The Last Margin Call
The saxophone sounded like rain on a tin roof, if the rain had been born in New Orleans and raised in Chicago and ended up drunk on West Fifty-second Street. It was three in the morning, and the speakeasy on the basement level of a brownstone on Madison Avenue was finally full enough to matter. James Hawthorne sat in the back booth, nursing a whiskey that cost more than most people made in an...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 28 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen