She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. Cahill gave me a hall pass. She rapped again, louder. "We're forgetting," he said. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. She took to listening through closed doors. ‘Aye, sir.
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