It all begins in 1919, on a cool, brisk November day. In the heart of the Windy City, two complete strangers—Mary Smith and George Anderson—meet at a crowded speakeasy. The air is thick with smoke from cheap cigarettes; the heavy stench of booze and sweat hangs in the air.

When Mary and George meet, they’re both a little tipsy. Mary, being quite small, demonstrates a laughably low tolerance to bathtub gin. After just one drink, she giggles like a schoolgirl and trips over her own feet. George, on the other hand, takes in several drinks in an attempt to drown the butterflies in his stomach and to work up the courage to buy Mary a drink.

The night is a blur for both of them, and by the end of it, they find themselves in each other's arms.

The following Friday, George treats Mary to dinner at the Hawthorne Restaurant. A year later, George proposes to Mary in the same spot where they shared their first meal. In the following year, George finishes his education at the Police Academy and Mary gets a job as a waitress at the Green Door Tavern. That same year, Mary convinces George that working as a police officer is far too dangerous, and George goes back to school for communications.

They get married at a small church down the street.

It’s early September 1921, when the young couple receives a phone call, and George picks up:

“Anderson residence.”

“Good morning, I’m Captain Robert Marchesi with the local Police Department. May I speak with George?” The voice on the line is low and gruff; it more closely resembles that of a bear than a man.

“That would be me.”

“My records show that you applied to work here three months ago.”

“Ah, yes sir.”

“You have an excellent record and you were at the top of your class at the Academy, but you were never hired.”

“I declined the position.”

“May I ask why?”

George looks over to Mary, who hums joyfully along to the radio as she cooks.

“I got married,” he responds. It’s true, George had once dreamed of being a police officer—that’s why he went into the academy. But that was years ago—before he married Mary.

“Listen, I’m looking to hire you. We could really use a good guy like you around here,” the Captain went on. “You can bring that wife of yours around, show her it’s not so bad around here.”

“I don’t know… I’ll think about it.”

“I hope to hear from you soon, George.” Before George can respond, the Captain hangs up.

George saunters over to the kitchen, mulling the Captain’s proposal over in his head. He supposes it wouldn’t hurt to visit the station just once… he can’t join the force, but he might as well get the grand tour. After all, his invitation came from the Captain himself—it would be rude to decline such a request! It wouldn’t be any trouble, he would just visit the station around 5:00, while Mary was at work or—no!

George wasn’t actually considering the captain's proposition, was he? To lie to his wife, the love of his life, and for what? A tour of the station? A conversation with the captain? A job offer he could never accept? A story he could never tell Mary without admitting his dishonesty?

It isn’t worth it. He should just go about his day as if it is any other. It’s a normal day, he tells himself, a normal day in his perfectly normal life. He walks into the kitchen as he would have any other morning.

“Good morning,” Mary cooes. “Coffee?” George gratefully accepts the hot mug—anything to occupy him for long enough to avoid his own guilt.

“Was that the phone, darling?”

“Uh, yeah. It was my mother,” George fibs.

“Oh, that’s lovely. How is she doing?”

“She’s getting better.” And she really is, George reminds himself. It’s not a total lie, which almost justifies everything else he’s said.

“Did you send her my regards?” George only shrugs in response.

George knows he should resist the temptations of the police station. He knows that he shouldn’t lie to his wife about his whereabouts; he shouldn’t deceive her like this. He shouldn’t—he really shouldn’t—Mary would never try and hurt him like this, and after all, she was just trying to protect him. Mary would do anything for him, she would risk everything just to keep him safe. And she’s never been wrong before.

And yet, when 5:00 rolls around, George finds himself at the station soon after Mary leaves for work with no memory of the doubts that were pounding in his head just hours earlier.

The man that greets George at the door is a burly man with a thick, dark mustache and a sweaty face. He fills his uniform completely; his name tag reads Detective Henry Johnson, CPD. George steps forward and nods his head at the officer in an attempt to appear blasé, but he trips on his own feet and tips forward, nose-diving into the floor.

“Oh dear, are you all right?” says a chipper male voice, presumably Johnson’s. George grunts, not expecting a second, more familiar voice to respond.

“Careful there, buddy, or we’ll have to charge you with public intoxication.”

“I… uhh… umm…” George stuttered. The man gave a gruff laugh.

“Oh, I’m just yanking your chain,” he offers George a hand, “Captain Marchesi.” George gratefully accepts the captain's hand and pulls himself up.

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” he begins, “I’m George Anderson, we spoke on the phone earlier.”

“Ah yes, George! I thought you were going to bring your wife around?”

“Well—”

“It’s no trouble! In fact, it might be preferable that you came alone.” George only frowned in response. He wasn’t sure he understood what the captain was implying; after all, it had been the captain who suggested he bring his wife in the first place. Surely, he couldn’t be advocating for indecency or tomfoolery or—

“Hear me out here,” Marchesi’s deep voice snaps George out of his anxiety. “We just got a new lead on this case. There’s some hanky-panky happening in town, and we’re gonna go bust it up pretty soon. Now I know your wife wouldn’t like you going but—”

“I’m in. Whatever it is, I’m in.”

“Good choice, kid.” Sure, George was doubting himself before, but now that he is in the precinct, there isn’t a doubt in George’s mind: he wants to go on that bust. He recognizes that any rational officer would leave a civilian like George outside, or better yet, in the car, but that doesn’t bother him much. Perhaps the proximity to confrontation would quench his thirst for action; perhaps the adrenaline pumping through George’s blood is making him incapable of rational thought. Whatever the case is, George is already in the squad car before he thinks to ask about the details of the bust.

