PIN FELT WOBBLY along the Pike. She’d been thinking about food all morning. An ice-cream cone or a slice of pie, maybe a wienie. Or she could go to the canteen where the park employees had their meals, brown bread and some sort of German stew. The sixty cents in her pocket could last her till tomorrow—longer, if she was frugal, and still leave her enough to visit the Comique.

But now the air shimmered with heat, and her stomach churned at the thought of food. As the house-sized German cuckoo clock near the Blue Streak chimed, Pin strained to count the hours above Ballmann’s band playing “The Washington Post March.”

Three-fifteen. Day halfway gone.

She yawned and wandered toward a stand of rhododendrons, lay on the grass, and closed her eyes, waiting for the world to slow down.

She felt better after a few minutes. She got up and walked to the water fountain by the Infant Incubators, stood in line, and, when it was her turn, drank until her stomach felt like a balloon. She stuck her face in the spray, soaked her cap, and clapped it, dripping, back on her head. An old man gave her a disapproving look.

“Whatcha gawking at, Mister?” Pin sneered and shoved past him, right into Fatty Bacon.

“Hiya, Pin. Where’s your friends?”

Pin swiped water from her face. “Dunno. I been gone all morning.”

Fatty Bacon gazed down at her from beneath the brim of his helmet. “Lady said her reticule got stolen, over by the incubators.”

She started to sprint off, but Fatty grabbed her shoulder. “A reticule, and two stolen wallets,” he continued. “Captain Hickey says there’s been a rash of ’em. You seen any pickpockets, Pin? Or any other bunco?”

“Nope.” She yanked her arm, and he let go of her. “I told you, I don’t know.”

“What about your friends? Anyone got more spending money than usual? Mugsy?”

“Ask him yourself. Everyone’s broke.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Fatty removed his helmet and blotted his forehead with a handkerchief. “Heat makes people nutty. Seen anything funny?”

Pin puffed her cheeks out, pretending to think. “Yeah,” she said at last. “A feller by the incubators. Short feller with a mustache. He looks suspicious.”

“Yeah? What’s he look like?”

“I told you. Short. He wore a boater.”

“That’ll make him stand out in the crowd.”

“I seen him before. He watches the kids going in and out. I think he went off to the Tickler,” she added, lying.

“Really?” Fatty turned to gaze at the long line in front of the Tickler’s entrance. He sighed, glanced down, and adjusted Pin’s cap. “Regards to your mother.”

She waited until he was out of sight, then spat and walked in the opposite direction.

Chapter 13

Chapter 13