conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Beneath, Before with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Slam The Big Door'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Slam The Big Door
  It seemed as though J. C. Arlenton would drone on forever. He was Buddha fat, pink-bald, with little short thick hands and feet. He wore khaki pants and a white shirt and carpet slippers, and he had driven out in a Cadillac that was as dirty as any car Raines had ever seen. Rob knew he had been in the state legislature one time, a long time ago, and since then had shoved a couple of governors into office. He had a lot of grove land over in Orange County, and a good-sized building-supply business, and he was known to be in a few things with Elmarr. One of them was the regular poker session.
  J. C. Arlenton sat hugging his glass with his little thick hands and said in a tone of complaint to the fourth man present, Corey Haas, "Now Corey, damn it, you know better'n to set right there telling me Wink Haskell ever had one dollar put into Sea-Bar Development. Wink, he never went into nothing without control and that was the reason how he lost out here and there, and Sea-Bar was one he lost out on, so don't you let him suck you in hinting on like how he had him a fine thing there, because Wink, he's like to do that way to you, proving how smart he is. When Sea-Bar sold that whole tract to Mackel, ole Wink didn't get one dime on account he wasn't in it, so don't let him hint you different."
  Corey Haas was, in this matter, Rob Raines's ticket to join the discussion. Corey had thrown Rob a little bit of legal work lately. Of the four, Corey was the only one who wasn't a native Floridian, but he had come down from West Virginia so long ago there wasn't any perceptible difference in speech or manner. He'd lost a land-boom fortune so big that he'd spent the rest of his life trying to catch up to where he once had been. There were some who'd said he'd made it all back. He liked to get in on land syndicates. And he was in with Troy Jamison on Horseshoe Pass Estates.
  Purdy Elmarr looked over at Corey Haas with a little glint of animosity in his faded old eyes and said, "Don't properly remember just how you come to go in with Jamison, Corey."
  Corey looked uncomfortable. Rob, watching the exchange, suspected that Purdy knew exactly why Corey had gone in with Troy Jamison.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is two more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: After lunch he finished the letters and mailed them on his way to Ravenna Key. He got to Red's at two-thirty. Birdy and Jerranna weren't there. He asked Red about them. "Haven't been in yet today. Probably at the cottage."
  He went to the cottage. Birdy sat on the floor of the small porch, bare to the waist, intently weaving some unidentifiable object out of long thin leather thongs. His thick fingers were nimble, his expression intent. Muscles pulsed in his chest and shoulders as he worked.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: And so this is the second and final fade-out—like hand in hand into the sunset—this Rodenska family, picking itself up off the grainy Spanish sand, picking up the tools of beaching, hurrying a little because when you stand up into the wind, it is hardly a pleasure.
  Above the shallow beach are the rocks, and a path that winds up through the rocks, and beyond that what passes in Spain for a paved highway, and beyond the highway the self-conscious confection of a new hotel, like a wedding cake sitting in a quarry.
  So the woman goes first on the narrowness of path, and turns to laugh and say something to the stocky brown man following her so closely. They are observed there in the lemon sunlight by but one couple, a lean long-married pair of English tourists from Maida Vale, snug in hairy garments, sitting on rocks. They turn simultaneous heads to stare with the iciness of heraldic griffins, narrow nostrils widening in displeasure.
  The woman thinks, She is hardly a young girl, not by decades, but that figure, my word! By what nasty magic do those types manage it?
  They have reached the top of the path. The woman turns to speak and smile again, and in response the man, with his free hand, claps her a jolly one on the haunch. The two narrow heads of the observers snap back into position and two pair of gray eyes stare toward Africa.