conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about Award, Writers, Anthony with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Ask the Cards a Question'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Ask the Cards a Question
  With a clash of gears, the car and I hurtled backwards into the spot. At last, after five hours overtime and a twenty-five minute search for this space, I was free to walk four and a half blocks through the darkness to my apartment.
  Still, it wasn't a bad night for a walk. San Francisco weather was unpredictable in April, but this year we had sun-washed days and mild evenings. I strolled toward Guerrero Street, the breeze banishing my aggravation.
  Around the corner, red lights pulsated, their waves shattering the darkness. I stopped outside their range. Police cars. Crowds of onlookers. In front of my building. Panic shot through me, and I ran.
  Linnea, I thought. Linnea. Shouldn't have left her alone so long. Talked about suicide... a lot... since the divorce... all her drinking... God knows what kind of pills... my best friend... comes to me for help... I leave her alone... in there... drinking... day after day.
  A crowd of residents milled about, two ore uniformed officers holding them at bay from the stairway. Immediately I glanced at the door of my first-floor rear apartment. It was closed, and no light shone through the pebbled glass panes.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: That was what Neverman thought too. I thanked Dave for his help, and he asked me to tell Hank he'd stop by sometime next week.
  Now for Sebastian. His long stay at the Blind Center puzzled me. Clemente had said the brush man had been blinded in an explosion at an oil refinery. There were a number of those dotting the shores of the Bay near Richmond and the Carquinez Straits, and a personnel department could tell me...
  Who would know? Who could I call without tipping off Clemente that I was prying into the Center's business?
  I called the Albatross Superette. Mr. Moe answered, sounding rushed. Sebastian's last name was Hetzer. H-e-t-z-e-r. Why did I need to know?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Linnea reentered the bar, her hair smoothed and lipstick freshened. She sat down at the table and sipped her Perrier with lime.
  Apparently she noted my approving glance at her drink, because she said, "Yeah. I want to be sober when I see my kids."
  I said, "You know, San Francisco's a good town for women in broadcasting. If it doesn't work out in San Diego, you could always come up and stay with me while you interview the local stations"
  Linnea grinned. "It takes a certain amount of courage to extend that invitation, given what I did to your life these past few weeks. I appreciate it."
  We passed through the security check and walked down the concourse in silence. At the gate Linnea hugged us and then hurried toward the plane, as if afraid she'd change her mind. Greg and I leaned on the railing watching other passengers board.