The Iron Circle
I. The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker. Jack Moran sat in his office on Sunset Boulevard, watching the water streak down his third-story window like tears from a tired god. His office was exactly what you'd expect from a private detective in 1947: a desk that wobbled, a file cabinet with one drawer that stuck, a couch that had seen better decades,...
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