The money glowed green in the darkness of the mausoleum.
Pat O'Malley had seen green things before in Chicago. The neon sign of the speakeasy on State Street that flickered like a dying heartbeat. The tinted windows of the limousines that carried Goldstein's associates through the South Side. The sickly hue of the lake at dawn when the industrial smog caught the light just wrong. But this green was different. This green was real. It was the green of...
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