pzb.drawingblood-第12章

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　　　Chapter　Four
　　
　　Four　rings。　Zach　counted　them　with　his　teeth　gritted；　his　free　hand　viciously　shredding　a　fundamentalist　tract　he'd　picked　up　somewhere；　Tomb　of　the　Unborn。
　　Then　the　gentle　click　of　a　lifted　receiver；　muted　Dixieland　jazz　playing　in　the　background。　〃Hi；　this　is　Eddy　Sung。〃
　　〃EDDY　FOR　CHRISSAKE　YOU　GOT　TO　HELP　ME　I　GOT　TO　GET　OUT　OF…〃
　　The　Dixieland　changed　abruptly　to　grinding　industrial　hardcore。　〃I'm　sorry　I'm　not　here；　but　if　you　leave　your　number　I'll　call　you　back　as　soon…〃
　　〃AWWWW　SHIT；　GODDAMMIT；　EDDY；　PLEASE　BE　THERE！！！　PLEASE　PICK　UP！！！〃
　　A　squealing　snatch　of　violins；　then　Eddy's　answering　machine　beeped　in　his　ear。　Zach　took　a　deep　sobbing　breath；　resisted　the　urge　to　slam　his　own　phone　into　the　cradle　hard　enough　to　crack　its　casing；　and　tried　to　speak　calmly。　〃Ed…I'm　in　trouble。　You　always　said　you　coveted　my　apartment；　well；　call　me　soon　enough　and　you　might　get　the　goddamn　thing。〃
　　He　hung　up；　spun　aimlessly　in　the　middle　of　the　room　for　several　moments。　The　puter　screen　caught　his　eye；　still　pulsing　like　some　obscene　digital　orifice。　Yes；　you　could　fall　headlong　into　that　screen；　that　alternate　reality　like　a　cradling　mouth　or　womb；　never　ing　up　for　air；　never　realizing　that　so　slowly；　so　smoothly　you　took　no　notice；　it　was　chewing　and　digesting　you　。　。　。
　　No。　Blaming　the　puter　for　his　troubles；　that　was　like　a　terminal　lung　cancer　victim　blaming　a　pack　of　cigarettes　or；　worse；　his　faithful　old　Zippo。　It　was　a　tool　and　he　had　chosen　to　use　it。　His　troubles　were　with　They　whose　clammy　suckered　tentacle　grasped　the　other　end　of　that　tool。　William　Burroughs　had　advised　him　to　know　what　was　on　the　end　of　his　fork；　but　had　he　listened？　Of　course　not…and　now　the　dirty　tines　were　on　the　verge　of　impaling　his　tongue。
　　But　in　that　direction　madness　lay。
　　He　leaned　against　the　doorjamb　that　led　into　the　bathroom…with　its　polished　sea…green　tiles　and　its　skylight　in　the　ceiling　high　above　the　tub；　taking　a　shower　here　was　like　standing　beneath　a　sunlit　waterfall；　and　where　would　he　ever　find　such　a　place　again？　A　green　waterfall　of　a　bathroom…an　apartment　with　all　his　things　in　it；　a　block　from　the　wondrous　bazaar　that　sold　everything　he　needed；　two　blocks　from　the　bank　of　the　Mississippi　that　coursed　。　through　the　city　like　a　throbbing　brown　artery？
　　Before　moving　in　here　two　years　ago；　Zach　had　spent　most　of　his　time　on　the　streets　and　at　various　friends'　houses。　This　was　the　first　place　that　had　ever　felt　like　home。　He　wasn't　sure　he　knew　how　to　live　anywhere　else；　wasn't　sure　anywhere　else　would　have　him。
　　But　that　didn't　matter。　He　had　been　cutting　things　too　close；　taking　too　many　dumb　chances。　When　he　started　hacking　three　years　ago；　it　had　been　just　another　lark；　another　way　of　amusing　himself；　a　curiosity　like　getting　drunk　on　sloe　gin　or　watching　the　Psychic　Friends　Network　on　late…night　cable　TV。　During　his　brief　high　school　career　he　had　taken　an　elementary　programming　class　and　ended　up　getting　himself　kicked　out　of　the　school　puter　room；　which　robbed　him　of　his　only　good　reason　to　show　up　at　the　brain…numbing；　tomblike　institution　at　an　inhuman　hour　each　weekday　morning。
　　At　sixteen；　two　years　after　leaving　home；　Zach　dropped　out　and　started　casting　about　for　something　better。　He　had　known　immediately　that　hacking　was　it。　He'd　only　had　a　cheap　PC…clone　with　a　slow　modem　at　first；　but　fucking　around　on　the　underground　bulletin　boards　he　found　with　his　automatic　dialing　program　led　him　to　wonder　about　other　networks；　secret　systems　and　databanks　that　were　supposed　to　be　hidden　but　were　actually　right　there；　tantalizingly　there；　vibrating　behind　a　thin　membrane　of　mands　and　passwords。
