She drank his whiskey (Templeton Rye), visited his grave in Chicago, and told me about his sense of justice. Al Capone, of course.
I have a hard time believing that they wouldn't have been lovers, had their lives coincided. And I know without a doubt that he would have been as helpless as a little boy before her curves. As we all are.
But it didn't matter that they were separated by time. She can conjure him, embody him.
And she put him on. Or he put her on, I'm not sure.
There's a certain comfort in his rough-but-not-ragtag justice. It's in her, too.