The Distant Joke
You think you can catch a man who isn’t there, Sergeant? The words hung in the damp air of the dockyard, sharp as a snapped wire. I did not answer. I was too busy watching the reflection in the puddle at my feet. It moved a half-second after I did. The fog in New Orleans was thick that November of 1893, a heavy grey wool that smelled of rotting cotton and brine. I had been a police sergeant for...
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