The Amsterdam Gambit
The rain in Amsterdam doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the grime slicker. I stood outside De Dode Vogels—The Dead Bird—watching the canal water lap against the cobblestones, wondering if this was the night I finally crossed a line I couldn't uncross. The bar had been a textile warehouse in another life. Now it was where men like me came to disappear. I pushed through the door and the...
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