Prohibition is the law of the land, but Nellie needs cash - after socking a gangster in the face, she's got ten days to make it right. Frightened and caught empty-handed, Nellie turns bootlegger.
She accepts a job from her sly friend Lola to pick up...
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MONDAY, MAY 11 1925
"Get a load of this, Prince Charming."
I suppose there have to be worse nicknames. Sergeant Mulligan shoves the CHICAGO HERALD in front of my face.
They've got a photo now. Of three blurry figures dressed in dark suits and hats climbing into a car.
INVESTIGATION INTO ROBBERY CONTINUES, WITNESS IDENTIFIED.
"Hot off the press."
"That photograph is a fake, right?" I tug the newspaper closer and squint at it. The quality is good enough to sell papers but poor enough to make identifying the perpetrators impossible.
"No idea." Mulligan looks ready to say something else. "But there's going to be a public statement." Mulligan leans closer. "Rumor has it we're going to be getting more help. That things are out of control."
"Huh," I say.
"More dough. More resources." Mulligan pauses. He's arrived at the high end of his gossip. "It's a new age for crime, something like that."
"According to newspaper people," I say, but Mulligan and this reporter aren't wrong.
If the new "resources" are anything like Johnson I don't have much faith that we'll get anywhere. Not until we get a witness who can identify the robbers.
"Captain's in one hell of a mood," Mulligan finishes.
I bet he is. I wonder if the federal agents forced his hand with that raid on the Collins' speakeasy. He must be sitting uneasy, waiting for Collins to make some kind of payback. Collins seemed to take it in stride—he didn't appear that fazed at breakfast on Sunday.
That was only yesterday that I'd sat down to eat with him. I'd buried Lola's invitation in a book on my shelf at home, but who am I kidding? There's no way I'd miss an opportunity like that to learn more about her family.
I do my best to keep out of the Captain's line of sight for the rest of my shift. It's actually a relief to head out for my meeting with Travers. He's been working lately out of an office building belonging to an insurance agency. The glass on the door is dingy and the place could use a good dusting, but otherwise, it's just fine for a meeting like this.
I knock on his door. It's been a long day. Even though it's a little warm I've worn a coat over my uniform jacket just in case somebody saw me leave.
Travers barks for me to come in, so I do, quickly. Cunningham's got him beat on volume, but Travers is the one I fear. He's the one who talked me into joining the police in the first place to work undercover on his behalf.
"Sit down, son," he says.
I sit across from his desk. There's several piles of papers on his desk, a map. A telephone with a fraying gray cord that dangles over the edge of the desk like a worm.
