Lionel suspected Demarest was lying. The others must have as well: they continued to stare at the man in the chair. The barber set down the shaving mug and picked up a straight razor. Demarest frowned.

“How’d you hear about it, Morris? They held the morning edition. Commissioner’s on vacation, but he telephoned and we all have to hold the story till tonight. They don’t want a panic.”

“I got my ways,” Morris said evenly. “Black man I know on the force came in this morning, he said this was almost as bad as when the Eastland went down. ’Cause it was purposeful.”

“No doubt about that,” agreed Demarest. “I talked to a fellow works at Riverview, but he didn’t know anything. No one knows anything except a kid’s dead.”

Morris stropped the razor. “Park open today?”

Demarest nodded, and the old man next to Lionel snorted in disgust. “Baumgarten don’t want to lose any revenue,” he said to a rumble of approval.

“Opening the park and holding the story just means we’ll sell out the evening paper in a hot minute,” said Demarest. “Bet they see a lot of ticket sales for that ride.”

Morris shook his head. “People are ugly. Now you turn to me just a little, Mr. Demarest, that’s it…”

Lionel pretended to read his newspaper until it was his turn in the barber chair. No one mentioned what had happened at Riverview again.

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

SUNDAY WAS ALWAYS the busiest day at the park. Today there were cops everywhere, both Riverview’s and the city’s, acting as though this was an ordinary Sunday, and they all just happened to drop by for fun.

Pin didn’t want to run into any more goddamn cops. She wandered along the Pike in the direction of Fairyland, scowling as she dodged in and out of the crowd. She seldom made deliveries on the weekend, except occasionally to students. And Lionel, of course. Still, Max sometimes showed up on Sunday mornings, and there was always the chance he might have work for her. She kicked at spent cigars and paper cones sticky with pink threads of spun sugar, halting when she reached the tent with its lurid banner and hand-lettered sign warning away women and children.

She pulled aside the canvas flap and peered inside. No Max. Something lay on the flattened grass near the entrance, a snakelike twist of red. A neckerchief, the kind worn by the Sicilian men who lived in Little Hell. She picked it up, considered keeping it, then threw it aside. It was risky enough to disguise herself as a boy: she’d be tempting fate if she marked herself as one who might be involved with the Black Hand.

She turned and walked the few steps to Max’s shack, knocked on the door, and listened. “Max?”