The Schmelermay Effect
The rain in Chicago doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker. I was sitting in my office on South State, nursing a whiskey that tasted like it had been filtered through a dirty rag, when Viktor Schmelermay burst through the door like a man who had forgotten the concept of knocking. He looked exactly as I expected a sixty-year-old German physics refugee to look at 2 AM in a...
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