The bottle was empty. That was the first problem. The rain was the second. It had been falling on Chicago for three days straight, and Jack Kowalski was tired of watching it from a third-floor walk-up that smelled like wet wool and regret.
Mary, the receptionist at his agency, had called him in. "Someone's waiting for you," she'd said. "Tall guy. Expensive suit. Looks like he pays cash." Jack had looked in the mirror. Thirty-five, Polish face, eyes like broken glass. He didn't look like anyone who paid cash. The man in the expensive suit was sitting in Jack's office when he arrived. He introduced himself as Tony Moretti. Big...
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