Owning that Ford made his dream come temporarily true.

For two weeks, we’d been living the exciting life of the private eye: sitting in the coupe in front of the Goldblatt’s store at Ashland and Chicago, waiting for window smashers to show. Or not.

The massive graystone department store was like the courthouse of commerce on this endless street of storefronts; the other businesses were smaller-re-sale shops, hardware stores, pawn shops, your occasional Polish deli. During the day things were popping here. Now, there was just us-me draped across the front seat, Stanley draped across the back-and the glow of neons and a few pools of light on the sidewalks from streetlamps. “You know,” Stanley said, “this isn’t as exciting as I pictured.”

“Just a week ago you were all excited about ‘packing a rod.’”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“That’s right.” I finished my coffee, crumpled the cup, tossed it on the floor.

“I guess a gun is nothing to feel good about.”

“Right again.”

I was stretched out with my shoulders against the rider’s door; in back, he was stretched out just the opposite. This enabled us to maintain eye contact. Not that I wanted to, particularly.

“Nate…if you hear me snoring, wake me up.”

“You tired, kid?”

“Yeah. Ate too much. Today…well, today was my birthday.”

“No kidding! Well, happy birthday, kid.”

“My pa made the keenest cake. Say, I…I’m sorry I didn’t you invite you or anything.”

“That’s okay.”

“It was a surprise party. Just my family-a few friends I went to high school and college with.”

“It’s okay.”

“But there’s cake left. You want to stop by pa’s store tomorrow and have a slice with me?”

“We’ll see, kid.”

“You remember my pa’s pastries. Can’t beat ’em.”

I grinned. “Best on the West Side. You talked me into it. Go ahead and catch a few winks. Nothing’s happening.”