Blackwater-Rising
The check was five thousand dollars. In 1947, that was enough to clear six months of rent, fill the bottle on my desk, and still have change for a drink at the St. James Bar. It was also enough to make a man do something he probably shouldn't."I want him found alive, Mr. Whitfield," Ashworth Senior said, sitting across from me in his office on the forty-second floor of the Transamerica...
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