Dying in the Post-War World

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Life was pretty much perfect.

I had a brand-new brown-brick G.I. Bill bungalow in quietly suburban Lincolnwood; Peggy, my wife since December of last year, was ripely pregnant; I’d bribed a North Side car dealer into getting one of the first new Plymouths; and I’d just moved the A-1 Detective Agency into the prestigious old Rookery Building in the Loop.

True, business was a little slow — a good share of A-1’s trade, over the years, has been divorce work, and nobody was getting divorced right now. It was July of 1947, and former soldiers and their blushing brides were still fucking, not fighting, but that would come. I was patient. In the meantime, there were plenty of credit checks to run. People were spending dough, chasing after their post-war dreams.

Sunlight was filtering in through the sheer curtains of our little bedroom, teasing my beautiful wife into wakefulness. I was already up — it was a quarter to eight, and I tried to be in to work by nine (when you’re the boss, punctuality is optional). I was standing near the bed, snugging my tie, when Peg looked up at me through slits.

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