Sitting at a desk in his office, which is in a strip mall on Collins Avenue, Dave Samson thrusts his large head forward. The palms of his hands press on his desktop, supporting the weight of his squat torso. He wears a white polo shirt. What is left of his hair seems to be electrically charged, springing outward in unruly gray-white strands. His voice adopts the bemused and chintz-laden cadences of W.C. Fields, leavened with an edge of hard-boiled Chicago bravado.... More >>>