conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Sue, Grafton's, Founding with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Short Stories & Anthologies?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Mccone Files'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Mccone Files
  Hence the final story in this collection, "File Closed," written as a companion to "The Last Open File." It is my way of rounding out McCone's tenure at All Souls, as well as paving the way for her future. If I've indulged in sentimentality there...well, leave-takings are sentimental occasions. But they also imply new beginnings, and who knows what awaits Sharon?
  THE BIG Victorian slumped between its neighbors on a steeply sloping side-street in San Francisco's Bernal Heights district: tall, shabby, and strangely welcoming in spite of its sagging roofline and blistered chocolate paint. I got out of my battered red MG and studied the house for a moment, then cut across the weedy triangular park that bisected Coso Street and climbed the front steps. A line of pigeons roosted on the peak above the door; I glanced warily at them before slipping under and obeying a hand-lettered sign that told me to "Walk Right In!"
  It seemed an unnecessary risk to leave one's door open in the low-rent area, but when I entered I came face-to-face with a man sitting at a desk. He had fine features and a goatee, and was dressed in the flannel-shirt-and-Levi's uniform of the predominately gay Castro district; although his dark eyes were mild and friendly, he was scrutinizing me very carefully. I presented my business card—one of the thousand I'd had printed on credit at my friend Daphne's and Charlie's shop—and his expression became less guarded. "You're Sharon McCone, Hank's detective friend!" he exclaimed.
  I nodded, although I didn't feel much like a detective any more. For the past few years I'd worked under the license of one of the city's large investigative firms; the day I'd received my own ticket from the State Department of Consumer Affairs, my boss had fired me for insubordination. At first I'd seen it as an opportunity to strike out on my own, but operating out of my studio apartment on Guerrero Street was far from an ideal situation; jobs were few, I was about to run out of cards, and my rent was due next Thursday. Yesterday I'd run into Hank Zahn, a former housemate from my college days at U. C. Berkeley. He'd asked me to stop by his law firm for a talk.
  The man at the desk seemed to be waiting for more of a response. Inanely I said, "Yes," to reinforce the nod.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Mccone Files
  Hence the final story in this collection, "File Closed," written as a companion to "The Last Open File." It is my way of rounding out McCone's tenure at All Souls, as well as paving the way for her future. If I've indulged in sentimentality there...well, leave-takings are sentimental occasions. But they also imply new beginnings, and who knows what awaits Sharon?
  THE BIG Victorian slumped between its neighbors on a steeply sloping side-street in San Francisco's Bernal Heights district: tall, shabby, and strangely welcoming in spite of its sagging roofline and blistered chocolate paint. I got out of my battered red MG and studied the house for a moment, then cut across the weedy triangular park that bisected Coso Street and climbed the front steps. A line of pigeons roosted on the peak above the door; I glanced warily at them before slipping under and obeying a hand-lettered sign that told me to "Walk Right In!"
  It seemed an unnecessary risk to leave one's door open in the low-rent area, but when I entered I came face-to-face with a man sitting at a desk. He had fine features and a goatee, and was dressed in the flannel-shirt-and-Levi's uniform of the predominately gay Castro district; although his dark eyes were mild and friendly, he was scrutinizing me very carefully. I presented my business card—one of the thousand I'd had printed on credit at my friend Daphne's and Charlie's shop—and his expression became less guarded. "You're Sharon McCone, Hank's detective friend!" he exclaimed.
  I nodded, although I didn't feel much like a detective any more. For the past few years I'd worked under the license of one of the city's large investigative firms; the day I'd received my own ticket from the State Department of Consumer Affairs, my boss had fired me for insubordination. At first I'd seen it as an opportunity to strike out on my own, but operating out of my studio apartment on Guerrero Street was far from an ideal situation; jobs were few, I was about to run out of cards, and my rent was due next Thursday. Yesterday I'd run into Hank Zahn, a former housemate from my college days at U. C. Berkeley. He'd asked me to stop by his law firm for a talk.
  The man at the desk seemed to be waiting for more of a response.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Jerry—who would always be god-awful Jerry and never Dave Lester to me—stood up and came around the desk. I straightened my posture. From my five-foot-six vantage point I could see the beginnings of a bald spot under his artfully styled hair. When he realized where I was looking, his mouth tightened. I took a perverse delight in his discomfort.
  Jerry flushed. When he spoke, it was in a flat deceptively calm manner. "Get out of here," he said, "or I'll call your editor."
  Back at my office at All Souls, I curled up in my ratty armchair—my favorite place to think. I considered my visit to All the Best People; I considered what was wrong with the setup there. Then I got out my list of burglary victims and called each of them. All three gave similar answers to my questions. Next I checked the phone directory and called my friend Sandy in the billing office at Pacific Bell.
  She tapped away on her computer keyboard. "Billing and location are the same: two-eleven Gough. Need anything else?"
  In spite of my earlier determination to depart the singles scene, I spent the next few nights on the phone, this time assuming the name of Patsy Newhouse, my younger sister. I talked to various singles about my new VCR; I described the sapphire pendant my former boyfriend had given me and how I planned to have it reset to erase old memories. I babbled happily about the trip to Las Vegas I was taking in a few days with Weekenders, and promised to make notes in my pocket organizer to call people as soon as I got back. I mentioned—in seductive tones—how I loved to walk barefoot over my genuine Persian rugs, I praised the merits of my new microwave oven. I described how I'd gotten into collecting costly jade carvings. By the time the Weekenders trip was due to depart for Vegas, I was constantly sucking on throat lozenges and wondering how long my voice would hold out.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last two paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He came over and rapped his knuckles on the table where we'd eaten and drunk, played games and talked, celebrated and commiserated, fought and made up, and—now—let go. "This table and chairs're mine. Marin County Flea Market, the week after we founded All Souls. They're going along."
  It was a stupid sentimental decision—one I was sure to regret. "Only if you'll give me hand with that ratty armchair in my former office. I can't imagine I forgot it."