pzb.drawingblood-第7节

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　much　at　all。　But　Kinsey　knew　it　for　what　it　was：　a　towering　monument　to　his　gullibility。
　　She　could　still　be　pregnant；　he　reasoned　as　he　walked　to　the　restroom。　She　really　could　need　money　for　an　abortion。　Somebody　could　be　giving　her　coke。　Maybe　she　was　even　selling　the　shit　to　get　the　money　she　needed。
　　Yeah；　right。　The　things　she　had　said　about　the　father　of　her　embryo…if　embryo　there　was…hardly　suggested　that　he　would　be　giving　her　free　drugs。　And　Kinsey　knew　that　the　market　for　cocaine　in　Missing　Mile　was　very　poor　indeed。　You　could　hardly　turn　around　without　bumping　into　a　pothead　or　a　boozehound；　and　they　treated　psychedelics　like　candy；　but　coke　was　another　thing。　Most　of　the　younger　kids　seemed　to　think　it　was　boring：　it　didn't　tell　them　stories　or　give　them　visions；　didn't　drown　their　pain；　didn't　do　anything　for　them　that　a　pot　of　strong　coffee　couldn't　do　for　a　fraction　of　the　price。　They　would　probably　snort　coke　if　it　was　handed　to　them；　but　they　wouldn't　spend　their　allowances　on　it。　And　most　of　the　older　townie　crowd　couldn't　afford　it　even　if　they　wanted　it。
　　Rima；　though；　seemed　to　have　had　a　constant　low…grade　cold　for　the　last　couple　of　months。　She　was　always　going　to　the　restroom　to　blow　her　nose；　but　she　always　came　back　still　sniffling。　How　clear　was　hindsight。
　　You　could　still　call　the　cops；　Kinsey　told　himself　as　his　cupped　palm　hovered　over　the　toilet　bowl；　ready　to　tip　the　little　packet　in。　Show　them　this　stuff。　She　couldn't　be　far　out　of　town　yet。
　　His　hand　tilted。　There　was　a　tiny　splash；　barely　audible；　the　packet　floated　serenely　on　the　still　surface　of　the　water。
　　She　had　every　intention　of　ripping　you　off。　Bust　her。
　　His　fingers　found　the　flush　lever；　pushed　it。　There　was　a　deafening　liquid　roar…Kinsey　thought　the　plumbing　in　this　building　was　of　approximately　the　same　vintage　as　the　Confederate　boardinghouses　up　the　street…and　the　packet　was　gone。
　　Pregnant　or　not；　she's　in　some　kind　of　trouble。　That's　one　thing　she　wasn't　lying　about。　Why　make　it　worse　for　her？
　　Later；　mopping　the　floor　near　the　stage；　he　glanced　up　at　the　art　wall。　The　words　WE　ARE　NOT　AFRAID　gleamed　softly　at　him；　and　he　knew　that　wherever　Rima　was　now；　whatever　she　was　doing；　those　words　did　not　hold　true　for　her。
　　He　could　not　resent　letting　her　take　her　last　pay；　though。　There　was　always　a　chance　she　would　use　the　money　to　help　herself；　to　get　away　from　whatever　（or　whoever）　had　made　her　stash　cocaine　in　her　pocketbook　and　steal　from　people　who　wished　her　well。　There　was　always　a　chance。
　　Yeah。　And　there　was　always　a　chance　that　John　Lennon　would　rise　from　the　dead　and　the　Beatles　would　play　a　reunion　show　at　the　Sacred　Yew。　That　seemed　about　as　likely。
　　Kinsey　shook　his　head　dolefully　and　kept　mopping。
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　Two
　　
　　Zachary　Bosch　awoke　from　fascinating　dreams；　pulled　the　pillow　off　his　face；　rubbed　his　eyes；　and　blinked　up　at　the　green　lizard　on　the　ceiling　just　above　his　head。
