The Hound's Debt
The rain in Los Angeles didn't wash anything away; it just turned the grime into a slick, black mirror. Frank sat in his office, the neon sign of the diner across the street blinking a rhythmic, sickly pink. He was a private investigator by trade, but a drunk by choice. His only friend was Buster, a bloodhound whose ears dragged on the floor and whose eyes were perpetually clouded with a...
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