Even though it was just the first week in June and summer was officially weeks off, Chicago was in high gear, anticipating the calendar’s formal pronouncement. The Loop, the city’s very public face, was already dolled up for the spate of fests, concerts, tourists, construction, and traffic snarls to come. All of it was as much a part of a Chicago summer as the ivy on the walls at Wrigley, fried ice cream at the Taste, or the one-note saxophonist who played “Harlem Nocturne” on the Michigan Avenue Bridge for dull nickels. Welcome to the glittering Land of Oz.

I eased into DuSable Marina’s lot and pulled up to the yacht club, following the sign to the office around the side. It was one of those sunny, breezy, lazy days that compelled people to call in sick or dead at their jobs. However, it didn’t appear that a lot of boats were taking advantage of the calm waters. Most of the slips were full, and the parking lot hadn’t a single car in it.

Steady traffic whizzed by on Lake Shore Drive, and the pedestrian paths circling the marina were jammed with joggers, bikers, and striders, none of them giving a fig about Tim Ayers. I pushed open the office door, triggering a tiny bell above it, me burning through Jung’s hundred bucks. “Yeah, hold on. Be right there.” A man’s voice came from the back room. I waited at a counter cluttered by boating paraphernalia: pamphlets on water safety, info on slip fees, and big, thick rope that looked strong enough to wrangle in a T. rex. A small fan farther down blew a mean wedge of hot air around, fluttering the metal window blinds and spreading the smells of algae, seaweed, and diesel oil. I eased my sunglasses off, tucked them into a pocket, and kept my breathing light.

After a time, a tugboat of a man, with a scruffy gray beard, walked out of the back. He was dressed in rumpled jeans and a faded polo shirt, the name of the yacht club stitched across the right breast pocket. On top of his ball-shaped head sat a battered captain’s hat, and his tight, round stomach hung well over a wide leather belt that must have been working overtime to hold up its end of things. The man took one look at me, registered surprise, and then followed it up with a flicker of caution. I watched as he slipped a key out of his pants pocket and locked the door behind him before slipping the key back.

“I thought you tecs were done. What’s the problem now?”