The jazz from the ballroom on Forty-eighth Street could be heard three blocks away, a brassy, breath
The jazz from the ballroom on Forty-eighth Street could be heard three blocks away, a brassy, breathing thing that pulsed through the November fog like a second heartbeat. Jack Morrisey stood on the terrace of his apartment in Long Island, looking across the water at the Manhattan skyline, and felt the familiar hollowness open in his chest. He had been a portfolio manager at Sterling Capital...
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