Arty muttered a “Sorry, Mack,” as they pulled up in front of the bar. “Me too,” I said. “I had hoped we might finally have a resolution to this thing.” “We’ll keep at it,” Doug said. “Have faith.” His words struck a chord with me. It was a similar expression uttered by an Episcopalian minister, and a bit of intuition, that had led to the solving of the last case, albeit a little too late. As I dragged myself and my crutches from the car and made my way back into the bar, I felt defeated and exhausted. I had no faith in my ability to figure this thing out, and I prayed—while I’m not a religious person per se, I’m not above hedging my bets—that an answer would come soon. Back inside, I headed up to the Capone Club room. Navigating the steps with my crutches made me feel even more tired than I had before, and I cursed myself for not putting in an elevator when I did the new construction. By the time I got upstairs, I knew I would be of little use to anyone for the rest of the night.
