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Sandra Cartwright-Hall was not the only one among the mourners that day missing out on vital capital gains ventures.  Frank Pena had driven three hundred and seventy five miles in a car that belched blue smoke, on tires balding to the wires, and had fifty pounds of the finest grass back home sitting in a closet that wasn't likely to sell itself, with the promise of easy money.  So far, what he found instead hadn't fanned his skirt.  And with the oppressive muggy heat, his mood was not vastly improved by the meager exotic trinkets.  

While Sandra busied herself with an arm in the plural space of the master suite, Frank filled a pillowcase with old looking silver spoons, crystal decanters, and whatever else he could find while searching the usual places for guns and electronics on t...

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