Cold Iron and Cold Blood
Rain on the pavement. Jack Callahan sat in his office above a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown, drinking whiskey at ten in the morning and watching the condensation drip down the glass. The .38 revolver sat on his desk next to an empty bottle and a stack of unpaid bills. He was forty-three years old, divorced, and possessed of exactly one skill: finding things that people wanted to find. The...
0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 3 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр