September 1926, Towertown, Chicago. It's raining, sheets of heavy droplets picked out milky white in the flickering shimmer of the streetlamps. You know, there are folk who believe streetlighting encourages immorality? I guess it depends on your interpretation of immorality, but around here, there's enough evidence they could be right.
Somewhere over the other side of town, a police siren wails like a spoiled brat. They don't come this side of town. We're up on our payments; the boss takes care of that.
It rains a lot here. Gets down your collar, settles cold and heavy on your neck, splashes up to soil your spats, doesn't do a damn thing to clean things up. We're dirty through and through, down to the soul, and I like it that way. This is the world I live in.