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The front door opened with a bang. Stewart cursed softly. No one was supposed to come in that way. He didn’t have a sign out to say that, but his business was supposed to be low profile. Not breezing through the front door where anyone could see from the street.
He hurried to the front of his small house to intercept the client who hadn’t played by the rules, tucking a black shirt into black jeans. Liza was on his living room sofa, lighting up a cigarette and looking for the ashtray that hadn’t been offered in polite society for 30 years.
“Liza—” Stewart had to handle this carefully, but he couldn’t just let her violate him this way.
“Yes, get me an ashtray, would you? I’ve been thinking really hard, and I need this.”
“Just get me a bowl, or a glass, anything…
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