pzb.drawingblood-第15部分

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　　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　Diamond　could　bear　the　weight　of　a　healthy　girl；　and　most　could　have　been　reduced　to　matchsticks　by　a　ninety…pound　junkie。
　　One　dancer　stood　in　the　dust…choked　area　behind　the　stage　waiting　for　her　cue。　A　muffled　cough　and　snort　sounded　over　the　P。A。　She　would　bet　her　day's　tips　that　Tommy；　the　DJ；　was　doing　a　line　right　there　in　the　booth。　Usually　he　went　to　the　men's　room；　but　the　manager　wasn't　here　today；　and　no　one　else　cared。
　　〃And　now…in　her　last　set　of　the　day…The　Sweetest　Charm　of　the　Orient…MISS　LEE！〃
　　The　first　notes　of　her　music　pounded　out　of　the　speakers；　a　Cure　song　cranked　up　so　loud　that　the　words　were　distorted；　but　it　didn't　matter　because　no　one　else　in　this　club　had　ever　heard　of　the　Cure　except　maybe　a　couple　of　the　other　dancers；　and　no　one　cared　what　music　she　danced　to　anyway　as　long　as　she　showed　her　tits。　Miss　Lee　threw　back　the　dusty　velvet　curtain　and　kicked　one　leg　out；　long　and　silky…pale；　shod　in　a　spike…heeled；　silver…chained；　black　leather　ankle　boot；　and　the　crowd　went　wild。
　　If　you　could　call　five　or　six　unshaven；　seedy…looking　men　a　crowd。
　　And　if　a　few　listless　hoots　and　whistles；　the　lewd　waggling　of　a　tongue　in　the　general　direction　of　her　crotch；　or　the　simple　act　of　lifting　beer　to　mouth　could　be　considered　wild。
　　Miss　Lee　undulated　onto　the　tiny　stage。　A　ring　of　globe…shaped　bulbs　lit　her　from　below；　playing　over　her　black　vinyl　T…strap　and　bra　as　she　moved；　showing　off　what　curves　she　had。　Five　or　six　of　the　bulbs　were　dead；　spaced　at　uneven　intervals　like　rotten　teeth　in　a　jaw。　She　stalked　to　the　pole　placed　strategically　at　center　stage；　wrapped　her　arms　around　it；　and　straddled　it。　She　arched　her　back　and　worked　the　pole　with　her　hips；　letting　her　mouth　fall　open　and　her　eyes　slip　half…shut　into　the　dazed；　drugged…looking　expression　that　was　supposed　to　pass　for　ecstasy。　Then　she　pushed　away　from　the　pole；　paused　in　front　of　the　first　stage　rat；　and　began　a　slow　insistent　grind　in　front　of　his　face。
　　After　a　couple　of　minutes　he　pinched　two　crumpled　dollar　bills　out　of　his　shirt　pocket　and　slid　them　into　her　garter；　making　sure　to　run　his　nicotine…withered　fingers　as　far　up　her　thigh　as　he　thought　he　could　get　away　with。　His　sour　scowl　never　wavered。　Miss　Lee　gave　him　a　geisha　smile　and　moved　on　to　the　next　customer；　who　was　marginally　young　and　good…looking；　and　therefore　less　likely　to　tip。
　　She　wondered　what　they　would　think　if　they　knew　where　her　stage　name　came　from。　She　had　been　born　in　New　Orleans　of　Korean　parents；　and　Loup；　the　Pink　Diamond's　manager；　had　advised　her　to　pick　〃some　kinda　fake　Chinese　name〃　to　capitalize　on　her　ethnic　looks。　（〃Lotta　guys　go　in　for　that　kinda　thing；〃　he'd　added　as　if　letting　her　in　on　a　big　guy…secret。）　She　had　chosen　the　name　Lee　after　a　character　from　her　favorite　book；　Naked　Lunch。　When　a　customer　was　nasty　or　business　was　bad　or　she　was　just　in　no　mood　to　shake　her　ass　for　a　bunch　of　human　dildoes；　she　would　think　of　junk…filled　needles　jabbing　into　putrescent　veins；　of　swollen　cocks　leaking　foul　greenish　slime；　of　beautiful　boys　fistfucking　by　the　light　of　a　rotten…che