The last jazz night in New York began, as most terrible things do, with a dance.
The last jazz night in New York began, as most terrible things do, with a dance. Dr. Henry Whitmore stood at the edge of the floor, clutching a glass of whiskey he had no intention of drinking, and watched the world spin. The band was playing a slow blues, and the couples moved across the parquet floor with the desperate grace of people who know the music will end. Henry was forty-one, an...
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