A few yards away stood the She-Male’s tent. Usually there’d be a crowd by now, though Max kept an unreliable schedule, especially on Sundays. Francis knew he had a woman somewhere—Max had made a point of telling him that. So Max wasn’t a fairy, and Francis had never heard of him molesting Pin, or any of the other boys. He pushed aside the tent flap and peeked inside, wrinkling his nose at the reek of mud and urine; dropped the flap and walked over to Max’s shack. He rapped at the door and, when he heard no reply, turned the knob. The door opened, which was odd.

But inside he saw nothing worth stealing. A half-full bottle of whiskey and some dirty postcards, a stained cloche hat, and a tattered silk skirt, tinsel drooping from its hem. A table scattered with cosmetics and some empty cigarette packets. A gaffed freak’s dreary props, all dusted with cigarette ash and a melancholy air that made Francis quickly return outside.

He headed back to the Pike, wiping a trickle of sweat from his cheek. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He considered getting a hot dog, decided to wait until supper. His landlady, Mrs. Dahl, served a decent pork chop. He walked toward the exit gate, pausing to tip his helmet at a young woman in a smart new military-style frock. “Very nice,” he said, admiring her hat, a regimental turban in bright pink.

The woman’s cheeks pinked. He started to ask if she was in need of directions, but she turned and ran toward a man waiting beside the Lagoon.

Francis watched her go, the flicker of desire fading into the more familiar pang of loss. Maria Walewski; his sister, Ellen; Maura; that girl in Boston…Women and girls, they were all destined to disappear.

He flinched, thinking of Maura. The abortionist had stolen three lives that afternoon—Maura’s, their bastard child’s, his own. Yet maybe it wasn’t too late for Francis to steal back the kind of life that should have been his. He did an about-face and headed to the arcade on the far side of the park.

Three high-school girls stood in front of Gina Maffucci’s booth. One, pretty and plump in a dotted-swiss dress and straw Panama, burst into laughter when she saw him.

“There’s the next man you see! Hey, Mister, want to marry our friend here? That’s what her fortune said!”

Francis tipped his hat at each of them. “I could, but then what about the rest of you? I’d hate to leave anyone disappointed.”

The girl they were teasing stuck her tongue out at him. “I ain’t marrying no old man,” she announced. “Who says I’m marrying ever? Maybe I’m a suffragette.”

Her friends doubled over as she stalked off, nose in the air.