The Shadow of the Black Cauldron
I The rain in Chicago does not wash things clean. It makes everything darker, heavier, more real. Jack Moran sat in his office on South State Street and watched the water sheet down the windowpane, distorting the neon sign across the street into a bleeding watercolor of red and blue. The sign belonged to a nightclub called The Blue Note. Jack had been there three nights in a row, drinking...
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