　　Free　information　and　money；　if　only　you　could　get　at　it。　Zach　soon　discovered　that　he　could。　And　it　was　so　damn　easy　。。。
　　But　if　they　caught　you　at　things　like　stealing　from　credit　card　panies　and　breaking　the　systems　of　Southern　Bell；　affectionately　known　as　the　Gestapo　among　phreaks　and　hackers；　it　could　be　worth　ten　years　in　a　federal　prison。　Sure；　you　might　get　out　in　half　as　many；　or　even　less。　But　the　thought　of　even　one　day　in　the　pen　was　too　much　for　most　hackers；　conjuring　up　vivid　images　of　great　tattooed　baby…rapers　and　serial　killers　cornholing　their　lily…white　butts；　then　snapping　their　skinny　necks。
　　Zach　let　his　knees　buckle　and　slid　down　the　door　frame　to　the　floor。　He'd　kicked　off　his　sneakers　at　some　point；　and　the　green　tiles　were　blessedly　cool　against　the　soles　of　his　feet。　He　saw　the　round　mirror　above　the　sink　reflecting　his　empty　room；　saw　the　dripping　faucet　that　over　the　years　had　left　a　stain　on　the　porcelain　like　the　imprint　of　rusty　teardrops；　saw　the　blue　ceramic　mug　that　held　two　toothbrushes；　one　purple　and　one　black。　He　kept　an　extra　because　Eddy　had　been　known　to　sleep　over　on　occasions　when　they　watched　one　bad　film　too　many　or　talked　too　far　into　the　night　or　simply　drank　themselves　into　a　stupor　on　the　cheap　bourbon　Eddy　loved。
　　There　was　nothing　untoward　to　it；　though；　nothing　sexual；　not　even　a　furtive　drunken　groping　here　or　there。　Zach　liked　Eddy　too　much　for　that。
　　But　never　mind　who　he　liked。　He　was　going　to　be　on　the　road；　playing　it　lonely　for　a　while。　Hackers　were　scared　of　prison；　yes；　and　many　of　them　would　turn　informer　once　they　were　nabbed。　But　most　would　also　do　anything　they　could　to　help　a　fellow　outlaw；　as　long　as　they　didn't　endanger　themselves。　He　had　been　municating　with　other　Mutanet　users　for　more　than　a　year；　it　was　like　frequenting　some　weird　little　coffeehouse；　getting　to　know　the　regulars。　He　trusted　Zombi　as　much　as　any　of　his　less　remote　friends；　knew　Zombi　wouldn't　send　him　such　a　message　unless　his　lead　was　reliable。
　　And　it　surely　was。　Any　number　of　scary　panies　and　agencies　could　be　after　him：　if　they　caught　you　stealing　they　would　try　to　fuck　you　up。　And　he　had　stolen　a　lot。
　　And　didn't　he　have　to　admit；　begrudgingly；　that　in　some　extra…perverse　corner　of　his　brain　the　idea　of　having　to　get　out　of　town　before　sundown　appealed　to　him？　New　Orleans　had　been　the　only　constant　thing　in　his　life。　But　didn't　he　get　an　itchy　foot　sometimes；　didn't　he　sometimes　think　about　just　throwing　all　his　stuff　in　his　car　and　going？
　　Of　course　he　did。　Everybody　did；　even　normal　people；　the　ones　with　triple　mortgages　and　orthodontists'　bills　and　responsibilities　to　everything　except　what　they　really　wanted。　Everyone　dreamed　of　the　open　highway　unspooling　like　a　black　satin　ribbon　beneath　his　wheels。　It　was　in　the　American　blood；　some　kind　of　racial　memory。　But　most　people　never　really　did　it；　they　became　tied　to　a　place　by　friends；　possessions；　habits。　If　you　stayed　in　one　place　long　enough；　you　started　to　send　down　taproots。
　　And　yet　it　was　always　a　possibility；　just　getting　up　one　day　and　taking　off。　It　was　the　kind　of　thing　you　thought　about；　but　seldom　did。
　　Until　you　had　to。
　　Zach　felt　a　million　possibilities　starting　to　unfold　within　him　like　a　garden　of　dark　flowers。　The　perfume　was　heady：　the　scent　of　strangers；　of　unknown　cities　and　towns；　the　subtle　bouquet　of　adventure　and　its　twin；　danger。
　　He　was　only　nineteen　and　he　wanted　to　know　everything　there　was　to　know　in　the　world；　to　do　all　things；　to　grasp　every　experience　in　his　hands　and　drink　it　down　like　whiskey。　This　couldn't　break　his　spirit；　couldn't　keep　him　down。　So　They　were　after　him；　the　shadowy；　faceless；　infinitely　sinister　They　that　seemed　a　peculiarly　American　archetype　of　terror：　dark　trench　coat；　glowing　eyes　beneath　a　black　slouch　hat；　badge　in　hand　emblazoned　with　the　dread　legend　FBI；　or　NSA；　or　worse；　extended　like　a　red…hot　iron　ready　to　sear　its　brand　into　your　forehead。　Every　hacker；　every　phone　phreak；　every　intelligent　criminal　Zach　knew　had　his　or　her　own　visions　and　nightmares　of　Them。
