The Fortune Tellers of Fifth Avenue
The basement bar on East Eighty-Sixth Street smelled of gin and regret and everything in between. Jack Callahan sat at the piano—not playing, just sitting, letting the piano look like something a man might play if he had the energy. He was twenty-eight years old, Irish on his father's side and ambitious on his own, and he had just finished reading a man named Mr. Harrington as if he were a...
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