Rain on the Tarot
The rain in Los Angeles doesn't fall so much as it accuses. It comes down in sheets that turn the neon signs into watercolours, each drop a tiny indictment of every bad decision I'd ever made. I sat behind my card table on Sunset Boulevard with a tarp stretched over my head and a thermos of coffee that had gone cold three hours ago. My name is Jack Moran. I used to wear a badge. Used to carry a...
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