The Long Shadow of Silas Crane
The rain in Chicago didn't fall so much as it hung in the air, a cold gray curtain that turned the streetlights into smeared halos. Jack O'Malley stood behind the bar of The Rusty Nail, watching the last customer stumble out into Wacker Drive. His left knee was screaming—the kind of pain that meant the rain would be with them all night. He'd been a middleweight contender once. Forty-three...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 4 Views 0 previzualizare