The Last Flight at the Halo
The jazz was terrible. Tommy Calloway knew this because he had played it himself, once, before the war, when he was twenty-one and still believed that music could save you. Now he sat in a basement bar on 52nd Street and listened to a saxophone player who could not play and a pianist who would not stop and a crowd of men and women who were trying very hard to forget that the war was over and...
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