conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled Shades Of Black about Shades, Black, Patricia with the genre: Religion & Spirituality, Literature & Fiction
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Shades of Black is a colorful display of tragedy and triumph -- Patricia Haley-Brown, author of Nobodys Perfect.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Shades Of Black
  All right, I'm lying. I'm actually a little over 150 miles south of the equator, and there's really no such thing as not casting a shadow. And besides, at noontime, any sane person is indoors out of the sun, which will burn you to a crisp in fifteen minutes at this latitude. Right now I'm sipping through two long straws on the nectar of a young, green coconut that three minutes before had its top chopped off by a young boy with a machete, his brown skin glistening blind-ingly from sweat and sun.
  I'm down on the beaches of Salinas, on the Santa Elena peninsula of my once-native Ecuador, escaping the gathering North American winter and recovering from an ordeal that has left me pale, weak, angry, frustrated, disoriented, and also got me kicked off the NYPD.
  My recently invalidated police credentials were enough to get me a tour around one of the proud warships of the Ecuadorian armada. The seamen eagerly took me around the decks, to the engine room, the game room, everywhere except a few restricted areas, even covering the bridge, where, when no one was looking, I snuck a peek at the Emergency Broadcast Codes and saw that three dashes is a Distress Call, three dots repeated four times means Man Overboard, and four dots repeated three times means Get Back Home, The Government Just Fell. I wonder if the U.S. Navy bothers about having this last one.
  I spend the day alternately basking in the sun and staying out of the sun, since my skin, once used to this climate, has spent far too many years chasing muggers and rapists through dark, fetid corridors. I need to get back into this gradually. And think about what I'm going to do for a job now.
  I watch the sunset behind the towering luxury hotels while gently sidestroking through the body-warm waters of the Pacific Ocean, dry off under the low-hanging canopy of a windblown palm tree, then set out for a barefoot stroll along the sands in no particular direction.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: four more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Oh. I set it on the table next to the three glasses. There's blood on my hand. I wipe it off with a napkin.
  Her sudden, confused look convinces me that she really has no idea what I'm talking about. Then she gets it.
  She stares up at me almost with a look of gratitude. I tell her maybe she'd better go clean herself up before the police get here. She nods vigorously and practically hops to her feet, disappears into one of the other rooms, presumably to carry out my suggestion.
  I watch her go, then run the tip of my finger through the most prominent gathering of crystalline remains; convinced that it's not cyanide, at least, I put it to my tongue. An icy anesthetic bitterness spreads across it. I spit the stuff out. But the bitterness remains.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
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