The Rain by Andrew Klavan

By Andrew Klavan

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Sample text

Its lights were off. It seemed oddly pale and anemic in the early morning light. Everything out there seemed that way. Pale, faded, quiet. It was the heat. The heat again. My air-conditioning was on, but I could feel it. The windows were closed and the smells and sounds and weathers of the street were muted. But I could feel it out there all the same. The heat. I could practically see it. The sun and the morning sky were covered by that faint, damp mist that had hung there for days. The sun burned white through it and washed out the city’s colors with blank, unrelenting fire.

The sylph came running. ” “Clean up those goddamned newspapers,” I said. And that, it turned out, was the high point of my day. The rest was pure August. I read the paper. I finished my cigarette. I finished my doughnut, then another cigarette, then my coffee. Then I got on the phone. I dialed the cops on the killing of a trial witness in Brooklyn. They’d gotten nowhere. I smoked some cigarettes. I followed up a lead on a cable TV payoff. A dead end. I smoked. S. Attorney’s office to flirt something out of one of his assistants.

His hair was damp. He was whistling. Around three, Lansing beat me to the door on a scaffold collapse. It didn’t turn out to be much. Only four people were injured. I felt bad for trying to trip her as she ran past. Deadline approached for the bulldog. I smoked and tried to think of people to call. Rafferty, who is the city editor, emerged from the budget meeting. He walked over to my cubicle. He told me they were going national with the front page. He is a bullet-headed old cuss with a shell of imperturbable calm.

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