In Bed With Lord Byron

under arrest.’
    The bouncer standing by us backed up quickly. There was a scream in the background and to our amazement the Irishman reappeared. He was now looking distinctly sober and he was ushering the large
woman in front of him. He snapped a cuff around her wrist and shook hands with the man with the gun.
    ‘Nice work, Inspector Tessaro. Good one.’
    ‘McClough, good on you. Now,’ Tessaro raised his voice, ‘nobody here
move.
And you, Mrs Torrio – you’re under arrest,’ he told the woman.
    ‘I was only selling coffee,’ Mrs Torrio wailed.
    ‘Oh sure you were,’ said McClough. ‘And I’m sure your
coffee
was in line with the Eighteenth Amendment and only contains half of one per cent alcohol, is that
right?’
    ‘Shit!’ Anthony whispered to me. ‘Can we get arrested just for being here?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I hissed back, shrugging. ‘Maybe!’
    I was about to suggest it was high time to will the time machine back when Anthony suddenly got up and strolled right over to McClough.
    Anthony,
I cried silently, watching in bewilderment as he shook McClough’s hand firmly. What the hell was he doing? I got up hastily and sidled over to him.
    ‘Hi, I’m Anthony Brown. I’m here with my sister Lucy. I’d like to say congratulations. We’re working for Eliot Ness and we were about to close in on Torrio here
when you beat us to it.’
    ‘You’re working for Ness?’ McClough’s expression warmed up at once. ‘Good on you. I’m sorry – I had no idea he’d sent you.’
    ‘Oh, well, normally we work in New York, but we’re here for a few days,’ Anthony rambled on. I gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs that warned him,
We’re not going to
get away with this.
    But to my amazement, we
did
get away with it.
    Having dispatched Mrs Torrio to a cell, Tessaro and McClough invited us back for some real coffee at a Chicago police station. I kept quiet, feeling rather intimidated by it all, but Anthony did
some fine smooth-talking. For Anthony, back in 2005, was a good businessman; he could play the chameleon, shape his words to please other people. Now he switched on his charm at full blast. I
couldn’t help glowing with admiration for him. He improvised carefully, telling stories – without too many details – of speakeasies and dirty saloons we had invaded. He
commiserated with McClough on how badly Prohibition agents were paid – ‘Can you believe we earn even less than garbage collectors?’ McClough cried, and ranted on for a good while
about how it was no wonder most of the agents were so corrupt and secretly protecting Capone.
    ‘Speaking of Capone,’ Anthony said. ‘We’re making good progress in closing in on him. You see, we’ve got a secret weapon. And she’s sitting right beside
me.’
    The officers glanced at me and I grinned uneasily. Now what was Anthony playing at?
    ‘Lucy here has managed to get
very
close to Capone,’ said Anthony knowingly. ‘And I think she could get a lot of information about where he’s sourcing his goods.
In fact, it’s kind of frustrating. We’ve run out of expenses and we’re due to return to New York tomorrow, just when we’re close to a breakthrough . . .’
    An hour later, Anthony and I found ourselves in the Atlantic Hotel on Clark Street. Anthony had managed to persuade McClough to put us up for one night; in return we would meet
him tomorrow evening with information on Capone.
    Up in the hotel, Anthony and I gazed around the room in a state of disorientated awe. It was really rather plush and the view from the window was thrilling: a street filled with 1920s hooded
cars, the sparkle of city lights. I made for the bathroom, but Anthony caught my wrist.
    ‘Lucy, you’re not going anywhere before you tell me everything. I mean – what the fuck happened back there?’ The shock, which he had managed to hold at bay during our
time at the police station, now seemed to hit him in a tidal wave. ‘I mean, one minute we were in your living room – and then – and then – and now –
and—’
    ‘I’ll tell you everything,’ I said, laughing a little. ‘But let’s get ready for bed first. I’m completely knackered. I find the time machine does that –
it’s a sort of jet-lag thing.’
    We took it in turns to use the bathroom, draping our clothes carefully over the sofa, since they were the only ones we had. We had no pyjamas, so we made do with fluffy dressing gowns, and our
fingers had to serve as