The Crystallization of Thomas O'Brien
The temperature in the Cotton Club that night was precisely ninety-four degrees, and the whiskey in Tom O'Brien's glass was losing its clarity. He noticed this the way a man notices a crack in a familiar ceiling: not with alarm but with a quiet, accumulating dread. The ice was melting faster than it should have, and the condensation on the outside of the glass had begun to trace patterns that...
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