pzb.drawingblood-第62节

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ot　and　poured　it　through。　A　few　seconds　later　the　machine　began　to　bubble　and　a　dark；　rich　scent　filled　the　kitchen。　The　odor　nauseated　him：　he　knew　what　he　was　probably　going　to　have　to　do。
　　Zach　couldn't　wait　for　the　pot　to　fill。　As　soon　as　a　cupful　had　collected；　he　yanked　it　out　and　splashed　it　into　a　mug。　The　stream　of　brewing　coffee　sizzled　against　the　hotplate。　Zach's　nerves　twitched　in　sympathy。　He　thrust　the　pot　back　in；　flipped　the　switch　off；　grabbed　the　steaming　mug；　and　hurried　back　to　the　bedroom。
　　〃Trev？　Want　some　joe？　C'mon　。　。　。〃　He　slid　a　hand　behind　Trevor's　neck　and　propped　his　head　up；　wafted　the　mug　back　and　forth　under　Trevor's　nose　without　much　hope。　As　he　had　feared；　Trevor　made　no　response。　He　was　gone；　all　right。
　　Zach　looked　into　the　mug。　The　black　surface　of　the　coffee　shimmered；　as　full　of　subtle　sinister　colors　as　an　oil　slick。　To　Zach　it　looked　like　the　surface　of　death。　His　heart　twinged；　and　Zach　apologized　to　it　in　advance　for　what　he　was　about　to　do。
　　He　took　a　deep　breath　and　blew　on　the　demon　joe；　the　drug　that　bore　his　father's　name。　He　said　a　prayer　to　his　various　gods；　steadied　his　hand。
　　Then　he　raised　the　mug　to　his　lips　and　drank　the　bitter　brew　straight　down。
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　Twenty　One
　　
　　Trevor　felt　himself　rising　through　the　syrupy　air　of　the　room；　through　the　ceiling　and　the　roof；　out　into　the　night。　The　sky　arched　above　him　like　a　great　black　bowl　pricked　with　diamonds。　He　saw　the　kudzu　swarming　over　the　roof；　the　sturdy　little　car　parked　behind　the　house；　the　willow　tree　in　the　yard　where　he　and　Zach　had　talked　that　first　day；　fronds　wavering　in　the　terrible　razor…edged　moonlight。　He　was　rising　and　rising。　He　could　see　the　streets　of　Missing　Mile　in　the　distance；　dark　and　still。　The　house　was　far　below　him　now；　a　toy　rectangle　he　could　almost　forget。
　　This　isn't　where　I'm　supposed　to　be；　he　realized。　Got　to　get　back　to　Birdland　。　。　。
　　All　at　once　it　was　like　a　film　being　run　in　reverse　and　speeded　up；　he　was　falling　in　a　dizzy　spiral　back　toward　the　roof；　through　the　sucking　vines；　back　through　the　ceiling　and　into　the　rooms　and　melting　down　the　walls　and　crackling　through　the　power　lines　and　dripping　from　the　faucets　and　disappearing　down　the　drains；　into　the　broken　fragments　of　the　mirror　。　。　。
　　He　was　there。
　　The　thought　filled　him　with　a　cold　excitement　that　was　almost　fear。　Whatever；　wherever　Birdland　was；　he　was　there　now。
　　The　sensations　of　his　body　returned。　He　opened　his　eyes　and　found　himself　standing　on　a　street　corner　in　a　city　he　could　not　name。　It　was　like　a　posite　of　every　city　he　had　ever　been　in；　the　run…down　sections　and　shady　neighborhoods：　ashen　buildings　squirming　with　illegible　graffiti；　broken　and　boarded　windows；　ragged　posters　stapled　to　telephone　poles；　peeling　from　brick　walls。　The　few　splashes　of　color　in　the　landscape　seemed　somehow　wrong。