　　But　just　because　They　were　after　him　didn't　mean　They　could　get　him。
　　He　realized　that　his　hands　were　clenched　into　fists　and　his　heart　was　pounding　painfully。　Excitement　did　that　to　him；　he　supposed　it　would　kill　him　someday；　but　he　was　addicted　to　it。　He　willed　his　pulse　to　slow　down；　made　himself　unfold　his　hands。　Tomb　of　the　Unborn　was　still　crumpled　in　one　palm。　Should　have　been　a　horror　movie；　he　thought；　too　bad　someone　had　wasted　such　a　great　title　on　a　piece　of　anti…choice　propaganda；　for　that　was　what　it　was；　plete　with　color　shots　of　shredded　fetuses　in　puddles　of　their　own　gore。
　　He　balled　up　the　tract　and　threw　it　across　the　room；　pushed　himself　to　his　feet；　shook　off　the　headrush；　tested　his　balance。　Cool。　He'd　had　a　few　bad　moments　there；　but　now　he　was　ready　for　the　next　reel　of　the　Grand　Adventures　of　Zachary　Bosch。
　　Zach　didn't　know　if　thinking　of　your　life　as　a　movie　serial　was　healthy；　but　it　certainly　helped　keep　him　sane。
　　
　　Bourbon　Street　runs　through　the　Vieux　Carre　for　fourteen　blocks；　beginning　on　the　more…or…less　north　side；　at　the　wide　avenue　called　Esplanade。　On　that　side　of　the　Quarter；　Bourbon　is　funky　and　fashionable；　paved　with　cobblestones；　lined　with　dark　little　neighborhood　bars　and　dearly　priced　studio　apartments；　haunted　on　hot　nights　by　boys　sweating　in　brazenly　tight　leather。
　　The　middle　blocks　of　Bourbon　are　part　tawdry　carnival　and　part　efficient　tourist　mill；　the　tinsel　and　glitter　of　Mardi　Gras　for　sale　year…round；　plastic　cups　of　beer　and　frozen　daiquiris　and　Hurricanes　sold　right　on　the　sidewalk；　racks　of　T…shirts；　postcards；　plastic　alligators　and　mammy　dolls；　and　〃N'Awlins　Voodoo　Kits〃　side　by　side　with　window　displays　of　glitter　condoms；　penis　neckties；　lurid　latex　vibrators。　Here　are　the　big　strip　clubs　with　their　hucksters　and　roustabouts　outside；　bars　flashing　neon　and　touting　endless　drink　specials；　a　few　famous　restaurants　and　a　slew　of　pretenders。　Every　souvenir　shop　has　poppers　of　amyl　nitrite　for　sale　in　the　back。　In　bination　with　the　abuse　of　other　substances；　indulging　in　these　makes　the　head　seem　to　lift　off　the　shoulders　and　fill　the　skull　with　a　dazzling；　infinitely　expanding　light。
　　But　at　the　other　end　of　Bourbon；　the　end　that　runs　into　Canal　and　the　downtown　skyscraper　sprawl　of　the　Central　Business　District；　a　different　miasma　hangs　over　the　street。　An　air　of　dinginess　that　is　somehow　timeless；　a　seedy；　mysterious　air。　The　city　looms　above　the　old　buildings　of　the　Quarter；　making　them　look　gray　and　small　and　slightly　faded。　The　bars　feature　no　specials　or　cutely　named　cocktails；　but　the　drinks　are　cheap　and　strong。
　　On　this　end　of　Bourbon　Street；　sandwiched　between　a　pawnshop　and　a　po…boy　stand　was　the　Pink　Diamond　Lounge。　It　was　identifiable　as　a　strip　club　only　by　the　design　stenciled　on　the　door；　a　nude　female　silhouette　inside　a　figure　that　might　have　been　a　diamond　but　looked　a　great　deal　more　like　a　vulva。　A　lone　bouncer　nodded　in　the　recesses　of　the　doorway；　letting　loose　a　halfhearted　line　of　patter　when　any　likely　customers　passed　by；　knowing　they　had　already　heard　it　all　farther　up　the　street。
　　The　interior　of　the　Pink　Diamond　was　dark　except　for　the　tiny；　garishly　lit　stage。　Smoke　lurked　in　the　corners　and　in　a　swirling　blue　layer　near　the　ceiling。　A　few　dancers　wriggled　gamely　in　front　of　beer…stained　tables…not　on　top　of　them；　as　was　popularly　believed　of　table　dances。　No　table　in　the　Pink