and drained into the bucket below. She had taken off her scarf, and when she turned he saw that tiny drops of perspiration had gathered on her forehead and upper lip.

As he held her, Franklin remembered a Fourth of July evening three years before, at Navy Pier in Chicago.

He had just been laid off as assistant conservator at the Field Museum and, rather than mourn this turn of events, Marion had suggested a blowout dinner at Gibson’s and then fireworks at the Pier. An expensive meal was criminally impractical, he argued, but she waved him off. “When God closes a door he opens a window,” she said.

“There is no god,” Franklin answered automatically. He could never let such maudlin sentiments go unchallenged. In the end she prevailed, and as they walked the shops and bars after dinner she laughed loudly and often, and beneath his gloom Franklin knew she was trying to put a brave face on things.

They ducked into the shadows behind a restaurant to take a shortcut to the carousel – Marion hoped there would be a brass ring to grab – when two young men stepped forward and one of them pointed a handgun at Franklin’s chest.

“Just the wallet, bitch,” the man with the gun said. He was dark-complected and wore a black Mötley Crüe T-Shirt and a White Sox cap pulled low on his forehead. A gold crucifix dangled from his neck. Franklin stared at him. Revelers passed just yards away from them, laughing and calling to one another in the bright lights. The carousel played a wistful tune from the Gay Nineties.

“You wallet, man,” said the man without the gun. He was freakishly short — less than five feet — with a goatee and heavy accent.