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. . . It was wearing a long black Columbine-type Goth trenchcoat and a slouch hat pulled down to partially cover its face . . .  Its voice sounded as if it were passing over old and distant bones.  The tone was flat and uninflected, but with a definite undercurrent of cruelty and hunger...

San Francisco. Rainy streets and back alleys. Jazz clubs and scam artists and black practitioners. This is the world of Dog Days, where nothing is quite as it seems. Mystery, and dogs who aren’t really dogs . . . and other things.