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“We’re doing a seventies week. Everything made in or about the seventies. From Foxy Brown and The Getaway to Boogie Nights and Dazed and Confused. You should come by. I’ll be in Roller Boogie sequined booty shorts and skates all week.”

“I’m sold.”

She crosses her arms and looks me over.

“I’d tell you to dress appropriately, but I know you’re incapable of not looking like a broke-ass biker. Don’t worry though. I’ve got an ex’s Nehru jacket that will fit you perfectly.”

“I’m not sure I’m the Nehru type.”

“Too late. You said you’d be here.”

“You got me.”

We walk back around to the front of the concession booth and she hands me a folded broadsheet.

“Here’s a calendar with the rest of the shows this month. You got a car?”

“I can steal one easy enough.”

“Awesome. Bring your girl Candy around too.”

I rub a knot on the back of my neck.

“That part I’m not sure about. She’s n

ot exactly my girl anymore.”

She looks around, embarrassed.

“Damn. I’m sorry I said anything.”

“Don’t be. She’s happy and that’s all that counts.”

Flicker grabs a bag of popcorn through the concession window and eats a couple of pieces. She says, “It’s big of you to say that, but we both know that’s not how these things work.”

“No, but if I keep telling myself it is, maybe I’ll start to believe it.”

She taps the broadsheet.

“Definitely come back for Taxi Driver, then. I know you love misery.”

“I’ll be here.”

She holds out the popcorn. I take a couple of pieces to be polite.

“And seriously,” she says. “If there’s anything I can do to help with your undead situation, just ask.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”

“Take care, Stark.”

She squeezes my hand and I step into a shadow to the campy screams of Alan Ormsby and his dumb friends being eaten.

ROGER AND ANOTHER of Sandoval’s roaches bring me my gear in the morning, so I spend the rest of the day prepping it and myself.

I take everything out behind the mansion, deep into the eucalyptus grove. The body armor fits well, but it’s cop style with a lot of padding around the neck. That’s nice in terms of protection, but makes me feel like I’m being strangled. They left the clothes I died in in a storage bag in my closet, so I was able to get the black blade and na’at. With the blade, I cut off the collar padding. I’ll just have to turtle my head in if things get too up close and personal. The armor over my body feels fine, except where it rubs yesterday’s gun wound. The damned thing is technically healed but still tender to the touch. That’s more than a little aggravating, but there’s nothing I can do about it now, and anyway, it won’t be an issue after tonight.

I run one box of ammo through the Glock, using the trees to practice head and torso shots at different distances. Then I run the same drill with the rifle. Both guns feel smooth and ready to go. The na’at is up next. I spin it over my head like a whip, splitting open tree trunks and ripping down limbs, then twist the grip and reconfigure it into a sword, running through a whole series of Seven Samurai exercises. Last, but not least, I twist the grip again so that the na’at extends to its full length. I shove the tip through one of the smaller trees, twist once more so that the far end opens into a fork whose tines are bent backward on themselves. With one good pull, I yank the fork through the tree, splitting it in half. It comes down with a pleasantly loud crash.