The Neon Crossing
The rain in New York doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the grime slicker, gives it a sheen that catches the neon from the bars and the flickering sign of the laboratory above the Chinatown laundromat. I was sitting at my desk in that laboratory, watching the rain trace lazy paths down the window, nursing a glass of rye that cost less than the chemicals on my shelves. The vial on the...
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