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"I like this place," she said. "It's . . . different."
"Uh . . . yes," I agreed, glancing at two passed-out drunks-one to the
front of the establishment, one to the rear-and three shifty-eyed
individuals conversing in low voices off in one corner. A few broken bottles
and suspi- cious stains were upon the floor, and some not-too-subtle artwork
of an amorous nature hung on the far wall. "The food's quite good," I added.
"I've never been in a restaurant like this," she continued, watching a
black cat, who rolled in from a rear room, wrestling with an enormous rat.
"It has its devotees, but it's a well-kept secret among discriminating
diners."
I continued my tale through a meal even better than the one I
remembered. When the door opened much later to admit a small man with a bad
limp and a dirty bandage about his head I noticed that daylight was
beginning to wane. I had just finished my story and it seemed a good time
to- be leaving.
I said as much, but she put her hand on mine.
"You know I'm not your entity," she said, "but if you need any kind of
help I can give you, I'll do it."
"You're a good listener," I said. "Thanks. We'd better be going now."
We passed out of Death Alley without, incident and made our way along
Harbor Road over to Vine. The sun was getting ready to set as we headed
upward, and the cobbles passed 'through a variety of bright earth tones and
fire colors
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