The Formula in the Rain
The rain in Chicago doesn't fall. It hangs, a fine gray mist that soaks through your coat and finds the spaces between your ribs and makes you feel like the city itself is trying to get inside you. Jack Moraney was sitting in his office at four in the morning, a glass of rye whiskey on the desk and a dead case on the table, when the woman came in. She was dressed in black—black dress, black...
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