I'd been sitting at Doyle's Clam House for an hour, and to my disappointment, no one had gotten around to being kidnapped by aliens yet.
I had a bowl of what the guide books called the best damned chowder north of Bodega Bay on one side, and a redhead who'd make Raymond Chandler dive for his thesaurus on the other.
What could possibly go wrong on an evening like this?
A whole lot, as a matter... [click here for more]
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