“Nat, please don’t pitch a fit. Please,” I beg.

“It’s okay, Moose.” Theresa pats my arm like she is twelve and I am seven. “She’s just talking… aren’t you, Nat?”

“Friend, friend, friend,” Nat says, but I see her arms slowly unfurl from her chest, then her hands and fingers.

Theresa waits quietly until Nat gives her the bar spreader. “Thank you, Natalie,” she says.

“Throw it in the bay,” I whisper in Jimmy’s ear. “Get it out of here for good.” Jimmy nods, his eyes keen.

“I know! I can handle it, Moose, okay?” Jimmy snaps.

“Sure,” I whisper. “Of course.”

When he’s gone I feel better for about thirty seconds and then I begin to understand the full extent of the problem.

Somebody expects to find a bar spreader in her bottom drawer. Somebody will be looking for it very soon.

Saturday, September 7, 1935

The next day when I get up, the sun is shining brightly on the sparkling blue water. I watch the birds fly by our front window. A gull skims low on the bay. A cormorant flies by fast like he’s late. A pelican dips and soars like a stunt plane.

Things aren’t so bad, are they? I need to relax, I decide as I head for the bathroom.

“John’s a little sensitive. Don’t use too much toilet paper,” my father calls out from the kitchen.

The door to the bathroom is open. A chocolate bar sits on the sink.

I try to keep my voice steady. “Seven Fingers is coming?”

“You betcha. He’s on his way right now. Your mom’s gonna take Nat out to the swings so she won’t be underfoot.”

“Why? We weren’t having plumbing problems last night.” I try to keep the panic out of my voice.

“We’re always having plumbing problems,” my dad says.

My mom is watching me. Her eyes are full of concern. “You worried about Trixle?”

“Yeah,” I say, though right now Trixle is the least of my worries.

“Don’t blame you. I can’t stand the guy,” my mom mutters. “C’mon, Nat, let’s get out of here.”

“But Dad,” I say when they’re gone. “I don’t understand this. The toilet is working fine.”

He shrugs. “Pipes are all hooked together, Moose. One person’s having plumbing troubles and we all are. The whole building needs to be replumbed.”

“Sure,” I agree, “but why today?”

My father gives me a puzzled look. “Why not today?” he asks at the sound of approaching footsteps.

My father looks out on the balcony. “Darby.” He heads for the door, props it open for Trixle and Seven Fingers.

Trixle walks in, hitching up his trousers. Right behind Trixle is skinny, creepy Seven Fingers with his shaved knob of a head. I look down at his hands. Two fingers are missing from his left hand. On his right hand there is a stump like a notch where his index finger should be.

“Come on in, Darby.” My father moves out of the way so they can come in. Seven Fingers is the picture of obedience, following along behind Darby. Seven Fingers’s eyes never leave the carpet, but it seems like he sees everything, sucks it all in without looking up.

My father touches his officer’s cap to greet Seven Fingers. Seven Fingers nods, without meeting my father’s eyes. Darby curls his lip at my father. He and my father don’t agree about anything. Even the way my father says hello to the cons is a problem for Trixle. Too respectful. Trixle would have every convict on a leash like a dog if he could.

“All right, then, have a look, see what you think.” My father waves toward the bathroom.

Seven Fingers goes into the bathroom, Trixle stands outside, leaning against the wall, first one way, then the other. He shifts his feet, eyeing our living room sofa. He seems to decide that Seven Fingers will be all right, marches into the front room, and plunks himself down.

“Can I get you something, Darby?” my father asks.

“Don’t happen to have any of Anna Maria’s cannolis around, do you?” Trixle puts his shiny black shoes on the coffee table. “Ain’t nobody can make ’em the way she can.”

My father nods toward me. “Moose, could you run to the Mattamans’ and ask Anna Maria if she can spare a cannoli?”

When I get back with cannolis for Trixle on one of Mrs. Mattaman’s yellow flowered plates, Seven Fingers is in the living room. “Trouble’s worse than I thought. Them army pipes are three-quarter inch,” Seven Fingers says in a whispery tobacco voice. “They get jammered up real easy. Got some ’bout ready to burst. Need to replumb the whole dang place, sir.”

Trixle grunts. “Not going to replumb the whole dang place, that’s for sure. Get the ones ’bout to burst, then we’ll call it a day.”

Seven Fingers cocks his head like his hearing is bad. His eyes are on the cannolis.

“You heard me. Get a move on,” Trixle growls. Seven Fingers sidles back to the bathroom.

I stay on the couch until Trixle and my dad get to talking about politics.

My dad’s eyes are riveted on Trixle. “WPA’s gonna get the whole country working again,” he insists.

“Ain’t nothing but handouts,” Trixle shoots back.

“Can’t say I agree with you on that.” My father grinds his teeth.

This is my chance. I have to take it. But my legs feel like they are mortared to the couch cushion and my hands are wet with sweat.

“I understand you got yourself a problem with your little girl, Cam. But this ain’t about that.”

“Doesn’t have anything to do with Natalie, Darby.”

“I’m only saying your situation’s one thing and the WPA is another.”

I’ve made my legs move. They are walking me down the hall. Trixle and my dad don’t seem to notice. My heart is beating so hard it feels like little explosions in my chest.

Seven Fingers has the bathroom door half closed and the water running.

A towel is slung across the knob. “Seven Fingers?” I whisper. My mouth is so dry I can hardly get the words out.

I peek in, but Seven Fingers isn’t in the bathroom. I take a deep breath, turn, and push open the door to Natalie’s room.

The bottom drawer is open. The shadow of Seven Fingers stands behind the door. His tall thin chest slips past me and back into the bathroom.

My heart pounds in my ears. My arms are stiff as sticks of wood. “You stay away from her,” I say.

“This ain’t kid stuff,” he murmurs, the smell of bad breath and tobacco filling my nostrils. “We know where she sleeps.” The bathroom door shuts almost silently in my face.

Same day-Saturday, September 7, 1935

“We need to talk,” I tell my dad when Seven Fingers has gone.

“Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“No.”

A darkness falls across my father’s face. He slips his toothpick box into his pocket and motions with his head toward the door. “How about we go for a walk? Could use a little fresh air,” he says.

We tromp down the stairs to the dock and around the agave trail, which runs low along the water. The wind blows hard, as it often does late in the day. It feels like a giant hand pushing us back. But my father is determined. He’s headed for a spot on the hillside looking out across at San Francisco. We sit down on rocks jutting out of the hill.

I look into his kind golden brown eyes. “Dad, what if the Esther P. Marinoff School isn’t as safe as we thought?”

“What do you mean safe?”

“What if…” I work at a stone with my heel, try to loosen it from the dirt. “What if Natalie isn’t safe there?”

His eyes squint with the effort to understand. “Safe you mean how?”

“What if she was getting visitors?”

“Visitors? For crying out loud, Moose. What are you driving at?”

The rock comes free. I hold it in my hand. “I’m worried about the convict 105.”