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a guy selling oranges by the side of the freeway? Maybe I can swap gigs with him. He can do the surveillance and the paperwork and I’ll stand by the off-­ramp sucking fumes and selling oranges all day. It doesn’t sound like such a bad life. A little repetitive, but so was fighting in the arena. The freeway job would have less stabbing and more vitamin C, and that’s a step up in the world by anyone’s standards.
    I’m on my way to the big leagues one Satsuma at a time.
    K ASABIAN HAS REOPENED the place when I come downstairs and a few customers are browsing our very specialized movies. Before Maria and Dash, Max Overdrive was doomed. Kasabian made a deal with them to find us copies of lost movies. The uncut Metropolis . Orson Welles’s cut of The Magnificent Ambersons . London After Midnight . Things like that. The problem was that a lot of the best of the bunch were silent movies, and in L.A. we like our gab, so those movies had a limited audience. They brought in enough money to keep the lights burning, but not enough to live on. The new, never-­made movie scheme makes a lot more sense. Maybe we’ll be able to sleep at night without worrying that the next day we’ll be running the store out of the trunk of a stolen car. It’s this possibility that makes me even more pissed about the angel tagging the front windows.
    Fuck waiting for paint remover tomorrow. I get the black blade, go outside, and start scraping.
    I’m at it for maybe ten minutes when I see someone’s reflection in the glass. A tall guy in a brown leather blazer.
    Someone is watching me from the street. I managed to get GOD off the glass, but now it reads KILLER , which really isn’t much of an improvement.
    I turn around and give the guy a “move along, pilgrim” look. He gives me an irritatingly polished smile and comes over to where I’m working.
    This day just keeps getting better.
    â€œSomeone really did a number on your windows,” he says. “Any significance to the word?”
    â€œSome to him, I guess. None to me. What do you want?”
    He looks around like he’s checking to see it’s just us chickens.
    â€œYou’re James Stark, aren’t you?”
    â€œWho’s asking?”
    He reaches around his back. I make sure he can see the knife in my hand. For a second he looks nervous, but he recovers quickly and flashes me that shit-­eating grin.
    He holds up his wallet and shows me an ID card from the L.A. Times. The name on the card is David Moore. I nod and he puts it away.
    â€œImpressive. I bet you own a dictionary and a thesaurus.”
    â€œPaper too,” Moore says. “Lots of blank printer paper.”
    â€œAnd you want to print something about me. Why?”
    He takes a step closer. He smells of adrenaline with a hint of fear sweat.
    â€œWe’re doing a feature—­maybe a series—­on the ­people who stayed here during the flood. The pioneers and eccentrics.”
    â€œIt sounds like you think I escaped from the Donner expedition.”
    â€œNothing like that,” he says.
    He pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Taps out one for himself and holds the pack out to me like he’s throwing a bone to a ragamuffin refugee in a World War II movie. I don’t like the guy, but I take the cigarette. He lights it and then his own. It’s not bad. A foreign brand that burns the back of my throat pleasantly.
    â€œThanks.”
    I go back to scraping the window.
    He doesn’t say anything for a minute, then, “How about it? Can I ask you a few questions?”
    â€œLet me ask you one. Why me? Lots of ­people who stayed behind, including some of my customers. Why not interview them?”
    He comes around where I’m scraping, so I get a clear view of his mug. Trying to establish eye contact and intimacy. Letting me know that even though he’s from the press I shouldn’t hold it against him.