　　He　slept　in　a　small　alcove　at　the　side　of　the　room；　where　the　ceiling　was　lower　and　cozier　than　the　rest　of　his　lofty　French　Quarter　apartment。　The　plaster　here　was　soft　and　slightly　damp；　cracked　with　age；　yellowed　from　two　years　of　Zach　smoking　in　bed。　Against　the　dingy　plaster　the　lizard　was　a　vivid；　iridescent　green。　Children　in　New　Orleans　called　such　creatures　chameleons；　though　Zach　believed　they　were　actually　anoles。
　　He　reached　for　the　ashtray　next　to　the　bed　and　the　lizard　was　gone　in　a　brilliant　flicker　of　motion。　Zach　knew　from　experience　that　if　you　were　fast　enough　to　catch　them　by　the　tail；　the　thready　appendage　would　e　off；　still　twitching；　in　your　hand。　It　was　a　game　he　often　played　with　the　little　reptiles　but　seldom　won。
　　He　found　the　ashtray　without　looking；　brought　it　up　and　nestled　it　in　the　hollow　of　the　sheet　between　the　small　sharp　mountains　of　his　hipbones。　In　the　ashtray　was　a　tightly　rolled　joint　that　had　been　the　size　of　a　small　cigar；　a　panatela　or　whatever　the　things　were　called。　Zach　hated　the　taste　of　tobacco　and　its　harsh　brown　scorch　in　his　lungs；　he　never　touched　the　stuff。　His　friend　Eddy　put　it　simply　if　inelegantly：　〃If　it's　green；　smoke　it。　If　it's　brown；　flush　it。〃
　　Zach　had　smoked　half　of　this　particular　green　the　night　before；　while　concocting　a　news　story　to　plant　in　the　Times…Picayune　just　to　amuse　himself；　a　tasteful　little　number　about　some　petrified　fetus　parts　removed　from　a　woman's　womb　ten　years　after　an　illegal　back…alley　abortion。　If　it　wasn't　true；　it　ought　to　be…or　rather；　the　public　ought　to　think　it　was。　In　today's　moral　climate　（cloudy；　with　a　fascist　storm　front　threatening）；　illegal　abortions　needed　all　the　bad　publicity　they　could　get。
　　He　had　made　sure　to　stress　that　the　woman　suffered　great　pain；　bloated　grotesquely；　and　was　of　course　rendered　infertile。　By　the　time　he　finished　writing　the　article；　Zach　had　caught　himself　feeling　tender；　almost　protective；　toward　his　hapless　fiction。　She　was　a　true　martyr；　the　finest　kind　of　scapegoat；　a　vessel　for　imaginary　pain　so　that　real　pain　might　be　thwarted。
　　Zach　felt　for　a　book　of　matches　on　the　floor；　found　some　from　mander's　Palace；　lit　the　joint　and　sucked　smoke　in　deep。　The　flavor　filled　his　mouth；　his　throat；　his　lungs；　a　taste　as　bright　green　as　the　lizard。　He　stared　at　the　matchbook；　which　was　a　darker　green。　The　restaurant　was　one　of　the　oldest　and　most　expensive　in　the　city。　A　friend　of　a　friend　who　was　deep　in　hock　on　his　American　Express　card　had　taken　Zach　to　the　bar　there　recently；　and　charged　Zach's　four　extra…spicy　Bloody　Marys　to　his　Visa。　They　always　did　shit　like　that。　Stupid　patterns；　intricate　webs　they　wove　that　ended　up　trapping　themselves　most　tightly　of　all。
　　Geeks；　marks；　and　conspiracy　dupes。　In　the　end　they　all　amounted　to　the　same　thing：　sources　of　ine　for　Zachary　Bosch；　who　was　none　of　the　above。
　　His　third…floor　apartment　was　full　of　dust　and　sunlight　and　tons　upon　tons　of　paper。　His　friends　who　knew　his　reading　habits；　his　smoking　habits；　and　his　squirreling　habits　swore　the　place　was　one　of　the　most　hair…raising　fire　hazards　in　all　New　Orleans。　Zach　figured　it　was　damp　enough　to　discourage　any　flames　that　escaped　his　notice。　In　deep　summer；　water　stains　spread　across　the　ceiling　and　the　fine　old　molding　began　to　sweat　and　seep。
