The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the grime slicker, turns the streetlights into smears of yellow on the asphalt, makes the whole damn city look like a photograph left out in a storm.
I sat in my office on Sunset Boulevard, the blinds half-closed, watching the rain hit the pavement. The office was exactly what you'd expect from a private investigator who can't afford better: a desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet that stuck, and a telephone that rang too loud. On the desk was a bottle of bourbon, half-empty, and a stack of unopened bills. The name Jack Morrison doesn't open...
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