,” she said. “
The Count of Monte Cristo
. Have you read it?”

He couldn’t help but smile at the dark humor inherent in the question. “A long time ago,” he said simply.

A novel about a wrongly convicted inmate who escapes from a heinous prison to lead a life of wealth and happiness, for some reason, wasn’t on the approved list at the Alcatraz library.

“So far, it’s pretty good. But …”

At her reluctance, he turned to her. “What?”

“I’m at the part when Dantes and the priest are digging tunnels under the prison. All they’ve got are some tools made from candlesticks and stuff. How would that even be possible?”

Leave it to Sadie to think of this. Her own daring adventures—whether island exploring, shell collecting, or seawall climbing— were always evidenced on any limb not protected by her dresses. The girl was a future Nellie Bly, bound to circle the globe to defy the odds.

And she was right. At least at Alcatraz, if there were a way to dig a tunnel to freedom, an inmate would have done so by now.

“I guess that’s why it’s fiction,” Shan said, and returned to his work. He preferred to dedicate his thoughts to something real rather than the impossible.

Just then, something moved in his periphery. Through the glass walls, a figure in denim approached. Shan signaled to Sadie and she ducked out of sight.

The door swung open.

It was Ralph Roe. Roughly Shan’s age, with a mop of wavy brown hair, he was a bank robber essentially serving life. From their brief exchanges, Shan had picked up on a faint accent from the guy’s Missourian roots.

“What can I do for you, Ralph?”

“Need an extra hose.” Ralph held a shovel, both hands in gloves, supplies from his landscape detail. His face and coveralls were smudged with dirt.

“Sure thing. Give me minute, and I’ll bring it to you.”

“I’ll get it.”

Ralph stepped inside and Shan knew exactly where he was headed. The canvas hose sat coiled near the empty pots, a barricade for Sadie.

“You know,” Shan said, trying to cut him off. “It’d be easier if I threw it in the cart for you.”

“I’m fine.” Ralph continued to the end with Shan on his heels.

“Really, it’s no trouble.”

Ignoring him, Ralph snatched up the hose, just as Shan realized Sadie was gone.

Slipped out like a mouse.

Shan pulled back casually. He gave Ralph ample room to pass, which the man did in a cooler manner than he used for others.

It was no secret the privileges of passmen were resented by many cons, worsened by suspicion given how much time they spent in the warden’s home. Shan’s bonus role as the “funnyman” afforded him leeway with most, but not all—Ralph being in the minority. This left Shan especially relieved over Sadie’s clean getaway, for reasons other than a breach of the rules.

Rumors in the cell house spread much like gossip in the apartments of Dublin, where even “friendships” were twisted into something foul and dark. A convicted felon who enjoys the company of a ten-year-old girl?

Just imagine what they’d say.

43

A
t Alcatraz, it didn’t seem possible for time to pass slower—until attending Sunday Mass.

Once more, slightly hunched in his vestments, Father Anthony droned even more than the former chaplain from St. Anne’s. Worse yet, his aged warbling made his words even harder to absorb. If not for the responsorial psalms and having to rise repeatedly, Shan would be nodding off like Bert. In the row of chairs ahead, the guy’s head kept falling forward before springing back up.

Shan suppressed a yawn and reviewed his missal. The typewritten program confirmed that they were about halfway through. As Father Anthony intoned the homily, Shan’s attention drifted to the altar. The impressive wooden structure carved by inmates transformed the auditorium into a chapel replete with flowers, candlesticks, and a large cross.

Alternating with the Protestants, Catholic services were held every second and fourth Sunday. For a mere change of scenery, several cons had cited parents of differing faiths in order to attend every week. Yet even those inmates had gradually ceased coming to Mass.

Considering Shan’s course in life, he couldn’t say how he felt about God these days—so far, his almighty plan didn’t rate a standing ovation—but Sunday services at least connected Shan to a waning sense of normalcy.

At long last, the priest prepared the Eucharist. Two altar boys assisted with the offering, including “Machine Gun” Kelly. Mass was the only time the con wasn’t bragging about one caper or another—half of them baloney, according to others.

After the ringing of a holy bell, Communion and prayers, and more standing, sitting, and kneeling, the service came to an end. Father Anthony blessed and dismissed the congregation, launching a buzz of relief.

Shan blinked hard to rouse himself. He made his way to the end of the row, where he deposited his missal in a wastebasket.

Fellows mingled, in no hurry to turn out. Father Anthony was shaking hands, encouraging participation in his recent addition of post-service confession. In the corner, a four-paneled privacy screen, wood carved and painted white, shielded a pair of chairs not three yards from a guard. Nothing in Alcatraz was completely sacred.

Shan had almost managed to bypass the priest, but the holy man caught his gaze and extended a hand in greeting. “Peace be with you, my son.”

Forcing a pleasant face, Shan said, “Also with you, Father.”

The priest’s grip, stronger than expected, lingered as he continued. “I noticed, after last Mass, you chose not to visit the confessional.”

The observation did cause Shan a niggling of guilt, but it was of small consequence given the load he already carried. Besides, what would a Catholic do if he didn’t suffer from guilt over one sin or another? He gently retracted his hand.

“I’m not quite up to it, Father. Maybe next time.”

“I see.” The priest’s vocal quiver didn’t hide his disappointment.

Shan yearned to escape the awkwardness mounting between them, but the crowd’s movements held him there.

“Well, then, I urge you to take this with you.” Father Anthony pressed a missal into Shan’s palm, his eyes firm amid his wrinkles. “Reread the Lord’s message from the service, my son. Let it reach into your heart and provide salvation.”

“Yes, Father.” An ingrained placation since grade school.

