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tightly on to Ginger’s hand as they went down the hill, warped unexpectedly by a flaw in the glass pane of the bay window in the bungalow’s front room, strange and beautiful, through which Jay, earlier this morning, watched them walk away from the house.
    And now he has to add this noise—that Ginger helped killsomebody—to the signal, and try to reassemble a clear picture from it. He can’t.
    “We’re hiding her until we can find the boyfriend.” Public continues talking. Deadpan: “He’s understandably upset about it. And worried that she might help, you know, convict him.”
    Jay wants to know who they killed. Public just stares back at him, blankly. “You can tell me why she’s here, but not why I’m here.”
    “Entirely different protocols,” Public says. “We need you to remember. I imagine Ginger would like to forget.”
    Jay holds up the VHS cassettes. “People still rent these?”
    Public shrugs. “People scarcely rent DVDs, do they?” Pops the cash drawer out, shuts it.
    Jay asks about the store policy on movies, can he just take them home and watch whatever he wants or does he have to actually sign them out and debit some account?
    Public shrugs again. “It’s your place, Jimmy.”
    “Jay.”
    Public sighs.
    “Jay,” Jay says again.
    The front door jingles and opens for a sun-browned, weather-beaten beach boy pushing forty: bleached hair, bowling shirt, flip-flops, and Oakleys. Jay thinks he saw him yesterday, on the back of a chubby old fishing scow moored along the main dock, sleeveless T-shirt and a crushed high-crown Padres cap, watching them caravan in to town from the heliport.
    “French films
suck.
” He slams two DVD jewel cases down on the counter. “And don’t even talk to me about pan and scan or the subtitles which live and die at the bottom of the screen where you can’t barely read ’em.” Noticing: “Where’s Gabe?”
    “New owner,” Public says, gesturing to the aisle.
    Beach boy squints at Jay. “Hi. Sam Dunn.”
    Jay glances at Public, knows which name Public wants Jay to use with this customer, and can’t bring himself to say it. “—Hi.”
    “What’d Gabe—?”
    “Skate Park in Fresno,” Public says. “Straight swap.”
    “Yowza. Really? Whoa.” His mouth droops, dubious. “Really.” Curious about Public: “Who are you?”
    “I’m the facilitator.” Public inclines his head toward Jay. “He’s the new Gabe.”
    Sam looks from Jay to Public, back again. It all seems to track for him. “Okay. Good enough. Okay. Well. Welcome to the rock, man. I don’t think I owe any late charges on these bastard children of frogs, so there you go. Nice to meet you.”
    “I’m here to serve.”
    “Where you living?”
    “Vieudelou,” Public tells the man.
    Sweet, is Sam Dunn’s opinion about that. “Some bitchin’ little Arts and Crafts gems up that way, right?” Then, almost wistful: “Gabe was a big-time Roberto Rodriguez fan.
Grindhouse. Machete.
”
    “El Mariachi,”
Public says.
    “Yeah, but the original one.”
    “Don’t get me started.”
    Dunn’s quick laugh is a foghorn. Jay wonders if this is all more Kabuki theater for his benefit. Maybe everyone in Avalon is working with Public, part of the program, a performance-art piece in which Jay is the organizing principle.
    “Yo.” Dunn points to the jewel cases he’s left on the counter, slaps a big hand on Jay’s shoulder as he hurries past, door jangling behind him.
    “You didn’t tell him your name,” Public says, after moment.
    “What?”
    “Your name.”
    “You mean, Jay?”
    Public waits, unfazed.
    “Jay,” Jay says again.
    Public shakes his head. “You’re a willful man.”
    “Who chose ‘Jimmy’?” Jay asks.
    “James? I dunno,” Public replies, stubborn. “Probably your mom. Is it a family name? And why don’t you use the ‘Edward,’ I wonder?”
    “My mom is dead. Mom, dad, sister, brother—”
    “Stop.” Testy: “I’m sorry. We’ve gone to a lot