The rain had been falling on the city for eleven days straight, which in this part of the country meant it was going to keep falling for eleven more.
James Callahan sat in his 1940 Chevrolet with the engine off and the heater cracked, watching the neon sign of the Doral Diner flicker through the windshield like a dying heartbeat. The sign read DORL. He had been sitting here for forty-seven minutes, watching the same sign, drinking the same coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes in. The letter in his coat pocket weighed more than the gun....
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