Father Anthony smiled and moved on to another sinner.

At the door, a guard named Finley sniffed his nose in his usual rodent way. He ordered the inmates to line up and head out, with an exception. Those staying for confession were to quietly wait their turn in the front row. After all were finished, they, too, would return as a group.

Shan followed the procession out single file. He was nearing the stairs when the line congested a bit and his awareness stirred.

Something about Father Anthony unsettled him. The handshake, his eyes, his words. They were less insistent than pleading.

Shan opened the missal, which he’d planned to simply discard. In the top margin appeared a handwritten note.

 

 

Exodus … waters … freedom …

It couldn’t really be a reference to—could it?

“Wake up, Groucho Marx,” Bert called from the rear of the line.

Startled, Shan folded the page and glanced over his shoulder. Directly behind him stood an inmate named Ted Cole. His severely arched eyebrows and large nostrils from an upturned nose befit his sinister reputation.

Finley called out, “Quit holding things up, Capello. You’re lagging!”

At the guard’s order, Shan hurried down the steps to catch up. The prisoners were marched to their cells to obtain their wool coats. Shan hid the missal in his library book, stored on his wall shelf, before being ushered out to the yard.

Cons who hadn’t gone to the Mass had been out here since breakfast. Much like kids from the parade ground, they passed the time with softball or horseshoes. Some played handball, the more dedicated ones trying to build up strength for a swim to freedom. Off to the side, a swarm of bridge players on low stools competed in heated matches.

“Capello,” Digs hollered from among them. “You in?”

Shan struggled to focus, shook his head.

Digs swiveled back to deal more dominoes.

A burst of wind whipped at Shan’s face, yet it was the priest’s message that sent a shiver down his spine—though, really, it shouldn’t have. Shan was jumping to conclusions. Father Anthony hardly seemed the type to conspire a daring prison break. The verse could have been a note to himself, transcribed for a future homily.

To be certain, he needed to clarify. And he knew just the person to help.

Shan strolled nice and easy through the jungle, a misnomer for the yard. They ought to call it the “zoo,” with its concrete walls twenty feet high, topped with chain-link fences and barbwire. It made for a secure place to try like hell to tame animals captured in the wild.

From the perimeter catwalk, guards surveyed the herd, ready to subdue a periodic clash. Shan felt them watching now. Taking his time, he threaded his way to the pseudo-dugout, where Lefty did more griping than cheering for his team.

“Are you blind, dimwit? What the hell was that?” He spat and raked his fingers through his hair, creating spiky red tufts.

Shan sidled up next to him, hands in his coat pockets. Yappy stood high above, grasping his rifle, his features dark and angular. His attention was directed elsewhere, the way Shan regularly aimed to keep it. Whereas noisy disruptions in the cell house earned a couple of whacks to the noggin, consorting with the officer’s kid would warrant far worse, if discovered.

“Hey, Lefty,” Shan said. “I wanted to ask you …”

“Huh? How’s that?” As the son of a Baptist minister, Lefty was known to be well versed in scripture, even if he didn’t always apply it.

“At Mass today, I was trying to remember an old Bible verse my ma likes. I think it was Exodus, ten-fifteen. You know that one?”

“Chop, chop! Let’s go, let’s go!” Lefty clapped, urging on a teammate.

“Lefty?” Shan pressed.

“What? Oh. Ten-fifteen. Yeah. That’s about, uh, the locusts, taking over Egypt. Gobbling everything up.”

Locusts. And Egypt. Not great waters.

“You sure about that?”

Lefty turned to him and huffed a laugh. “Believe me. I’m sure,” he said. Then he delved back into the game.

Thoughts spinning, Shan ambled away. A few months ago, Father Anthony had transferred from Leavenworth to replace Father Clark, adding a confessional two services back. Was Shan the reason why? This morning, was the priest shooting for a private talk? Was any of this possible?

The idea seemed ludicrous. Honestly, who would even have the power to manipulate such a thing?

Well—other than Max.

Shan supposed the man might have that kind of pull, certainly enough dough. With the value he placed on trust and loyalty, it wouldn’t be completely outlandish to think Max might want to repay Shan for his silence in the courtroom.

But if that was the case, the numbers would have to signify something. Ten-fifteen.

A code? A time, a date?

It was a plot straight out of a picture show. He felt silly even entertaining the thought—before he remembered.

October the fifteenth. Ten-fifteen. The night of the warden’s next party …

The event was less than a week away.

Once again, Johnston wished to exemplify his noble aim of rehabilitation over punishment. In doing so, he had scheduled Shan to perform. Or had someone else arranged that too? Many of the guests would be dignitaries, the type of powerful figures with whom Max Trevino would surely be acquainted.

If any of this had merit—which perhaps it didn’t—more details were sure to come. But here was the real question: did Shan even want them?

Over meals, he’d heard about dozens of jailbreaks at other prisons. Some efforts were downright doomed from the start, while others were impressively resourceful. Many times they’d succeeded, if their boasts were to be believed. But the failures didn’t evade consequence: beatings and months in the hole, sentences lengthened, elimination of all “good time” accumulated.

Or you could end up like Dutch Bowers, sprawled like seaweed on a rocky shore.

Shan surveyed his surroundings. His whole life had been spent on islands—first Ireland, then Long Island, now here. Though still no closer to paradise, Alcatraz wasn’t the house of horrors the papers made it out to be. Dish out trouble, you’d get it right back and then some. But by keeping himself straight, Shan had built a tolerable existence. Over time, he had accepted his situation as reality and was sure he’d eventually come out the other end in one piece.

Granted, he had fleeting daydreams like any other con, of scaling a fence or diving headfirst into the bay. But would such an attempt ever be worth the risk?