　　The　sidewalk　and　the　street　were　empty。　Though　the　slice　of　sky　above　him　was　an　unhealthy　purplish　color　that　reflected　back　the　city's　light　and　masked　any　moon　or　stars；　it　seemed　very　late　at　night。　Trevor　saw　no　signs　of　life　in　the　buildings　around　him；　heard　no　traffic；　no　voices。
　　But　the　place　did　not　feel　threatening。　He　thought　he　recognized　it；　and　he　was　sure　it　recognized　him。　Trevor　chose　a　direction　at　random　and　started　walking。　He　thought　he　heard　the　wail　of　a　saxophone　in　the　distance；　though　it　kept　fading　in　and　out　until　he　couldn't　be　sure　it　was　there　at　all。
　　He　passed　the　dark　maw　of　a　parking　garage　with　a　length　of　chicken　wire　stretched　across　it；　a　stretch　of　vacant　lot　seeded　with　broken　bottles；　a　row　of　pawnshops；　laundromats；　storefront　churches　of　Holy　Light；　all　closed。　Everything　had　a　stark；　slick；　pressed　look；　more　than　two　dimensions　but　not　quite　three。　The　buildings　were　solid　enough；　he　could　feel　the　sidewalk　under　his　feet；　the　cool　night　air　blowing　his　hair　back　from　his　face；　the　bones　in　his　fingers　moving　as　he　stuck　his　hands　in　his　pocketsPockets？　He　had　been　lying　naked　in　bed　with　Zach。　Trevor　looked　down　at　himself　and　saw　that　he　was　wearing　a　black　pinstriped　suit　jacket　with　wide　notched　lapels；　1940s…style　lapels。　Underneath　it　was　a　black　silk　shirt　with　a　loud　checkered　tie　knotted　loosely　at　the　collar。　His　trousers　matched　the　jacket；　and　on　his　feet　were　a　pair　of　scuffed　but　obviously　expensive　black　loafers。　He　had　never　worn　clothes　like　this；　but　he'd　seen　hundreds　of　photos　of　Charlie　Parker　in　just　such　a　getup。
　　Trevor　kept　walking。　Once　he　smelled　the　aroma　of　coffee；　rich　and　strong；　but　he　couldn't　trace　its　direction。　After　a　few　minutes　it　was　gone。
　　Soon　he　came　to　a　row　of　bars　that　seemed　to　be　open。　The　block　was　lit　with　old…fashioned　wrought…iron　gas　lamps　on　each　corner。　The　bars　were　dark；　but　neon　flickered　far　in　their　depths；　fitful　chartreuse；　cool　blue；　lurid　crimson。　The　narrow　alleys　between　the　bars　were　darker　still。　A　yeasty　perfume　drifted　from　them：　the　smell　of　a　hundred　kinds　of　liquor…dregs　mingling；　brewing　a　noxious　new　poison。
　　A　few　cars　were　parked　along　the　curb；　humpy　sedans；　and　finned　dragsters；　all　empty。　But　there　was　still　no　one　else　on　the　street；　and　the　windows　of　the　bars　were　opaque；　throwing　back　distorted　reflections。　The　street　was　full　of　puddles　that　rippled　with　strange　light　and　seductive　colors。
　　All　at　once　Trevor　realized　what　was　wrong　with　the　colors　here。　The　place　was　like　a　black…and…white　photograph　tinted　by　hand；　overlaid　with　color　rather　than　permeated　with　it。　It　had　an　appearance　at　once　faded　and　garish。
　　Bobby's　ic　had　always　been　drawn　in　black　and　white。　He　remembered　Didi　coloring　in　a　page　of　it　with　crayons　once；　just　scribbling　in　a　swath　of　red　here；　a　streak　of　blue　there。　That　had　looked　sort　of　like　this　place。
　　Trevor　stood　uncertainly　on　the　sidewalk；　reluctant　to　enter　any　of　the　dark　bars；　hesitant　to　leave　the　signs　of　life　behind　him。　The　street　seemed　to　grow　darker　in　the　distance；　the　buildings　larger　and　more　industrial…looking。　Already　the　air　was　tinged　with　a　faint　scorched　odor；　part　chemical；　part　meat。　He　didn't　want　to　get　lost　among　the　factories　and　slag　heaps　of　Birdland。
