Free The Skin Gods by Richard Montanari

of grunge he was emulating: the original Neil Young version, the Nirvana/Pearl Jam nexus, or some new breed of which she, at the ancient age of thirty, was not familiar.
     
     
There were a handful of browsers in the store. Beneath the cloying smell of strawberry incense was the faint aroma of some pretty good pot.
     
     
Byrne showed the clerk his badge.
     
     
“Whoa,” the kid said. His bloodshot eyes darted to the beaded doorway behind him and to what was, Jessica was fairly certain, his small stash of weed.
     
     
“What’s your name?” Byrne asked.
     
     
“My name ?”
     
     
“Yeah,” Byrne said. “That’s the thing other people call you when they want to get your attention.”
     
     
“Uh, Leonard,” he said. “Leonard Puskas. Lenny, actually.”
     
     
“Are you the manager, Lenny?” Byrne asked.
     
     
“Well not, like, officially.”
     
     
“Meaning, like, what?”
     
     
“Meaning I open and close and do all the ordering and all the other work around here. All for minimum wage.”
     
     
Byrne held up the outer box for the copy of Psycho that Adam Kaslov had rented. The Audio Visual Unit still had the original tape.
     
     
“Hitch,” Lenny said, nodding. “A classic.”
     
     
“You’re a fan?”
     
     
“Oh yeah. Big time,” Lenny said. “Although, I never really got into his political stuff in the sixties. Topaz, Torn Curtain. ”
     
     
“I see.”
     
     
“But The Birds ? North by Northwest ? Rear Window ? Awesome.”
     
     
“What about Psycho, Lenny?” Byrne asked. “Are you a fan of Psycho ?”
     
     
Lenny sat up straight, wrapped his arms around his chest, straitjacket style. He sucked in his cheeks, clearly getting ready to do some sort of impression. He said: “I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
     
     
Jessica exchanged a glance and a shrug with Byrne. “And who was that supposed to be?” Byrne asked.
     
     
Lenny looked crushed. “That was Anthony Perkins. That’s his line from the end of the movie. He doesn’t actually say it, of course. It’s a voice-over. Actually, technically, the voice-over says Why, she wouldn’t even hurt a fly, but—” Lenny’s look of hurt instantly morphed into one of horror. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? I mean . . . I didn’t . . . I’m a real stickler on spoilers.”
     
     
“I’ve seen the movie,” Byrne said. “I’ve just never seen anyone do Anthony Perkins before.”
     
     
“I can do Martin Balsam, too. Wanna see?”
     
     
“Maybe later.”
     
     
“Okay.”
     
     
“This tape is from this store?”
     
     
Lenny squinted at the label on the side of the box. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s ours.”
     
     
“We need to know the rental history of this particular tape.”
     
     
“No prob,” he said in his best Junior G-Man voice. This was going to be a great story around the bong later. He reached under the counter and took out a thick spiral notebook, began to turn over pages.
     
     
As he flipped through the book, Jessica noted that the pages were stained with just about every condiment known to man, and a few blots of unknown origin she didn’t even want to think about.
     
     
“Your records aren’t computerized?” Byrne asked.
     
     
“Uh, that would require software,” Lenny said. “And that would require an actual expenditure.”
     
     
It was clear that there was no love lost between Lenny and his boss.
     
     
“It’s only been out three times this year,” Lenny finally said. “Including the rental yesterday.”
     
     
“To three different people?” Jessica asked.
     
     
“Yeah.”
     
     
“Do your records go back farther?”
     
     
“Yeah,” Lenny said. “But we had to replace Psycho last year. The old tape broke, I think. That copy you have there has only been out three times.”
     
     
“Doesn’t seem like a lot of rentals for a classic,” Byrne said.
     
     
“Most folks take out the DVD.”
     
     
“And this is your only copy of the