“The blast furnaces burn day and night,” Liam said from the bench beside him. “Rich people moved out here to get away from the smokestacks, but soot now reaches the fancy parts of town too.” He gloated as he said it.

Soon the wide lawns and fine houses gave way to office buildings and warehouses that stored petroleum, gas, and coal to fuel the industrial metropolis. They passed glass and leather factories, steel mills, and oil refineries. Soot left its shadow on the sidewalks, the lampposts, even the trunks of the trees.

After leaving the train, they took a streetcar to the neighborhood where Liam had grown up. Its bleakness was unsettling, and the air had a taste to it. It might have been Patrick’s imagination, but the children tossing a ball in the street had an ashen look.

Liam grew up in a row house that adjoined fifteen other identical units, all leased to steelworkers from the nearby mill. It was impossible to tell the original color of the brick because of the soot.

“We’ve got at least an hour to poke around before my mom gets back from work,” Liam said. Janet Malone worked at a nearby glass factory, but his father had died from lung disease ten years earlier.

Liam vaulted up the front steps to unlock the door, triggering the eager bark of a dog inside.

“That’s just my dog, Frankie,” Liam said with pride.

The lock was sticky and demanded some jiggling, but the moment Liam was inside, he dropped to his knees to greet a fat, ugly bulldog that waddled up to him.

“Who’s a good dog?” Liam growled, grabbing a handful of wrinkly fur and giving the dog a vigorous rub. “Give me a kiss, you old slobber-bucket.”

Patrick watched in appalled wonder as Liam lay flat on his back, letting the dog plant its paws on his chest and lick his face. The dog emitted a nonstop stream of grunts, snuffles, and little yelping barks. Liam finally rolled upright and lifted the dog to carry it like a baby.

“This is Frank,” Liam said, tilting the dog’s wrinkly, mashed-in snout toward Patrick. “He usually lives with me in Philly, but Mom’s been watching him since I went to New York.”

A glance around the room showed a clean but humble home. Patched furniture stood atop a worn braided rug, and a row of dishes was proudly displayed on a plate rack, the only ornamentation in the house.

“So you like English bulldogs,” Patrick said, and Liam nodded.

“I’ve always liked bulldogs. Frank is my third.”

Willy Blackstone had an English bulldog. They were an expensive breed and useless for hunting, guarding, or anything except lumbering a few paces and collapsing for a nap. Willy Blackstone had been out with his bulldog when Mick tempted him over the backyard fence. Liam’s affinity for bulldogs couldn’t prove anything, but it was an interesting detail.