“That’s great,” Alan said. “And Kurt tells me you’ve been doing amazing work with him, too.”
“Oh, that’s just fun,” she said. “I went along on a couple of dumpster runs with the gang. I found the most amazing cosmetics baskets at the Shiseido dumpster. Never would have thought that I’d go in for that girly stuff, but when you get it for free out of the trash, it feels pretty macha. Smell,” she said, tilting her head and stretching her neck.
He sniffed cautiously. “Very macha,” he said. He realized that the other patrons in the shop were eyeballing him, a middle-aged man, with his face buried in this alterna-girl’s throat.
He remembered suddenly that he still hadn’t put in a call to get her a job somewhere else, and was smitten with guilt. “Hey,” he said. “Damn. I was supposed to call Tropicál and see about getting you a job. I’ll do it right away.” He pulled a little steno pad out of his pocket and started jotting down a note to himself.
She put her hand out. “Oh, that’s okay,” she said. “I really like this job. I’ve been looking up all my old high school friends: You were right, everyone I ever knew has an account with Martian Signal. God, you should see the movies they rent.”
“You keep that on file, huh?”
“Sure, everything. It’s creepy.”
“Do you need that much info?”
“Well, we need to know who took a tape out last if someone returns it and says that it’s broken or recorded over or whatever—”
“So you need, what, the last couple months’ worth of rentals?”