Chicago, February 1937 Tired to the bone, I slumped in the front seat of Shoe Coldfield's big Nash, wedged between him and my partner, Charles Escott. The car's heater was going full blast, but I still shivered like a malaria victim. I'd never been this cold before in my whole life, but that's what happens when you take a dive off a boat into Lake Michigan in early February. Coldfield, a large, grim-looking black man in his middle thirties, glared down at me with a combination of relief and exasperation, then shifted the glare in Escort's direction. "Charles, he's half-dead. I'm taking him to a hospital." Escott bent forward so his pale, sharp-featured face was more or less in my field of view. The effort made him grunt. One of his eyes had a bad shiner, the other was swollen shut, and he held his left arm protectively close to his lean frame. He'd been through the wars tonight himself, I dimly recalled. "My dear fellow," he said, addressing Coldfield, not me, "that really wouldn't be a good idea for any of us, and you're well aware of it." In response, Coldfield snarled a ripe curse as he hauled at the steering wheel. He made a smart U-turn along the beach road and got us pointed back toward Chicago. "Jack's a little shell-shocked, but he only needs a warm place to thaw out and rest." Escott went on, peering at my no-doubt-glazed eyes.