I’m struggling my way through a book set in San Diego in 1941, shortly before Pearl Harbor. Here’s the beginning, or the beginning at the moment:
Jorge lifted the slimy creature to his lips and bit it right between the eyes.
I shuddered as I watched. “Doesn’t that taste muddy and disgusting?”
“Nah,” he said, wiping mud from his mouth. “Is only salty. This way they don’t die but only sleep, stay fresh.” He threw the octopus into a bucket and slipped through the mud flats to another hole in the muck. He filled a baster from a mud-spattered Clorox bottle and squirted the bleach into a hole. When the occupant slithered to the surface, Jorge pulled it out and bit it, too. “You want? Make good stew.”
I shook my head. I preferred fish that came in cans and was mixed with mayo and chopped celery.
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