Free The Skin Gods by Richard Montanari Page A

VHS version?” Jessica asked.
     
     
“Yes, ma’am.”
     
     
Ma’am, Jessica thought. I’m a ma’am. “We’ll need the names and addresses of the people who rented this tape.”
     
     
Lenny looked left and right, as if a pair of ACLU lawyers with whom he might confer on this matter might flank him. Instead, he was flanked by life-size cardboard cutouts of Nicolas Cage and Adam Sandler. “I don’t think I’m allowed to do that.”
     
     
“Lenny,” Byrne said, leaning in. He crooked his finger, motioning him to lean closer. Lenny did. “Did you notice the badge I showed you when we walked in?”
     
     
“Yeah. I saw that.”
     
     
“Good. Here’s the deal. If you give me the information I asked for, I’ll try and overlook the fact that it smells a little bit like Bob Marley’s rec room in here. Okay?”
     
     
Lenny leaned back. It appeared as if he was unaware that the strawberry incense didn’t completely cover the aroma of the reefer. “Okay. No prob.”
     
     
While Lenny looked for a pen, Jessica glanced at the monitor on the wall. A new movie was running. An old black-and-white noir with Veronica Lake and Alan Ladd.
     
     
“Do you want me to write these names down for you?” Lenny asked.
     
     
“I think we can handle it,” Jessica replied.
     
     
In addition to Adam Kaslov, the two other people who had rented the movie were a man named Isaiah Crandall and a woman named Emily Trager. They both lived within three or four blocks of the store.
     
     
“Do you know Adam Kaslov well?” Byrne asked.
     
     
“Adam? Oh yeah. Good dude.”
     
     
“How so?”
     
     
“Well, he has good taste in movies. Pays his late fees without a hassle. We talk independent film sometimes. We’re both Jim Jarmusch fans.”
     
     
“Is Adam in here a lot?”
     
     
“I guess. Maybe twice a week.”
     
     
“Does he come in alone?”
     
     
“Most of the time. Although I did see him in here once with an older woman.”
     
     
“Do you know who she was?”
     
     
“No.”
     
     
“Older as in how old?” Byrne asked.
     
     
“Twenty-five maybe.”
     
     
Jessica and Byrne exchanged a glance and a sigh. “What did she look like?”
     
     
“Blond, pretty. Nice body. You know. For an older gal.”
     
     
“Do you know either of these other people well?” Jessica asked, tapping the book.
     
     
Lenny turned the book, read the names. “Sure. I know Emily.”
     
     
“She’s a regular?”
     
     
“Kind of.”
     
     
“What can you tell us about her?”
     
     
“Not much,” Lenny said. “I mean, we don’t hang or anything.”
     
     
“Whatever you can tell us would be most helpful.”
     
     
“Well, she always buys a bag of cherry Twizzlers when she rents a movie. She wears a little too much perfume but, you know, compared with the way some of the people who come in here smell, it’s actually kind of nice.”
     
     
“How old is she?” Byrne asked.
     
     
Lenny shrugged. “I don’t know. Seventy?”
     
     
Jessica and Byrne exchanged another glance. Although they were fairly certain that the “old woman” on the tape was a man, crazier things had happened.
     
     
“What about Mr. Crandall?” Byrne asked.
     
     
“Him I don’t know. Hang on.” Lenny brought out a second notebook. He thumbed to a page. “Yeah. He’s only been a member here about three weeks.”
     
     
Jessica wrote it down. “I’m also going to need the names and addresses of all the other employees.”
     
     
Lenny frowned again, but didn’t even bother trying to object. “There are only two of us. Me and Juliet.”
     
     
At this, a young woman poked her head out between the beaded curtains. She had clearly been listening. If Lenny Puskas was the poster boy for grunge, his co-employee was the poster girl for Goth. Short and stocky, about eighteen, she had purple-black hair, deep burgundy fingernails, black lipstick. She wore a long lemon vintage taffeta dress, Doc Martens,