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robbery; Thompson was serving a suspended two-year sentence at the time of his death.
    The shattered remains of an empty wine bottle were found near the bodies. A police spokesman said one of the dead men, Smith, was found with a knife lying near his-hand.
    Both victims were shot twice. Police report that ballistics investigation suggests the same .38 revolver was used to fire all four bullets. “But we’re not absolutely certain,” the police spokesman cautioned. “The bullets recovered from the bodies are badly misshapen and fragmented. They’re almost certainly hollow-point bullets, and we’re going to need further laboratory examination before we can be positive they all came from the same weapon.”
    No motive has been put forth for the homicides. District detectives are investigating.
    The two homicides raise this year’s number of gunshot deaths within Chicago’s city limits to 856.

5
    A T THE BAR, men ruminated secretively over their beer, looking up at newcomers and looking away again. Toward the back a group of hearty men shouted across one another. The room had dark wood, poor light and a lingering aura of tobacco smoke and grain whiskey. Specks of dust twirled under the lights.
    Paul found a space at the bar. “I’ll have a beer.”
    The bartender named half a dozen brands; Paul picked one. While he waited for it he studied the crowd and decided the noisy group at the back contained his men.
    The bar was a block from the Tribune Tower and equidistant from the Daily News and Sun-Times pressrooms. Paul had chosen it because it was likely to be the informal headquarters of the city’s news reporters and he suspected it might be the best source of information about the unfamiliar city. He needed to know about Chicago: he needed to know how the city worked, where its stresses were, how the police operated.
    He carried his beer toward the back and hovered at the edge of the loud group. There were nine or ten men and women roughed up by alcohol and cigarettes and the cynicisms of insiders’ experience. It was only half past six but they’d been at their drinks long enough to be doing more talking than listening: insistent assertions roared cacophonously back and forth. They were talking about the mayor and the machine but he couldn’t sort out much at all in the babble.
    At the edge of it two men observed without participating and Paul maneuvered himself closer to them. One stood against the bar, wincing at the racket; the other was a moon-faced bald man with a drink in his hand. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mike. You didn’t invent the hangover.”
    â€œThe hell. I’m going to take out a patent on this one.” Mike waved angrily at the oblivious bartender.
    The bald man said, “When he comes I advise you to make it a double. This joint serves thimble-size shots.”
    Paul was between Mike and the bartender; he turned and managed to attract the bartender’s eye. The bartender came along the slot: “Yes sir?”
    Paul gestured to the man behind him. “This gentleman wants a drink.”
    Mike turned, reached an arm past Paul’s shoulder and slapped his palm on the bar. “Double Dewar’s straight up.”
    The bald man said, “Wish I could afford that.”
    â€œTry not to get fired so often then.” Mike smiled through bad teeth at Paul. “My friend, you’ve just saved a life. Name’s Ludlow, there, buddy. Mike Ludlow.”
    â€œFred Mills,” Paul lied. “Nice to meet you.”
    â€œA new face,” said the bald man. “Christ you must have wandered into this crazy farm by mistake, Mr. Mills. My name’s Dan O’Hara. Don’t believe a word this man tells you—he’s a no-good drunk.”
    Ludlow reached for his drink when the bartender set it before him: he raised it carefully to his lips. “Not a drunk, O’Hara. An alcoholic. You’ve