She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved. "No Blueskin, I perceive, Sir," he observed, in a deferential tone, as Wild entered the Lodge. "You can shave him, you know. Nothing at all.
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