The Black Serum
The rain in Chicago doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker. Jack Morretti knew this the way he knew the back of his own broken nose — which was to say, he knew it the way a man knows he's been hit, even when he can't remember by what. He was sitting in his office on South State Street, a fourth-floor walk-up above a pawn shop that sold other people's disasters at a markup....
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