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Runaround StewsShe picked up her bag and shawl and followed him out the door. The door to the black Mercedes was politely opened for her, and she gracefully slid in, surprised that Mike was not in the car. "Boss says to take you to his place," growled a huge black man eyeing her melon-like breasts with ravishing stares. His long sinewy arm secured the lock on the door. It was a deathlike ride into San Francisco and even driving over the Golden Gate Bridge held no inspiration for her as it normally did with its magic sensuous fog drifting like a shapeless spirit; now it only laughed at her. Ann's heart beat like an African drum as they ascended the tall Broadway hilt of Pacific Heights. Her stomach turned cold and she felt icewater in her veins as the Mercedes neared the wrought iron gated mansion of the infamous Mike Boston. A white smocked valet appeared from nowhere to open the locked gates; in her pulsations of fear he became a morgue attendant, the grave digger from Hamlet, the spectre. of Poe. He was everything evil and wickedly ominous as he reached for her hand to help her out of the car ...» |
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