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grip on my arm.
    I swallowed hard. I didn’t care about my medicine, but if these guys found my camera in my pocket, there would be no telling what they might do to me. And if they took my baseball cards, there would be no way for me to ever get back home. I would be stuck in 1919 forever. My nose was dripping, but I couldn’t do anything about it.
    â€œNah,” Rothstein replied, and I relaxed a little.
    â€œI bet if I bust his face up a little he won’t blab,” Abe remarked. I swallowed again.
    â€œShut up, Abe,” Rothstein snapped.
    â€œI didn’t hear anything, sir,” I whined. “I swear I didn’t.”
    Rothstein leaned over and slipped a key into Billy’s hand, whispering something into his ear. Billy nodded his head.
    â€œThese men are not going to hurt you, sonny,” Rothstein said to me, like a kindly uncle. “But I don’t like to take risks, and I can’t take the risk that you can keep your mouth shut for the next twenty-four hours. So if you just do everything these men tell you to do, you’ll be fine. You understand me?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Billy and Abe led me up some rickety wooden stairs into the billiard parlor. A bunch of men wereshooting pool and smoking. None of them paid any attention to me.
    â€œI’m gonna loosen my grip on your arm,” Abe whispered in my ear. “But if you get away, Mr. Rothstein will be very mad at me. So if you try to run, I’m gonna have to hurt you. Got that?”
    â€œYes.”
    I believed every word he said. These guys looked like the kind of guys whose solution to most problems would be to hurt somebody.
    â€œJust walk next to me, kid.”
    They marched me through the poolroom and out the front door into the street. It was buzzing with activity. Old-time cars—they looked like Model Ts to me—were chugging all over, spewing exhaust. There were trolleys, too, and horse-drawn buggies.
    People—mostly men—clogged the sidewalks, hurrying to who knew where. All of them were wearing hats. A sign on a little grocery store window said MILK —15 CENTS A QUART .
    For once in my life I was glad I’d taken my mother’s advice. Dressed as I was, I fit right in. The few women I saw were wearing long dresses and hats. In the snippets of conversations I was able to catch, everybody seemed to be talking about the World Series.
    â€œâ€”Reds are gonna murder the Sox tomorrow!”
    â€œâ€”They’d better. I put my money on ’em.”
    â€œâ€”Sox won it all in ’17.”
    â€œâ€”Reds haven’t been in the Series, ever.”

    Old-time cars—they looked like Model Ts to me—were chugging all over, spewing exhaust. There were trolleys, too, and horse-drawn buggies.
    â€œâ€”Sox are favored…”
    â€œâ€”Cicotte is a pretty good hurler…”
    Abe and Billy walked me a block down the street. I tried to pay close attention to everything, in case I would need to retrace my steps later. They led me through a big set of double doors and into a building. Over the door was a sign that read SINTON HOTEL .
    The lobby was jammed with people, again mostly men. Many of them were shouting, and some of them were even standing on chairs wavingmoney in the air. As we walked through, I saw a guy with a fistful of money.
    â€œA thousand bucks says the Sox win by at least three runs tomorrow!”
    â€œI’ll take that bet!” replied another guy.
    â€œWho will give me even money on the Reds?”
    â€œThe odds are seven to five!”
    â€œSuckers.” Abe snickered as he pushed me through the crowd. He and Billy led me through a door that opened onto a stairway. They led me upstairs.
    â€œWho is Mr. Rothstein?” I asked, comfortable enough now to feel like they were not about to kill me.
    â€œNone of your business,” Billy said. “You’re lucky Mr. R. didn’t tell us to hurt you.