“I mean it, Chaz. I want out.”

“Aw, c'mon, baby. We're so good together.”

We were sitting in a fishermen's bar in Gloucester, a dim, seedy place well off the tourist track. Any stranger who wandered in here was likely to stagger out with an empty wallet and a few less teeth. But for us, tucked into our regular booth at the back, it was the safest place north of Boston ...