pzb.drawingblood-第20章

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　up　overnight　and　hadn't　floated　back　out　yet。　It　was　time　to　crash；　time　to　sleep　now　so　he　could　blow　this　boring　joint　by　nightfall。
　　Back　in　his　room　at　the　Sea　Castle；　Zach　stripped　out　of　his　sweaty　cutoffs；　laid　his　glasses　on　the　nightstand；　and　crawled　into　the　double　bed。　The　sheets　were　worn　but　clean　and　cool。　He　nestled　into　the　pillows；　closed　his　eyes；　felt　delicious　exhaustion　wash　over　him；　thought　of　the　kid　Leaf　and　suddenly　had　a　raging　boner　that　was　never　going　to　let　him　sleep　in　a　million　years；　noway；　nohow。
　　Zach　leaned　over　the　edge　of　the　bed　and　rummaged　in　one　of　his　bags；　found　a　string　of　little　blue　plastic　packets；　and　tore　one　off。　He　never　used　rubbers　for　sex　unless　the　other　person　insisted…and　many　of　his　lovers　in　New　Orleans　had　insisted；　he　was　known　for　more　than　his　pallid　good　looks　and　mysterious　wealth　（which　bination　had　convinced　a　certain　set　of　French　Quarter　kids　that　Zach　was　a　vampire　and　another　set　entirely　that　he　was　dying　of　AIDS　and　whooping　it　up　while　he　still　could）。　But　he　always　used　them　for　beating　off。　Not　a　one　had　broken　yet；　and　he　figured　he　was　getting　into　the　thousands。
　　He　fitted　the　slippery　little　sheath　over　the　head　of　his　dick　and　unrolled　it；　sliding　his　hand　down　with　it；　pretending　it　was　Leaf's　mouth。　The　weight　of　the　sheet　was　Leaf's　hands；　the　extra　pillow　was　Leafs　skinny　body　pressed　smooth　against　his　own。　But　when　he　came；　Leaf　disappeared　and　Zach　saw　an　achingly　blue　wave　crashing　and　foaming　on　pure　white　sand。
　　The　rubber；　as　always；　remained　intact。　Maybe　they　had　made　the　things　flimsier　back　in　'72。
　　For　a　few　minutes　he　lay　with　his　mind　wandering　and　his　hand　still　moving　idly。　Not　until　warm　tendrils　of　e　started　trickling　back　down　into　his　pubic　hair　did　he　pull　the　thing　off；　knot　the　end　of　it；　and　toss　it　in　the　general　direction　of　the　toilet。　He　heard　a　small　wet　plop　that　meant　bull's…eye；　though　the　room　was　so　small　it　would've　been　hard　to　miss。　If　every　sperm　was　sacred；　Zach　figured　he　had　made　more　offerings　to　the　altar　of　the　porcelain　goddess　than　any　other。
　　When　he　woke　up　later　and　saw　the　condom　floating　like　a　pale　chrysalis　in　the　blue…tinged　water　of　the　bowl；　he　would　pee　on　it　and　then　flush　it。　Zach　thought　his　body　was　a　nifty　machine　and　had　a　healthy　appreciation　of　its　many　functions。
　　He　turned　over；　stretched　his　lanky　arms　and　legs　across　the　unfamiliar　expanse　of　mattress；　pushed　his　head　into　the　mound　of　pillows。　One　of　them　lay　snug　against　his　side　like　a　warm　body　sinking　into　sleep。　For　an　instant　he　wondered　how　it　would　be　to　fall　asleep　and　wake　up　with　someone　next　to　him　every　morning；　bodies　fitting　together　in　easy　familiarity；　skin　smelling　of　each　other　and　the　safe　shared　bed。
　　But　only　for　an　instant　did　he　think　he　might　like　it。　These　were　thoughts　that　usually　only　came　to　him　on　leaden　winter　mornings；　when　the　needling　rain　of　a　New　Orleans　cold　spell　streaked　his　windowpanes。
　　The　pillow　was　his　only　constant　bedmate；　in　all　its　malleable；　forting　forms。　He　held　it　close　and　pressed　his　face　into　it；　smelled　cotton　and　detergent　and　the　lingering　ghost　of　his　e；　damp　and　salty　as　the　ocean；　but　cleaner。　In　a　while　the　image　of　his　own　bed　faded　from　behind　his　eyes；　and　Zach　began　to　dream　of　a　long　expanse　of　silky；　sugary　white　sand；　of　water　the　color　of　the　sky；　of　sky　the　color　of　the　sun。
　　
　　When　he　woke　the　room　was　full　of　sunset's　first　light；　deep　pinks　and　lavenders　that　lay　in　overlapping　petal…like　layers　across　the　bedclothes　and　made　him　think　he　was　still　dreaming。　As　consciousness　seeped　back　in；　Zach　contemplated　going　out　to　the　beach　to　watch　the　sun　set　and　get　something　to　eat。　A　steady　edge　of　hunger　was　gnawing　at　his　stomach。　But　all　the　happy　couples　were　probably　strolling　hand　in　hand　in　the　grimy　surf。　Zach　decided　to　stay　in　and　order　a　pizza。
