The rain in Chicago doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the dirt slicker.
Jack Moran sat in his black sedan on South State Street and watched the neon sign of a flophouse flicker across the street. OPEN. The O kept dying, so it read N-N. He'd been sitting there for forty minutes, drinking coffee from a paper cup that had gone cold twenty minutes ago, waiting for a woman who might not show. She showed. She always showed. That was the problem. Her name was Vivian...
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