THE LOCKET AT THE BOTTOM OF THE THAMES
The rain in Chicago does not wash things clean. It only makes the streets slicker, turns the cobblestones into rivers of bootleg whiskey and river muck. I stood on the corner of a side street near the South Side and watched the neon sign above the bar flicker in the downpour—THE COPPER KETTLE, the letters dying one by one, as though the sign itself knew it was running out of time. Inside, in...
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