　　So　where　was　he　supposed　to　go？　He　stepped　into　the　street　to　get　a　better　view　of　the　bars；　scanned　their　tattered　awnings　and　tawdry　lights　looking　for　some　clue。　He　found　none。　But　suddenly　someone　lurched　out　of　one　of　the　alleys；　and　Trevor's　quick　step　backward　was　all　that　kept　the　scrawny　figure　from　plowing　right　into　him。
　　The　guy　gripped　the　lapels　of　Trevor's　jacket　with　spidery　fingers；　stared　imploringly　up　at　Trevor。　His　face　was　gaunt；　his　huge　burning　eyes　set　in　sockets　so　deep　they　looked　like　they'd　been　scooped　out　with　a　spoon。　His　flesh　had　a　fibrous　texture。　His　long　black　coat　hung　on　his　shoulders　like　a　pair　of　broken　wings。　Its　baggy　sleeves　had　slid　up　over　his　wrists　as　he　grabbed　Trevor。　Fresh　needle　marks　ran　up　both　sticklike　arms　as　far　as　Trevor　could　see。
　　〃Please　gimme　some　credit；〃　he　hissed。　〃I　got　a　big　old　shiny　rock　ing　in。〃
　　It　was　Skeletal　Sammy。　Bobby's　quintessential　junkie　character；　all　hustle　and　twitch　and　promise；　animated　by　his　addiction。　This　was　the　character　Trevor　had　been　trying　to　sketch　at　the　kitchen　table　the　day　he　learned　he　could　draw。　He　remembered　Bobby　leaning　over　his　shoulder　and　kissing　the　top　of　his　head；　whispering　in　his　ear。　You　draw　a　mean　junkie；　kiddo。
　　He　reached　up　and　encircled　Sammy's　skinny　wrists；　gently　removed　Sammy's　skeletal　claws　from　his　lapels。　He　felt　an　odd　tenderness　for　this　character。　〃Sorry；　Sam；〃　he　said。　〃I　don't　have　anything。〃
　　〃Whaddaya　mean？　You're　the　Man；　aren'cha？　You　got　these；　don'cha？〃　Sammy　seized　Trevor's　hands；　held　them　for　a　long　moment。　His　flesh　was　cold　as　morgue　tiles。　Trevor　felt　something　gouging　his　palm。　When　Sammy　let　go；　Trevor　found　himself　holding　a　small　glittering　jewel。　It　looked　like　a　diamond；　but　with　a　faint　blue　glow　at　its　core。　He　rolled　it　over　his　palm；　watched　its　facets　catch　the　light。
　　〃That's　all　I　got；〃　said　Sammy。　〃I　know　it　ain't　much；　but　I'll　make　good　later。〃
　　He　reached　into　the　folds　of　his　coat　and　pulled　out　a　syringe　wrapped　in　a　dirty　handkerchief。　The　plunger　was　depressed；　the　barrel　empty。　The　needle　gleamed　dully　beneath　a　thin　film　of　dried　blood。
　　〃Just　give　me　a　little；〃　begged　Sammy。
　　〃I　don't　have　anything。　I　swear。〃
　　Skeletal　Sammy　peered　at　Trevor　as　if　one　of　them　must　have　gone　crazy　and　he　wasn't　sure　which　one　it　was。　〃I　do　know　you；　right？〃
　　〃Well…〃　Trevor　wasn't　sure　how　to　answer。
　　〃You　are　an　artist；　right？〃
　　〃Yes。〃
　　〃Then　c'mon。　I'll　pay　you　double　tomorrow。　I'll　suck　your　dick。　Anything。　Just　be　a　pal　an'　roll　up　your　sleeve。〃
　　〃What　for？〃
　　〃The　red；　baby。〃　Sammy　clutched　at　Trevor's　sleeve。　〃That　sweet　red　flowin'　in　your　vein。〃
　　〃You　want　my　Wood？〃
　　Skeletal　Sammy　stared　him　in　the　eye　and　nodded　slowly。　The　naked；　wretched　need　in　Sammy's　face　was　like　nothing　Trevor　had　seen　before。　He　remembered　a　phrase　from　William　S。　Burroughs。　Sammy's　face　was　an　equation　written　in　the　algebra　of　need。
　　Trevor　had　never　been　any　good　at　math。　But　he　di