She hesitates.
“People call you Michael Jackson behind your back, you know.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
She purses her lips in embarrassment.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just, you hear stories.”
I hand her the disc.
“No problem. For a hundred dollars a movie, I guess you’re entitled to a question or two.”
She glances around the store.
“You have some really nice stuff, but you ought to expand into BBC shows.”
“Which ones?”
“In the early sixties they used to erase a lot of TV to save on videotape. They lost old Doctor Whos. The Avengers. Cool shows like that. I have friends who’d kill for those.”
“Tell you what, make me a list of what you want and I’ll see what I can do.”
From the back, Kasabian yells, “That’s TV. We don’t do TV.”
I shake my head.
“Ignore him. He’s a snob. Bring me the list and your next rental is free.”
“Awesome,” she says. She gets her umbrella, does her old lady trick, and heads out. Stopping by the door she says, “Merry Christmas.”
“Same to you, Mrs. Cratchit.”
She opens the door and a blast of wind blows rain inside. It’s coming down hard enough that the street out front is flooding again. I lock the door behind her.
“Cute girl,” says Kasabian, coming out of the back. His mechanical legs click with each step. He wears a loose knockoff Nike tracksuit. It makes him look like the movie version of a Russian mobster, if Russian mobsters were robots.
“Nice salesmanship with her,” he says. “Not so much with the guys you threatened.”
“The little guy annoyed me. Anyway, we need signs or warning labels or something on the discs. I don’t want
to keep having that conversation.”
“If it’ll calm you down I’ll print out something.”
“Yeah, it would.”
Kasabian has lost more hair in the year since I’ve been back. His face is still as round as it ever was. Must be the hoodoo keeping him alive. He eats plenty, but the food drops right through a tube in his mechanical body, so it’s not like he’s taking in any calories.
“You’re in a mood,” he says. “You and the other Johnny Laws have a busy day arresting jaywalkers?”
“It was a funny day, now that you ask. I cut off a guy’s head, and when he died I followed him into limbo. Sound familiar?”
Kasabian touches his throat.
“You and cutting people’s heads off,” he says. “You’re like an alcoholic, only with a guillotine.”
I think about getting a drink, but the moment has passed. I don’t want it anymore. I’m worried about Candy.