“The police wouldn’t say?”

“I got foisted off on some gin-soaked wreck at the Fourth. Had about as much vim as a worn-out handkerchief. He didn’t know a damn thing.”

“I can hardly hope to best him.”

“Come on. You gotta have something. Ain’t you been investigating?”

“I’m pursuing a matter tangentially related to the bombing.”

“So it is a bombing. A bombing could be page one.”

“Pardon me. I misspoke. ‘Explosion’ is the better word.”

“Certainly, miss. Certainly.”

His hand rubbed the pocket of his jacket, yearning to reach for the notebook inside.

“Have you a theory?” I asked.

“A thousand. But none fit to print.”

“What’s your personal favorite?”

“If this is a bombing, then there’s only one man in the city could be responsible. Van Alen. There’s a reason they call him Firecracker. You remember ’14, don’t you?”

The month after the fence went up, when it was still flimsy, and the mayor promised it might come down at any moment. A string of bombings up and down the Eastside—banks, theaters, power stations, subway stations, luncheonettes, and the homes of the wealthy. In six weeks, 237 dead, and then the Westside sealed off forever.

“Everybody knows it was Firecracker planted those bombs,” said Max. “One last kiss-off to the Eastside before the door shut for good.”

“It was never proven.”

“But everybody knows.”

“Surely he’s happy with his middle-class kingdom. He has the bazaar, his night-fires, his schools. Why start trouble?”

“Every man that ever had anything wanted a little more.”

“That’s quite profound for the city room.”

“You gonna loop me in on your little investigation, or aren’t you?”

“I assure you, Max, I couldn’t provide you with an inch of copy. Anything that goes boom is far beyond my purview. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Surely, miss. Surely.” He pocketed my scorched card. “I’m gonna hang on to this. A souvenir. You hear anything about that bombing or explosion or whatever you want to call it, you can find me in the city room.”

He tipped his cap and stepped backward, grinning like a mule. It would have been a dapper gesture had his foot found the step. I left him sprawled across the pavement, feeling blindly for his hat and his pride.

If my father made notes on the hunger of the night, they would be in his office with all the others. I could throw myself down the pit that had swallowed him, asking questions of the dark, or I could give myself the gift of a much-needed nap. I was still undecided when I reached for the bannister and my hand found empty air instead. I tumbled sideways, airborne, and crashed into the small table where my father once left his house keys. The bannister, that treacherous bit of wood, had deserted me.