Made to Kill by Adam Christopher

in a hearty but failed attempt to get his acne under control. I wondered on the quality of information I’d be able to pump out of him and lamented the obvious fact that the old guy in the photographs in rank and file on the wall wasn’t on duty.
    Then I ordered a root beer. When the kid asked if I wanted a float, I said sure, why not. It seemed rude to take up space in his joint—and take up space I certainly did—and not pay the rent before I started asking him questions about the parlor’s famous patrons.
    The root beer float arrived in a glass worthy enough to be handed to the winner of the Monaco Grand Prix. I said thanks and I paid for it with some of that cash Ada was so fond of, and then I saw the two girls looking, the one nearest out of the corner of her eye like she really wasn’t trying to look at all, the other through the bird’s nest of the first girl’s hair like a peeping Tom checking out the housewife next door through the garden hedge. I glanced at the kid behind the bar, who seemed to be waiting to see what I did with my float. I pulled the glass toward me. The girls next to me froze and seemed to hold their breath for a very long time.
    “Knock yourself out,” I said, sliding the giant float across the bar. The two girls looked at the glass and then looked at the soda jerk then looked at me and the one hiding in the other’s hair giggled, trying to stifle it with her hand.
    I assumed this was standard operating procedure for teenagers in an ice cream parlor when being given a free drink by a robot so I didn’t argue. Then the girls took the float and shared two straws and started sucking. At least they fell into that proportion of the populace who didn’t find me too scary to look at.
    Same with the soda jerk. Which was good news for me.
    It was full dark outside, the Strip lit in shifting curtains of blue and white and red as the neon signs came to life. That light shone on the counter of the ice cream parlor and in the eyes of the soda jerk standing behind it.He had his arms folded now, his lips pursed, just like he was waiting to field my first question. While he waited another teen came out of the back, hat on and apron in the right place. The new jerk could have been the other's twin. They exchanged a look and a nod that didn’t need to have any words to go with it. Then the new kid looked at me and his eyes stayed there quite a while, he got on with serving customers while talking to the two girls next to me, both of which he seemed much more enthusiastic about.
    I played statues with the kid in front of me for a few seconds more, then I nodded up at the row of famous faces that looked down on us both.
    “Looks like you get a lot of stars in here to taste the root beer,” I said with a smile that only I knew about.
    The kid jerked his chin like I was an old pal from the army who had a little hat just like his.
    “Robots like movies?”
    “You bet,” I said. “You might even call me a fan.”
    This got his interest. He lost the cool, his arms unfolding and a smile moving his bad skin around. He leaned in. “You going to the big premiere then?” He moved his head a little to one side, but I knew where he meant. Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.
    “I understand you need to be a certain kind of person to get an invite to the red carpet,” I said.
    The kid’s jaw opened and I saw he was chewing gum. “Come on,” he said, “you’re the last one, aren’t you? Doesn’t that make you famous??” Then he stood back and looked me up and down while his jaw moved in the same direction. “Yeah, you’d clean up pretty well. Little oil, little polish. Say, they make tuxes in your size?”
    I decided I liked him.
    “Not sure I’m the right kind of famous,” I said. “May come as a shock, but not everyone likes a robot.”
    “Ah, that’s a shame.”
    “So who comes in here anyhow? You get any regulars?” I poked a steel thumb over one shoulder. “I hear they have a club just down