The Herbalist's Promise
The jazz played from somewhere below—some basement club on South Street where a saxophone was screaming into the humid Philadelphia night. Artie O'Malley sat at his window on the third floor of a tenement near the Italian Market, listening to the music drift up through the cracks in the glass like smoke from a neighbor's cigarette. He was twenty-eight, and he believed, with a stubbornness that...
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