The Cipher Kitchen
The gunshots sounded like popcorn. Jack Morretti kept chopping onions. That was the thing about Chicago in '47—violence was just background noise, like the L train rattling past at midnight or the smell of the stockyards on a hot day. You learned to tune it out. Or you learned to keep chopping. Jack chose chopping. The knife moved in a steady rhythm: slice, slide, slice, slide. The onions wept,...
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