Beneath the Blue Canopy
The warehouse on Greenwich Village's Washington Street smelled of ozone and gin. Thomas Crawford liked it that way. Ozone meant the project was working. Gin meant he was still human. On the good nights, when both were present in roughly equal measure, he felt something close to contentment. It was October 1924, and New York was the most alive it had ever been. Speakeasies opened at midnight and...
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