　　He　paged　through　the　phone　book；　ripped　out　the　Domino's　ad　and　tore　it　into　tiny　pieces…they　supported　Operation　Rescue　and　other　heinous　fascist　causes…then　dialed　a　local　parlor　and　ordered　a　twelve…inch　pie　with　triple　jalapenos。
　　Thirty　minutes　later；　his　hair　dripping　from　a　fast　shower；　Zach　munched　pizza　and　drank　grape　soda　from　the　motel's　machine　while　he　studied　his　new　atlas。　He'd　stopped　to　fill　the　Mustang's　tank　somewhere　near　Valdosta；　and　while　it　had　not　been　nearly　as　fine　an　adventure　as　his　stop　in　Pass　Christian；　he　had　scored　three　tapes；　a　hot　Slim　Jim；　and　the　book　of　maps。　He　saw　that　1…95　north　from　Savannah　would　take　him　all　the　way　into　North　Carolina。　Zach　didn't　like　interstates；　but　he　was　well　away　from　New　Orleans　now　and　ready　to　cover　some　more　distance　in　a　hurry。
　　And　after　North　Carolina；　where？　Leaf　had　thought　him　a　New　Yorker。　Zach　had　always　been　intrigued　by　the　idea　of　such　a　tiny　island…bound　city　crammed　full　of　people　of　every　possible　race；　gender；　and　persuasion；　entire　cultures　and　culture　wars；　systems　of　magic　and　religion；　infinite　microcosms。　Maybe　now　he　could　get　lost　there。
　　He　finished　his　pizza；　dropped　off　his　room　key　at　the　office；　slapped　on　his　new　Hank　Williams　tape；　and　headed　north。
　　
　　Just　before　midnight　Zach　sat　drinking　a　Bloody　Maria　at　the　Sombrero　Lounge；　a　colorful　confection　of　a　building　molded　primarily　of　pink　stucco；　orange　neon；　and　thousands　of　twinkling　white　fairy　lights。　The　South　of　the　Border　theme　park　on　1…95　had　drawn　him　in　like　a　bug　to　a　gaudy　flame。
　　SOB's　increasingly　surreal　billboards　loomed　along　the　highway　for　thirty　miles　before　the　park；　all　3…D　papier…mache　sculpture　and　moving　parts；　giant　hot　dogs　and　spinning　sheep　and　the　smirking　mustachioed　mug　of　pedro；　the　SOB　mascot。　It　was　like　a　little　city　set　down　in　the　middle　of　nowhere；　halfway　between　New　Jersey　and　Disney　World　（as　one　of　the　signs　bragged）；　and　after　three　hours　of　dark　interstate　flanked　by　monotonous　stretches　of　farmland　and　stands　of　pine；　its　tacky　bars　and　souvenir　shops　with　their　Easter　egg　paint　jobs　of　purple　and　pink　and　chartreuse　had　looked　to　Zach　like　the　lights　of　Bourbon　Street　at　Mardi　Gras。
　　As　he　finished　his　drink；　an　eye…watering　blend　of　tequila　and　Tabasco　with　a　splash　of　tomato　juice；　an　idea　came　to　him。　He　left　the　bar　and　drove　across　the　plex　to　pedro's　motel；　paid　cash　for　one　of　the　〃heir　conditioned〃　rooms；　dug　his　battery…powered　laptop　puter　out　of　the　back　seat　and　took　it　inside；　along　with　the　OKI　900　cellular　phone　he　carried　everywhere。　Zach　had　tumbled　the　phone；　or　reprogrammed　it　to　generate　a　new　ID　number　each　time　he　used　it。　It　could　not　receive　calls；　but　neither　could　his　calls　be　traced。
　　The　furniture　and　walls　of　the　room　were　painted　pink；　the　bed　heart…shaped；　with　a　mirror　on　the　ceiling　and　a　slick　spread　of　lurid　red　satin。　No　doubt　you　could　put　a　quarter　in　and　summon　the　Magic　Fingers。　Instead；　Zach　turned　on　the　laptop；　entered　a　stolen　MCI　credit　card　number；　and　dialed　into　the　posing　department　of　the　New　Orleans　Times…Picayune。
　　Over　a　year　ago　he　had　discovered　that　the　newspaper　had　a　program　that　let　reporters　type　in　their　stories　from　home。　He'd　created　an　account　for　himself；　changing　his　password　every　time　he　planted　an　item　in　the　paper。　Currently　it　was　ZYGOTE；　thanks　to　his　last　story　about　the　petrified　abortion。　He　logged　on　and　changed　it　to　pedro。　Then　he　typed：
　　
　　GODDESS　SEEN　IN　BOWL　OF　GUMBO
　　by　Joseph　Boudreauxn　Staff　Writer
