Over the past year, the “Mikhailovs don’t need women,” mantra had been eviscerated by every member of the family apart from me. Though my father didn’t disclose what was going on in his love life, it became increasingly obvious to Igor and me that he was seeing a dame who worked at the diner down the block from our apartment. He sat at the counter like a devout parishioner, keeping her company. It was pathetic and a true study in hypocrisy. Everything I’d been sold was a sham, easily abandoned after winks from wanton women. And just like that, I was the odd man out.

“Where do you go when you’re gone?” Igor asked, tracing his finger along the rim of his glass. “You’re off on your own so often, what kind of trouble are you getting yourself into?”

I belched and placed my glass in the sink. “Nothing that’s any of your beeswax.”

“Millie’s friend has been asking about you. She’s a real looker. You could do worse.”

“I could do better too,” I promised, putting my jacket on. “Have a good night. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” Igor said, standing up to shake my hand. “Here’s to good things to come for all of us.”

“To good things,” I nodded, intent on going to see mine. I pulled my scarf over my mouth, preparing to face the cold.

As I walked to the L, I patted my pants as I always did to ensure my pistol was where it belonged. The down economy had roused a surge of crime. Regular Joes were taking to the streets looking for ways to feed their families.  Between the fellas from other outfits, dirty coppers, petty criminals and the College Kidnappers still out there nabbing gangsters, Chicago was a jungle, and I knew I had to carry myself like the king.

Boarding the train, I recognized there were less revelers riding with me than there had been in years past and more tired, dirty folks who looked to have found a way to survive the harsh winter, at least until they were sent back to the alleys or park benches. I wondered if they felt the same confidence Igor did. They weren’t humming “Happy Days Are Here Again.” They appeared to believe they would never see another.

As difficult as Chicago weather was for the growing population of homeless, there was something about the frigid temperatures that made everything feel fresher to me. I walked down State toward The Gallery and relished the smell of burnt cedar and snow which was tangling with the Towertown air, reviving the buildings browbeaten by time.