The Last Call at the Harbor
The story begins. Jack Malloy's apartment overlooked an alley behind a butcher shop in downtown Los Angeles. The smell of raw meat, always faint but persistent, mixed with the smell of damp brick and the exhaust from the trucks that backed up to the butcher's loading dock at four in the morning. It was a good smell, or at least a real one. Jack preferred it to the smell of perfume or cologne or...
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