conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Atwater, Tom, Holbrook with the genre: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Down and Out In Purgatory'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book? Start with the sentence 'Down and Out In Purgatory
  Holbrook sat back and closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the curtained window behind him'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Down and Out In Purgatory
  Holbrook sat back and closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the curtained window behind him. "Okay." He opened his eyes when he heard Martinez tapping the computer keyboard. "You can get online out here?"
  Martinez was still tapping away at the keyboard. "Hm? Oh—yes, definitely, if I can get hold of Pete." He nodded toward the door. "It's a big desert, no morgue for you. Part of the service."
  Martinez looked up impatiently. "There seem to be streets, so I suppose there's pavement. The spirits say they walk around. It's just consensual gravity, too, at least at the top of the dome. Ghosts don't have near enough mass to have any measurable weight."
  Martinez stood up and opened the wooden cabinet again, and a moment later he stepped toward the door, hefting a big black gun. Holbrook's heart was thumping hard in his chest as he made himself look squarely at the weapon, and he saw that it was a pump-action 12-gauge shotgun, with a pistol grip instead of a shoulder stock. Only after a shocked moment did Holbrook notice that the man had also fetched from the cabinet a roll of Saran Wrap.
  Holbrook thought of Shasta as he had last seen her—she and John had been in L.A. for a week in 2006, and she had invited him to join them for an early dinner at Mastro's. Shasta had been thinner than he remembered, with new lines under her eyes and down her cheeks. John had looked fit and tanned, and had paid the whole tab with a Platinum American Express card. Shasta had kissed Holbrook, perhaps wistfully, when they left.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Holbrook knew that his real heart was stopped and cold in an unmarked grave in the original world, but he could nevertheless feel a pulse pounding in his temples, and he was dizzy enough to keep his hands spread to the sides as he walked up to the higher curb.
  He remembered the broad face he had dimly seen through clear plastic at the Los Angeles Coroner's morgue. It seemed a very long time ago.
  Atwater had still been handsome and fit-looking when Holbrook had had dinner with him and Shasta at Mastro's in 2006. Holbrook had at that time been a proofreader at a throwaway advertising paper in nearby Culver City, and Atwater had pretended to be very interested in hearing all the details of the job, while Shasta had just looked out the window and taken rapid sips of her Manhattan. Three years later she had been in a roped bag in the Coroner's building.
  Up on the level sidewalk now, Holbrook turned around and looked down at the sloping skyline of Purgatory. He could see towers and steeples at a distance of at least a mile; all of them were tilted toward him. Clearly he must be on the descending skirt of the bell—but he had noticed no curvature of the pavement since leaving the fountain in the square, no convexity.
  He dismissed the puzzle and turned to face the front door of Chasteen's. The round stained glass window and the iron latch were exactly as he remembered, and the door swung inward when he squeezed the latch and pushed. Familiar smells of tomato sauce and fennel and garlic rode the puff of warm air from the lamplit interior, and he saw a pitcher of dark beer on the table the six of them had customarily occupied.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last paragraph?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Holbrook unclenched his right hand from the steering wheel and reached for the keypad. One letter at a time, pausing frequently to look at the ghostly traffic ahead and ignoring the momentary glimpse of the dark plain, he typed in, NO AND I DONT THINK I EVER WILL JACK AND JILL HAVE GONE DOWN THE HILL.