The rain in Los Angeles doesn't clean anything.
It was pouring that night — the kind of downpour that turns the Hollywood hills into rivers and makes the streetlights look like they're drowning. I was walking from the Chronicle building to my apartment on Sunset, cigarette half-smoked, notebook full of half-written leads, thinking about the sanitation contract scandal that had died on page twelve and my boss who had told me to drop it with a...
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