The basement smelled of solder and damp concrete, and Alexei Petrov liked it that way.
It was 1927, and Brooklyn smelled of everything at once—salt from the harbor, coal smoke from the factories, the sweet-rotten stench of fruit from the markets on Fulton Street. But down in the basement of the tenement on Willoughby Street, the smell was his. Solder, machine oil, pencil shavings, and the metallic tang of a man who had spent too many hours breathing in brass dust. On the...
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