“Thank you, sir,” she said, and smiled from beneath a stylish straw toque. Francis watched as she bent over the fountain, a spray of droplets spattering her white shirtwaist. No beauty, but she had a nice figure and wore the shorter skirts that were fashionable this summer, her ankles visible beneath the linen hem.

“You’re very welcome.” He smiled, winking, and she blushed before hurrying to join her friends. Maybe he could find her later in one of the beer gardens.

He stepped up to the fountain, drank, and returned to his rounds, watching for pickpockets, jackrollers, lost children. It was early for drunks, but sometimes you’d see someone who’d been up all night elsewhere and ridden the streetcar to Western Avenue in hopes of keeping the fun going. But mostly, he gave directions to the washrooms and water fountains.

Francis had been a real cop years before—detective sergeant at Robey Street station. That was before he got involved with the notorious murder case involving Pietro Divine, the killer for the Black Hand. Francis had found incontrovertible evidence linking Divine to seventeen missing persons, including five members of the same family, mother, father, and three small children, their skeletal remains discovered in a gravel pit in an abandoned Little Hell brickyard.

He’d also uncovered evidence of corruption in the police department, linking several high-ranking men to the Black Hand. Francis testified against Rusty Cabell and the captain over at Dearborn Street, despite being warned that the judge was also in cahoots with the Sicilians. The case got thrown out of court. Cabell was promoted to captain at Robey Street, and Francis got tossed from the force.

That had been more than three years ago—around the same time that Bill Hickey, a former colleague of Francis’s, had taken over as head of the amusement park’s police force. They ran into each other at a saloon a few weeks after Francis’s dismissal.

“Come work with me, Francis,” Hickey urged as he peeled a hard-boiled egg. “Pay’s good. Two dollars a day. Three if you work till midnight and close the place.”

Francis had stared stonily into his glass of beer and refused to reply. Hickey shook his head.

“You got snookered, Francis, I know that. But you need a job, and it would be good to have another policeman working with me—they’re detailing everyone from the force to the Loop these days, or Little Hell. Half my staff are night watchmen from the meat plants, they don’t know a bunco artist from their auntie’s arse. It’d be a favor to me, Francis.”

Francis snorted. “Misery loves company.” But he took the job.