conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about Chicago, Silver, Bear with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Silver Bear'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.. Start with the sentence 'The Silver Bear
  I am a bad man'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Silver Bear
  I am a bad man. I do not have any friends. I do not speak to women or children for longer than is absolutely necessary. I groom myself to blend, like a chameleon darkening its pigment against the side of an oak tree. My hair is cut short, my eyes are hidden behind dark glasses, my dress would inspire a yawn from anyone who passed me in the street. I do not call attention to myself in any way.
  I have lived this way for as long as I can remember, although in truth it has only been ten years. The events of my life prior to that day, I have forgotten in all detail, although I do remember the pain. Joy and pain tend to make imprints on memory that do not dim, flecks of senses rather than images that resurrect themselves involuntarily and without warning. I have had precious little of the former and a lifetime of the latter. A week ago, I read a poll that reported ninety percent of people over the age of sixty would choose to be a teenager again if they could. If those same people could have experienced one day of my teenage years, not a single hand would be counted.
  The past does not interest me, though it is always there, just below the surface, like dangerous blurs and shapes an ocean swimmer senses in the deep. I am fond of the present. I am in command in the present. I am master of my own destiny in the present. If I choose, I can touch someone, or let someone touch me, but only in the present. Free will is a gift of the present; the only time I can choose to outwit God. The future, your fate, though, belongs to God. If you try to outsmart God in planning your fate, you are in for disappointment. He owns the future, and He loves O. Henry endings.
  The present is full of rain and bluster, and I hurry to close the door behind me as I duck into an indiscriminate warehouse alongside the Charles River. It has been a cold April, which many say indicates a long, hot summer approaching, but I do not make predictions. The warehouse is damp, and I can smell mildew, fresh-cut sawdust, and fear.
  People do not like to meet with me. Even those whom society considers dangerous are uneasy in my presence. They have heard stories about Singapore, Providence, and Brooklyn. About Washington, Baltimore, and Miami. About London, Bonn, and Dallas. They do not want to say something to make me uncomfortable or angry, and so they choose their words with precision. Fear is a feeling foreign to these types of men, and they do not like the way it settles in their stomach. They get me in and out as fast as they can and with very little negotiation.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me two more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A brown dog is loitering in the parking lot outside the window. He doesn't appear to belong to anyone, at least not anymore, and he is skittish, like he's taken too many kicks to the ribs and isn't going to let it happen again. He is sniffing by the Dumpsters across the lot, but whatever he's looking for, he doesn't find it.
  I open the envelope Pooley handed me and slide out a stack of papers. It's another jigsaw puzzle, only this one is already put together, all the pieces lined up and fitted in place. Newspaper clippings and hotel receipts and bank statements and official testimony and diary entries, all presented succinctly and chronologically to tell a complete story. How Pooley put this together, or, more likely, who gave it to him, are questions for which I'm not sure I want the answers. It turns out my mother, LaWanda Dickerson, isn't the only woman Abe Mann removed permanently from his life.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It turns out my mother, LaWanda Dickerson, isn't the only woman Abe Mann removed permanently from his life.. How Pooley put this together, or, more likely, who gave it to him, are questions for which I'm not sure I want the answers. Newspaper clippings and hotel receipts and bank statements and official testimony and diary entries, all presented succinctly and chronologically to tell a complete story. It's another jigsaw puzzle, only this one is already put together, all the pieces lined up and fitted in place.
  I open the envelope Pooley handed me and slide out a stack of papers. He is sniffing by the Dumpsters across the lot, but whatever he's looking for, he doesn't find it. He doesn't appear to belong to anyone, at least not anymore, and he is skittish, like he's taken too many kicks to the ribs and isn't going to let it happen again.A brown dog is loitering in the parking lot outside the window
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He traveled recently to Denver, Colorado, upon my request. It is the first time he has made a file on a person who wasn't a target. I have the file in my hand now, but I haven't opened it. I was waiting until I arrived in this place, this town built into the side of a hill yearning to tumble into the sea. I sit heavily on a patio chair, breathe in the cool night air, and place my thumb under the seal.
  The name at the top of the page is Jacqueline Grant, formerly Jake Owens of Boston, Massachusetts. The surveillance photo shows a profile of a woman stepping out of a car, hurrying across a parking lot to a grocery store. Her hair is longer than it was when I knew her and her face is a bit fuller. She looks content, or maybe I'm projecting this on to her image.
  She has been married for three years. Her husband owns a restaurant. A clean, well-lighted place that serves hamburgers to locals. He is her age and treats her well. I wonder how they met. I wonder if she was unlucky with men after I kicked her in the stomach or if she swore them off until Alex Grant came into her life. I wonder if he was safe and she felt secure with him.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He traveled recently to Denver, Colorado, upon my request. It is the first time he has made a file on a person who wasn't a target. I have the file in my hand now, but I haven't opened it. I was waiting until I arrived in this place, this town built into the side of a hill yearning to tumble into the sea. I sit heavily on a patio chair, breathe in the cool night air, and place my thumb under the seal.
  The name at the top of the page is Jacqueline Grant, formerly Jake Owens of Boston, Massachusetts. The surveillance photo shows a profile of a woman stepping out of a car, hurrying across a parking lot to a grocery store. Her hair is longer than it was when I knew her and her face is a bit fuller. She looks content, or maybe I'm projecting this on to her image.
  She has been married for three years. Her husband owns a restaurant. A clean, well-lighted place that serves hamburgers to locals. He is her age and treats her well. I wonder how they met. I wonder if she was unlucky with men after I kicked her in the stomach or if she swore them off until Alex Grant came into her life.