　　The　paint　had　long　since　begun　to　peel；　but　this　never　bothered　Zach；　since　most　of　the　walls　were　covered　with　scraps　of　paper。　There　were　pictures　torn　from　obscure　magazines　that　had　reminded　him　of　something；　newspaper　clippings；　headlines；　or　sometimes　single　words　he　had　put　up　for　their　mnemonic　effect。　There　was　a　large　head　of　J。　R。　〃Bob〃　Dobbs；　High　Epopt　of　the　Church　of　the　Subgenius　and　one　of　Zach's　favorite　personal　saviors。　〃Bob〃　preached　the　doctrine　of　Slack；　which　（among　other　things）　meant　that　the　world　really　did　owe　you　a　living；　if　only　you　were　smart　enough　to　endorse　the　paycheck。　There　were　phone　numbers；　puter　access　codes　and　passwords　scribbled　on　yellow　Post…it　notes　whose　glue　would　not　stick　in　the　damp。　These　last　were　constantly　fluttering　down　from　the　walls；　creating　canary　drifts　among　the　debris　on　the　floor；　and　sticking　to　the　soles　of　Zach's　sneakers。
　　There　were　boxes　of　old　correspondence；　magazines；　yellowing　newspapers　from　all　over　the　world　and　in　several　languages…if　he　couldn't　read　an　item；　he　could　find　someone　to　translate　it　inside　of　an　hour…distinguished　dailies　and　raving　tabloids。　And　books　everywhere；　crammed　into　shelves　that　covered　one　wall　nearly　to　the　high　ceiling；　spread　open　or　with　pages　marked　beside　his　bed；　stacked　into　Seuss…like　towers　in　the　corners。　There　was　every　kind　of　fiction；　telephone　books；　puter　manuals；　well…thumbed　volumes　with　titles　like　The　Anarchist's　Cookbook；　High　Weirdness　by　Mail；　Principia　Discordia；　Steal　This　Book；　and　other　useful　bibles。　A　cheap　VCR　and　a　homemade　cable　box　were　rigged　up　to　a　small　TV；　the　whole　setup　was　nearly　hidden　behind　stacks　of　videocassettes。
　　Pushed　up　against　the　far　wall　was　the　heart　of　the　chaos：　a　large　metal　desk。　The　desk　was　not　visible　as　such；　though　Zach　could　find　anything　on；　in；　or　around　it　in　a　matter　of　minutes。　It　was　heaped　with　more　papers；　more　books；　shoeboxes　full　of　floppy　disks；　and　the　unmistakable　signature　of　the　ganja　connoisseur：　an　assortment　of　ashtrays　overflowing　with　ashes　and　matches；　but　no　butts。　Marijuana　smokers；　unlike　those　who　indulged　in　tobacco；　did　not　leave　spoor。
　　In　the　center　of　the　desk；　rising　above　the　ashtrays　and　drifts　of　paper　like　some　monolith　of　plastic　and　silicon；　was　a　puter。　An　Amiga　with　an　IBM　card　and　Mac　emulation　that　allowed　it　to　read　disks　from　several　different　kinds　of　puters；　a　sweet　little　machine。　It　was　equipped　with　a　large…capacity　hard　disk；　a　decent　printer；　and…most　important　for　his　purposes…a　2400…baud　modem。　This　inexpensive　scrap　of　technology；　which　allowed　his　puter　to　municate　with　others　via　any　number　of　telephone　lines；　was　his　meal　ticket；　his　umbilical　cord；　his　key　to　other　worlds　and　to　parts　of　this　world　he　had　never　been　meant　to　see。
　　The　modem　had　paid　for　itself　several　hundred　times　over；　and　he　had　only　had　this　one　for　six　months。　He　had　an　OKI