The rain wasn’t letting up … three days without a break, driving grime down the smokestacks to dump into the gutters, then into roads and alleys and sidewalks, onto rivulets and oily puddles, then clinging to the coats of rodents and cats and the hands of trash pickers and the

Randall stood in his own hallway like a stranger on the subway, overcoat on shoulder, briefcase in hand, breathing the faint and familiar odors of domestic bliss — a whiff of Shalimar and Glo-Coat; a hint of caramelized onions; the earthy comfort of collected coffee grounds. Estrangement made this blend become

The evening began like any other Tuesday after ten: rain drumming against the windows of the Moulin Bleu, smoke creeping along the ceiling like a wayward shroud, Blake nursing his first bourbon to the right of the stage, keeping an eye on the wise guys and riffraff. But when the

The sun had just begun its dip behind the splinter-bricked skyline, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to reach down to claw at the pavement. The city was a kaleidoscope of neon and fractured brick, but his business this night was in a flower shop. Not the kind where hopefuls

Blake sat slouched at the end of the bar, nursing the last of his downmarket bourbon. The place was quiet, the kind of quiet that came with weight, as if something bad had just happened or was soon to. He took a tight sip and scanned the room, dwelling on

In the flickering neon glare of a city that never quits, a battered van delivers newspaper bundles each morning to a labyrinth of century-old alleys. The headlines snarled, like rabid curs, to the frightened few left of the late night wanderers. Gutters, overflowing with oily rain scum, caught the neon