City of No Light
The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the grime slicker, turns the sidewalks into mirrors that reflect the neon signs in distorted puddles. Jack Morrison stood under the awning of a closed liquor store on Sunset Boulevard, watching the rain fall, his hand resting on the .38 in his coat pocket like a prayer he hadn't said in years. He was tracking Victor Delgado, his...
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