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“No, it’s not the right mood for the people you invited. They just want something stupid and light and fun. Get Con Air.”

“And maybe something old and funny to go with it?”

“Stay safe. The Thin Man. Or something straight-up funny. His Girl Friday.”

“Can I have both?”

“Will you go away?”

“Watch my dust.”

“Fine,” he says. “You know where the regular stuff is. I’ll get the Vincent Ward.”

While I’m pawing through the forties comedy section, Alessa—Candy’s girlfriend—walks out of the back room, a pile of invoices in her hand. She stops for a second. Probably wondering why the shop is empty.

I call over to her, “Hi. How are you?”

She looks at me, then to Kasabian. He raises his eyebrows a little and she turns back to me.

“Hi, Stark,” she says. The way she stomps upstairs lets me know that she knows I’m the reason the store is empty.

Kasabian laughs.

“Man, she loves you.”

“Fuck off. I’m over here trying to be a person.”

He shakes his head, still laughing.

“Making friends everywhere you go.”

I think Alessa hates me most because of my old connection to Candy. But I’m not trying to steal her away. I’m no homewrecker, and I wish I and Alessa could at least be in the same room together for two minutes. But she’s only seen me in a crisis. Killing people and encouraging Candy to go Jade. I know she doesn’t want that for Candy. I’m nervous about her coming to the party. So I’ll be extra polite, wear a clean shirt, and try not to set anything on fire.

Kasabian takes my discs and puts them in a bag. I grab it and head for a shadow.

He shouts, “Try not to murder anyone between here and the wall.”

After I drop the discs at the flying-saucer house, I step through another shadow and come out in the parking lot of a giant supermarket at the corner of where Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard meet. Back in the silent-movie days, when this area was wide open land, they shot some big epics here. This corner is sacred ground. I was in one of these stores a year or so ago but chickened out and ran away. Not this time. I’m going to shop the hell out of this place. I head into the grocery, all innocence and optimism. Grab a cart and venture into the consumer wonderland.

I’m not ten steps inside when a rent-a-cop starts following me. She doesn’t have a gun, but I spot pepper spray and a Taser.

This again. I want to leave but don’t. I’m tired of feeling like I don’t belong anywhere. Besides, I don’t have to do any hoodoo on the cop or anyone else. I have a pocket full of hundreds and I know the one most important rule in L.A.: money is the magic anyone can do. So, I stand my goddamn ground.

There’s a young guy in a spotless apron giving out free samples near the frozen food aisle. I stroll up with the cop behind me as discreet as a pink elephant.

The guy with the samples flashes me the smile of a true believer and without pausing says, “Care to try a sausage?”

I pick up one of the little meat discs with a toothpick and pop it in my mouth.

“It’s our brand-new extra-spicy chorizo with super jalapeños and a generous layer of pepper jack in the middle.”

I watch him as he talks, like he’s the most interesting guy in the world. Over his shoulder, I can see the cop’s reflection in the glass doors of the frozen food cases. But as I stand there, fascinated by every word falling out of Sausage Man’s face, the cop gets bored and wanders off. The truth is that the sausage is pretty good.

I say, “What’s a super jalapeño?”

He falters for a second.

“It’s like a regular jalapeño . . . only super.”