　　The　Goddess　Kali　is　known　in　Hinduism　as
　　the　Mother　and　Destroyer　of　Creation…But
　　can　she　make　a　roux？
　　In　a　twist　on　the　well…known　Jesus…in…the…plate…of…spaghetti　theme；　Parvata　Sanjay　of　India　spied　the　Hindu　goddess　in　his　bowl　during　a　recent　visit　to　New　Orleans；　while　sampling　the　seafood　gumbo　ata　popular　French　Quarter　restaurant。　〃Her　four　terrible　arms　were　outstretched；〃　said　Sanjayn；　〃and　her　bloody；　lolling　tongue　was　clearly　visible。　It　was　only　a　pattern　in　the　soup；　formed　by　the　oil　on　the　surface；　but　I　believe　all　patterns　have　significance。　〃
　　Might　Mr。　Sanjay　have　sampled　a　few　Dixie　beers　as　well？
　　The　Calcutta　native　plans　to　continue　his　American　travels　in　North　Carolina；　wherehe　says　he　wants　to　try　the　barbecue。
　　
　　Zach　added　the　sequence　of　characters　that　meant　an　editor　had　approved　his　copy。　Then　with　a　few　more　keystrokes　he　sent　it　on　its　merry　way　to　the　printing　department；　where　it　joined　the　other　stories　ready　to　be　printed　in　next　Sunday's　edition。　It　was　easier　to　bury　items　in　the　Sunday　paper…they　were　hungry　for　filler　and　didn't　look　twice　at　the　shit　that　came　in。
　　He　knew　Eddy　would　be　watching　the　paper　for　hidden　news　of　him。　The　mention　of　Kali　would　catch　her　eye；　and　she　might　also　notice　that　he　had　reversed　the　Indian　surname　and　first　name。　Calling　the　guy　Mr。　Parvata　Sanjay　was　something　like　calling　an　American　Mr。　Rogers　Fred。
　　Other　friends　and　outlaws　might　see　it　and　recognize　his　hand　too。　Maybe　some　of　Them　would　see　it　too；　for　that　matter；　but　Zach　didn't　think　They　would　connect　it　with　a　hacker　on　the　run。
　　He　logged　out　and　broke　the　phone　connection；　turned　off　the　puter；　and　carried　it　back　out　to　his　car。　A　quick　pee　in　the　pink…tiled　bathroom；　room　key　left　in　the　door；　and　Zach　was　gone。　After　sleeping　all　day　he　was　ready　to　drive　all　night；　and　anyway　he　couldn't　stand　the　thought　of　lying　there　in　that　slick　red　heart…shaped　bed；　staring　at　his　own　lonely；　horny　body　in　the　mirror　overhead。
　　South　of　the　Border　disappeared　behind　him。　Soon　it　was　only　a　faint　fuchsia　glow　on　the　horizon。　As　the　night　deepened　and　the　traffic　thinned　to　nothing；　it　seemed　to　Zach　that　the　whole　country　lay　over　the　next　rise；　around　the　next　bend　of　the　highway　all　lit　up　and　wide　awake；　violent　and　strange　and　joyous；　just　waiting　for　him　to　e　find　it。
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　Eight
　　
　　Trevor　didn't　know　what　he　expected　to　see　inside　the　Rambler　as　the　driver's　window　wound　down：　a　grinning　skeleton　dirt…crusted　and　worm…festooned；　dry　bone　finger　beckoning　him　in？　His　father's　flesh　restored；　black　shades　balanced　on　his　blade　of　a　nose；　intense　eyes　blazing　through　smoky　lenses？　Or　Bobby　as　he　had　looked　the　last　time　Trevor　saw　him；　dead　eyes　bulging；　tongue　jutting　like　a　rotten　melon；　chin　and　bare　scrawny　chest　slicked　with　drool；　streaked　with　gore？
　　Whatever　he　expected；　it　wasn't　the　smiling　face　of　Terry　Buckett；　the　affable　second…generation　hippie　who　had　introduced　himself　at　the　bar　last　night。　The　owner　of　the　record　store；　Trevor　remembered。　Procurer　of　jazz　sides；　retailer　of　the　magic　that　had　made　Bird　so　little　money　during　his　own　lifetime。
　　〃Hey；　Trevor　Black。　It's　pouring　down　rain；　or　didn't　you　notice？　Catch　a　ride；　man。〃
　　Terry　cocked　a　thumb　toward　the　passenger　door。　Trevor　made　himself　walk　around　the　front　of　the　car；　heard　wet　gravel　crunching　under　his　feet　though　he　could　not　feel　it；　heard　the　roar　and　thrum　of　the　idling　engine。　Perched　high　on　its　wheels；　the　Rambler　looked　like　a　child's　sketch　of　an　automobile；　a　small　rectangle　atop　a　larger　one　precariously　balanced　on　two　circles。　It　was　a　boxy；　plain；　yet　somehow　rakish　machine。　It　was　not　the　sort　of　car　in　which　you　expected　to　se