The Shadow in the River
The rain in Los Angeles did not clean things. It made them worse. It turned the dust into mud, the mud into something that smelled of gasoline and dead things, and it made the streets shine like black glass, reflecting the neon signs of bars that sold whiskey to men who had forgotten how to sleep. Jack Moraney knew the rain. He had known it in the trenches of France, where it had mixed with...
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