The rain in Los Angeles did not clean the city. It just made the grime slicker.
Jack Callahan sat in his office on the fourth floor of a building on Flower Street that smelled of mildew and old paper and the faint, persistent odor of someone else's cigarette smoke from three floors down. The neon sign from the diner across the street flickered through the window — red, blue, red, blue — like a broken traffic light having a seizure. It had been flickering for three years....
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