The man driving the car, Detective Harold Patterson, is an attractive young man who appears to be no older than George—his average height and small frame gives him the appearance of a schoolboy. In fact, Harold is the youngest detective on the squad.

The detective’s blonde hair is neatly combed out of the way of his eyes, which seem to sparkle in the sun. As he drives, he taps his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of a song he is singing—a breezy ragtime tune he’d memorized from the radio. He seems to be at ease behind the wheel (a little too at ease for George’s taste); he grins as the gentle breeze hits his face.

“So, uh,” George stutters, “where are we going?”

“It’s some dingy tavern in town. We got a tip saying it’s the ‘front for the mafia.’” Harold shrugs like he isn’t sure if he believes the words he is saying.

“What do you think?” prods George.

“I’m not convinced. I reckon the tip came from an unhappy customer or another bar owner.”

“Really? Isn’t that a little… far fetched?”

“It’s happened before,” Harold shrugs, “it’s bound to happen again. You know why Marchesi put me—the least experienced person in the precinct—in charge of this bust?”

George shakes his head.

“‘Cause he knows a tip like this ain’t worth sending in the big guns for,” Harold pauses and seems to contemplate something for a moment. “But y’know,” he continues, “it ain’t all that bad here. Sure, half the time you don’t know who to trust, but man, I love it. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Harold pauses again, and this time, he turns to George:

“I hear you’re considering signing up for the squad.”

“Oh, I guess I am.”

“What’s up with that?”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to be in the police, you see. But then I got married, and my wife—”

“Your wife?”

“She just doesn’t want me to get hurt, you see. So I gotta stay out of trouble, stay away from the police.”

“I take it she doesn’t know you’re here, then?” Howard asks. George only shrugs in response, turning to stare out the window of the squad car. There’s something familiar about the route they’re taking, but George can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Me, I just got married. Last week, actually,” Harold chimes in. “Yeah, this is my first case as a married man.”

Harold grins with a childish lightness to his features—a certain youthful naïveté that reminds George of his own wife and the juvenile joy of their wedding.

“How was the wedding?” George inquires, genuinely curious.

“A little rushed, really. We pushed it forward quite a bit when we found out—and of course, it wasn’t easy—”

“You found out…?”, George pressed.

“She’s pregnant!” Harold beams, nearly jumping out of his seat. “Personally, I’m hoping for a boy; I’m thinking Harold Jr. for the name. Not very creative, I know—”

“I think it’s wonderful.”

“My wife thinks it’s unoriginal. Besides, she’s convinced it’s gonna be a girl. Says that she can tell, like it’s a superpower—but I don’t buy it.”

A moment of silence passes between the two men. George hasn’t really put much thought into having children, but hearing Harold reminisce of the future really puts things into perspective for him—after all, Harold is a little younger as George.

George is jostled out of his thoughts when the squad car stops so suddenly that George is nearly thrown out of the automobile.

“This is it,” declares Harold, gesturing towards a nearby tavern. The tavern looks like any other building, with the exception of its front door, which is painted dark green, which George instantly recognizes.

“This is the place? You’re sure?” George stutters. “That can’t be right—this is the Green Door Tavern! My wife is in there!”

“What’s your wife doing in—”

“She works there! She’s a waitress—wait a minute, is she in danger? Is she gonna get hurt in there?”

“Wait in the car, George,” urges Harold, suddenly serious, as he exits the vehicle.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” retorts George, following Harold to the front of the speakeasy, where the force is congregating. About half a dozen men, all in uniform, stand huddled by the entrance. The officers briefly communicate with a series of hand symbols that George cannot possibly begin to understand, but the expressions on their faces are revealing; the situation is clearly much more serious and dangerous than Harold had let him believe.

The men get into position, crouching behind the large green door, waiting for the ‘go’ command. Harold takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens his eyes, they are filled with determination, like a lion’s eyes in the moments before the kill.

Go!

At that instant, everyone springs into action. Two larger officers ram into the front door, knocking it down in one go. Immediately, three others jump in to evacuate the bystanders. Harold storms inside, heading for the back of the bar; he is soon followed by the larger officers. For a moment, George is all alone.

All of a sudden, a flood of people rushes out of the Green Door Tavern. At first, it’s just the patrons of the speakeasy: a woman in a beret, a man looking for his betrothed, an older gentleman walking with a cane. Then George notices a waitress, a cook, a busboy. He desperately looks for Mary, but she’s not outside, and none of the other waitresses know where she is. George can hear the screams and sounds of gunfire from the bar echo into the street. He sifts through the crowd, but as the crowd dissipates, it becomes painfully obvious that she never left the building.

George is instantly flooded with pain and regret as the realization hits him. His wife is in trouble—she could be dead. He needs to do something.

George takes a deep breath and steps into the tavern. His first instinct is to run away, but he knows he can’t do that. He glances across the tavern, immediately noticing a large curtain hanging over much of the back wall. He creeps towards the back of the bar and listens for clues.

There’s a moment of silence, then a gunshot goes from behind the curtain. George rushes into the back room just in time to see a body crumple to the ground and fall at his feet.

“NO!” howls George.

He drops to the ground, fearing the worst. The body is bloody, so much so that George can’t identify it from behind. He frantically rolls it onto its back and his eyes meet the Harold’s cold, glassy stare. George gasps and looks across the floor—its strewn with bodies and blood. He doesn’t see all the faces, but he doesn’t see Mary either.

Suddenly, George feels a sharp pain in his lower abdomen. He yells out in agony and grabs at the knife impaled in his side, but it's too late.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from the police?” sighs a familiar voice.

George looks up to meet his wife’s eyes for the last time as his vision slowly fades away.