The Long Run
The rain in Harlem doesn't fall like it falls elsewhere. It falls like it's got something to prove. Marcus Wright stood under the neon sign of the Blind Pig, watching the water sheet down the street. He was forty-two, wearing a grey suit that cost more than most men in this neighborhood made in a month. But tonight he wasn't here as a businessman. He was here as a boy again. The door opened...
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