The Quiet Harbor
Malcolm Voss had been a good man once, or as good as a man could be in Chicago in 1947, and the memory of that goodness was the only thing he had left that was entirely his own. He was forty-five years old, with a tremor in his right hand that the war had given him and a habit of drinking single-malt whiskey at seven in the morning that nobody had taught him but that he had adopted as his own....
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