Soft paws cross a threshold, and nobody looks up. It is late winter in the nineteen sixties. A Central Intelligence Agency case officer idles in a parked sedan outside a crowded diner, his headphones clamped tightly against cold ears. Inside the diner, the radio line crackles to life. Silverware touches porcelain. A wooden chair leg scrapes across a linoleum floor. A jukebox breathes warm, heav...
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