A Single Lit Match in a Room Full of Grain Dust
The jazz was bad at the Green Mill on the night everything started, but Eddie Moran did not know that yet. He was sitting at a table near the back, nursing a glass of ginger ale that cost more than a glass of whiskey would have cost before the Volstead Act made whiskey illegal, and he was watching the saxophone player miss his notes and thinking about Helen Wojcik's brown eyes. It was April of...
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