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She gave me a little smile that faded quickly, exited down the alley, and over to Sherburne. That spared her a demoralizing sight around front. Lloyd B. Jensen’s cortege was going past, and people were surging into the street, but not to kiss the governor goodbye. Harry Ford was seated at the passenger window of the hearse, and whether they knew it or not they were crowding up because they believed in what he stood for—redemption. They practically trampled each other trying to touch his cashmere coat, as if some of his magic might rub off on them.

According to the story that every Twin Citian knew, Harry Ford was born to a waterfront whore in Seattle. He’d spent his childhood scrapping for change on the docks, and took off for the Wild West at age sixteen. He worked as a saloon bouncer and a gold miner, then soldiered for Pancho Villa. It was in that latter capacity that he made his first fortune, selling the hides of the cattle slaughtered to feed Villa’s army, about two thousand skins a month, at ten dollars each. Those hides were all he’d asked for in return for his valuable services making deals for supplies in U.S. border towns, but he went AWOL pronto when Pancho realized what a good thing he had going.

He spent the next decade “raising hell” (his term) in the Southwest. That must have included some smuggling, but mostly it was one long party that ended when the Feds fitted him up for a nose-candy charge in Denver. He hired some fancy lawyers who took his money but didn’t beat the rap. He was broke when he went to Leavenworth, where he met Herbert Warren of Warren Enterprises, a St. Paul calendar manufacturing company. Warren was in for tax evasion, and terrified of the other inmates. Ford made a deal with him. He would protect Warren in prison, and Warren would give him a job when he got out.

Ford held up his end. Warren tried to renege many times, but Ford had some hex on him. He climbed relentlessly toward the top, and when Warren died mysteriously, he became president. He’d turned Warren Enterprises into the largest advertising company in the country, and made himself a legend in the process. Like many a millionaire before him, Ford dabbled in king-making. He’d palled around with Lloyd B. Jensen when Jensen was the county attorney, then bankrolled him for governor. He was ready to do the same for Jensen’s shot at the presidency on the Populist ticket. The smart money said that with the Depression on and Ford’s bucks behind him, Jensen could beat FDR. Then the poor man got cancer, and died. It was a sad day for many people when that happened, but it came a year late for Margaret Thornton’s husband.

Jensen was famous for his reply when his gubernatorial opponent accused him of being a Socialist. “You’re damn right I am,” he said. That practically sanctified him among many Depression-weary voters, but he was no saint. He’d grown up poor in a mostly Jew neighborhood in Minneapolis. Many friends of his had joined the mockie underworld, which didn’t seem to end their friendship, even though he occasionally had to prosecute them. You might say he had a past by the time he was elected governor, and started making the kind of deals he had to in order to govern. That didn’t bother most voters, but it didn’t sit well with some of his fellow radicals, especially Walter Thornton, who published a yellow sheet devoted to calling Jensen a crook and a sellout. The guy was a pain in the ass who might’ve hurt Jensen’s chances of becoming president, but about the time he was getting worrisome, a car full of droppers pulled up as he arrived home one evening, and ended his career in journalism.

A mockie button man named Shay Tilsen was tried for Thornton’s murder. He was acquitted, but everyone figured he’d done it. There just wasn’t enough evidence to convict him. The prosecution offered him a sweet deal to rat on whoever hired him, and it was on the table up to the moment the jury walked in, but he never opened his mouth.

I had no skin in that game so I’d never given Ford’s involvement much thought. I could find out though. My clients think it’s sorcery how I get to the bottom of things, but my reputation rests on two solid facts: one—the majority of murders go unsolved. Your higher-ups don’t spread that around, and since most people don’t know it, they’re also unaware of fact two—the shamuses usually know damn well who the perpetrator is, they just can’t prove it.