The Shadow of Jack O'Connor
Margaret Sullivan sat in a bar on State Street and watched a man who could kill with his hands in his pockets.Jack O'Connor was thirty-eight, Irish-American, with the kind of face that belonged to a different era—sharp angles, tired eyes, a mouth that had learned long ago that silence was safer than speech. He sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a whiskey, looking at nothing. He had a...
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