The Reaper's Garden
I.The rain in Chicago didn't wash things clean. It just made the grime slicker.Jack Malone sat in his apartment on South State Street, watching the water run down the windowpane. The glass was cracked in the upper corner, patched with tape and neglect. On the table beside him sat a half-empty bottle of rye and a revolver with three bullets left. He had counted them twice.The phone rang. Jack...
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