The Last Bottle of Lafite
The thing about Chicago in '25 is that it doesn't sleep. It pretends to, for about four hours in the early morning when the streetcars slow down and the speakeasy doors creak shut. But everyone knows that's a lie. Chicago never sleeps. It just changes its outfit. I'm Jack Delaney. Twenty-nine years old, son of immigrants who came from a village so small it doesn't have a name on any map you'll...
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