That face set off the klaxons in my head. I felt like I knew the guy before I lost my memory, but what was his name? Obviously, I couldn't expect any help from him. His rigid body lay slumped over a blood-spattered desk, three crimson circles with bullet hole bull's-eyes staining his white shirt.

I was beginning to wonder if I really did shoot him. There was something about his face…something that made my blood boil. I had a notion that I once knew the man well, and that he was the type of guy you'd shed no tears for when he kicked the bucket. You ever have that little nagging suspicion that you've met someone before, but you just can't recall who he is? I did, and boy, was it annoying. I think there's a French term for it, "deja-something-or-other."

A key dangled from the pocket of the dearly departed, engraved with a symbol that looked like an upside-down "Y." Maybe it was for a car? Whatever its purpose, the key found a new home in a different pocket: mine.

The drawers of the bloodstained mahogany desk were barren except for a pencil and a differently shaped key, labeled with the word "FRONT." How thoughtful of the fellow, labeling a key for the benefit of any poor amnesiac who happened to find it. I swiped the pencil, too; you never know when one can come in handy.

Peeking into the room from outside the office window was some sort of structure, partially obscured by a set of curtains. Did I dare to find out what it was? Dare I did. Behind curtain number one…a fire escape! Call me crazy, but all of a sudden, going back downstairs and testing that key on the front door seemed too damn inconvenient. Fire escapes are the only way to travel, don't you agree?

A blast of frigid air gusted into the room the instant I opened the window. A sane person might have second thoughts about my escape plan, but seeing as how I just denoted "crazy" as an appropriate name for myself, you can bet that wasn't the case for me. Of course, that didn't change the fact that it was one mighty cold night to climb out onto a fire escape. Just breathing in the outside air was enough to make my innards feel iced over.

Standing on the fire escape gave me an excellent view of wherever the hell I was. Distant skyscrapers lit up the horizon, but the unimpressive height of nearby buildings informed me I was in a more residential area. An icy wind swept through the desolate streets, stray newspapers taking to the air as they hitched rides on the gusts. What a crummy city. It suited me fine.

I considered taking the escape ladder down to the alley bellow, but a second window on the platform had caught my eye. And what was so appealing about it, you may ask? Well, it was unlocked, and that was all the invitation I needed. Plus, it seemed like a safer alternative to gripping the numbingly cold iron rungs of the ladder. What I didn't realize, though, was that climbing the ladder would've been less scary than what I discovered.

The room I found must have been right above the bar, but it shared no door with the second-story office. Hell, it looked like the only way to reach the place besides the window was by elevator. I felt like I was living through a nightmarish dream, and that elevator wasn't helping to make the situation any less surreal; what was an expensive piece of machinery doing in a dump like that? The stench of mold, the bile-colored paint peeling off the walls…jeez, the room was a mess.

But the paintjob wasn't the only thing horrific about the room. Sitting against a wall was a most peculiar example of furniture: a chair with leather restraints by the head and armrests. I knew something screwy was up the moment I saw that thing, and what I found next didn't do much to change that. A syringe and two empty vials were strewn about the floor. I picked one vial up; the label read "Sodium Pentothal." The other, "Diethanol Trimene." They were the same drugs on the bill from Brody! Remembering the needle mark on my arm, I had an awful suspicion that someone had strapped me into that chair and treated me as their personal pincushion.

What the hell had I gotten myself into? Some sicko had pumped me full of drugs…that kind of stuff just shouldn't happen to a guy like me! I started feeling sick to my stomach knowing what I'd been put through, but the nausea soon passed. A different sensation quickly settled in my gut: rage. I was more determined than ever to get back at the bastards who screwed with me. Nobody messed with Ace Whatever-My-Last-Name-Was and got away with it!

I wasn't going back on the frozen fire escape for a million bucks (actually, I probably would've done it for that kind of money, but you get the picture), so I was stuck traveling by elevator. You'd think anyone rich enough to buy a fancy elevator would fork over the dough to keep their bathrooms in decent condition, but that apparently wasn't so at Joe's Bar. I pressed the button for the lowest floor, and with a mechanical whirr, the elevator whisked me away to my destination. Hey, it beat climbing an icy ladder.

As the elevator doors opened, I had a feeling that gambling was frowned upon in whatever state I was in. After all, the owner of the bar had obviously gone out of his way to keep under wraps his underground casino, which I'd just discovered. He had done a damn good job, too. If it weren't for the elevator, I wouldn't have even known it existed. Boy, that casino had the works: roulette tables, craps tables, and slot machines, all illuminated by the soft light from stained-glass lamps hanging from the ceiling. I admit, it was pretty inviting. You could really get sucked into a place like that, gambling away for hours until your pockets were empty.

I had a few quarters on me, so I figured, "What the hell?" I needed to unwind, and slot machines were the perfect choice. They were also the only choice, seeing as how every other game required dealers, and the casino was completely deserted. I slid a quarter into a one-armed bandit and pulled the handle, letting the spinning dials hypnotize me with visions of a payoff. Seven…another seven! All I needed was a trio of sevens and I'd be in the money! For a moment, I forgot all about my dilemma. I could feel the excitement running through my body like a current, electrifying my soul with anticipation. What would the final dial stop on? C'mon, number seven! I got a lemon. The prize for seven-seven-lemon? Nothing. Shit.

Well, I couldn't see the harm in playing another round. Quarter in slot…seven…bar…lemon. Okay, when I said another round, I actually meant two more rounds. Figure of speech, you know. Another quarter…seven, seven, and seven! Jackpot! The metallic jingle of cascading quarters was music to my ears. I guess Dame Fortune was on my side after all.

