The rain in Detroit doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker.
I was sitting in my office on Woodward Avenue, staring at an empty bottle of cheap bourbon and a stack of unpaid bills, when she walked in. She was the kind of woman who made you forget your own name for a second. Dark hair, green scarf, eyes the color of the river in certain lights. And on her lap, coiled like a piece of jewelry, was a green snake six feet long. "Are you Ray Kovac?" she...
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