The Last Crusade for Tomorrow
The whiskey in Tommy's glass had the color of old copper and the warmth of a lie. He sat in the corner booth of the Velvet Lounge, watching the speakeasy pulse around him — flappers in fringed dresses swaying to a jazz band that played too loud for a place that operated too quietly, men in pinstripe suits laughing too loudly at jokes that weren't funny, the clink of bootleg whiskey and the...
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