An oversized number wheel hanging from the wall had been tempting me ever since I stepped foot in the casino. Why did I want to spin it? Just because I could, I guess. I felt that if I left without giving it a spin, I'd be missing out on a fun opportunity. And yes, I'm aware of how ridiculously impulsive that sounds.

As I set the big wheel into motion, it slid noiselessly into the ground, revealing a hidden path. You see? Being impetuous can pay off. The passage brought me to a dank cellar, lit only by a bare light bulb hanging by a chord. I walked through the door on the other side of the cellar and found myself back in the barroom, an open path now visible in the wall behind me. Gotta love the ingenuity of secret passages.

Surprise, surprise, the key labeled "FRONT" actually unlocked the bar's front door! I couldn't believe it myself, either. The wind apparently never died down in that city, as a bone-chilling gale greeted me the moment I walked outside Joe's Bar. A nearby streetlamp glowed with an electric hum, immersing a fancy-looking car in a pillar of orange light. The car's hood ornament, shining with a yellowish hue under the streetlamp, looked strangely familiar…the key! It was the same upside-down "Y" on the key I found in the stiff's pocket! "MERCEDES-BENZ" read the lettering across the car's hood. Jeez, what a behemoth that automobile was. It practically took up half the road. You couldn't help but suspect that any guy who bought a car like that was trying to compensate for something he owned in a less-than-average size.

I unlocked the passenger side door with my late friend's key and collected my thoughts as I sat in the Benz. Boy, were those leather seats comfy! If there was ever a car that treated your ass like royalty, that was the one. I was almost tempted to have a quick nap, but I knew I couldn't take the risk. It was only a matter of time before someone reported the dead man as missing, and once that happened, the entire block would be swarming with flatfoots.

Drunks don't make good drivers, and I imagined that a drugged amnesiac would be even worse behind the wheel. Driving the car was right out, but as I've said before, my curiosity knew no bounds. I wasn't ready to move on just yet.

I took a peek inside the dashboard of the Benz. According to the folded map in there, the name of the city was "Chicago." Huh. That wasn't the important part, though. Someone had inked a path on the map and written a note. I squinted my eyes to read the sloppy handwriting.

"Ace, follow this route exactly. Complex it may be, but this way, you'll have no trouble spotting anyone who tries tailing you. And watch the speed limit! The last thing you need is to be stopped by the cops at a time like this."

I couldn't stand not knowing what I'd gotten mixed up in. Some big plan had gone down and I had something to do with it, but I didn't have a single goddamn clue what had happened in the past 24 hours…or my entire life, for that matter. I was living through a nightmare, all right.

The dashboard also held the registration for the car, as well as a snapshot of a…let's just say "corpulent," woman. I couldn't see any use for the picture, but the registration was another story. The owner of the car was a "Joseph Siegel" of 1212 West End Street. The same guy who put the "Joe" in "Joe's Bar?" The same "J.S." who monogrammed his initials on the wallet? The same fellow with three bullets in his chest? Perhaps I'd pay his abode a visit. I thought about seeing Doc Brody, but at such a late hour, I seriously doubted the doctor was in.

I took a stroll down the windswept street, huddling into my trench coat and keeping an eye out for anyone I could hitchhike with. Looking down the road for approaching cars, you can imagine my surprise when I heard a voice shout, "Freeze!" from behind me.

Hoping I wouldn't be looking down the barrel of a copper's gun, I slowly turned around. I was in luck; a mugger was pointing his gun at me instead. "Gimme all your money, now!" he shouted in a gruff voice. He was one scruffy looking son-of-a-bitch, and he had no manners to boot. He could've at least done the decent thing and said "please." Frankly, I was in no mood to be robbed. I had a past to reconstruct, and that guy was keeping me from my investigation. I slugged the sucker in the jaw with a right hook, sending him stumbling away in a panic. You know, I gotta hand it to that mugger. He may not have known how to fire a gun, but he didn't drop it once, even after I clobbered him with a punch. And it was a nice punch, too. I was quite impressed with my own striking ability. That settled it; I really was a boxer.

I walked past a newsstand, manned by its faithful owner even at whatever ungodly hour of the night it was. I glanced at one of the papers. The date: December 6, 1941. The headline: Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor. It's amazing how little you care about things like that when you're an amnesiac trying to piece together the puzzle of your life.

I heard the rumble of an automobile from behind me. Doing an about face, I spotted an approaching yellow car with a checkered stripe along its side. I flagged it down; the driver immediately stopped. Boy, was that simple. He must have really cared about hitchhikers. I tried to open the front passenger door, but the driver motioned for me to take the backseat instead.

It was one strange car, especially on the inside. There was some sort of windowed partition separating the front and back seats, and built into it was a metal slot with the words "PAY HERE" above it.

"Hey, would you mind helping me out?" I asked the driver. "I've got a few places I need to go."

"Sure, as long as they're within Chicago city limits."

"Really?"

"Of course, mac! What do you think taxis are for?"

"…Taxis?" The word rang a bell.

"You know, taxis! Ever heard of them? You tell me where to go, I drive you there, and you pay the fare. Simple as that! Jeez, mac, were you raised on a farm?"

"Sorry, I haven't been myself lately. I need to be at 1212 West End Street. You familiar with that area?"

Adjusting his cap, the driver gave a nod and off we went. The omnipresent taxi, forever waiting to take you wherever your heart desired…as long as your heart desired to stay within city limits. What an amazing world I lived in. How could I have forgotten it?