The Black Deep
I. The rain in Los Angeles in November 1947 was the kind that didn't fall so much as hover, a fine mist that coated everything in a film of moisture and made the streetlights smear their yellow glow across wet pavement like watercolor on cheap paper. Jack Calloway sat in his office above a Chinese restaurant in downtown LA, listening to the rain and nursing a glass of rye that cost him two...
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