pzb.drawingblood-第9节

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his　brain；　or　hacking　paths　through　the　infinite　mazes　of　forbidden　puter　systems；　or　simply　skating　around　the　boards　where　he　was　not　just　wele　but　absurdly　revered。
　　Only　long　after　sundown　would　he　venture　into　the　French　Quarter　to　prowl　the　gaslit　side　streets；　to　walk　among　euphorically　drunken；　tourists　and　roustabouts　on　neon…smeared　Bourbon　Street；　to　meet　his　friends　passing　a　bottle　of　wine　in　front　of　Jackson　Square；　or　lingering　in　the　dark　bars　and　smoky　clubs　of　Rue　Decatur；　or　occasionally　throwing　a　small　party　in　Saint　Louis　#1；　the　old　cemetery　on　the　edge　of　the　Quarter。
　　But　today　he　descended　the　stairs　to　the　sidewalk；　pushed　the　iron　gate　open；　and　drew　in　a　noseful　of　the　humid　air　as　if　it　were　perfume。　And　it　was；　of　a　sort；　it　felt　like　wet　cotton　in　his　lungs；　but　it　carried　the　fragrance　of　the　Quarter；　a　heady　melange　of　thousands　of　odors：　seafood　and　spices；　beer　and　horseshit；　oil　paints　and　incense　and　flowers　and　garbage　and　river　mud；　and　underlying　it　all　the　clean　crumbling　smell　of　age；　old　iron；　softly　sifting　brick；　stone　trodden　by　a　million　feet；　recording　the　infinitesimal　imprint　of　each。
　　Zach's　third…floor　apartment　overlooked　tiny　Rue　Madison；　one　of　the　two　shortest　streets　in　the　Quarter；　along　with　its　twin　Wilkinson　on　the　other　side　of　Jackson　Square。　His　row　of　buildings　was　decorated　with　intricate　black　ironwork。　Only　a　block　long；　quiet　little　Madison　ran　straight　into　the　technicolor　melee　of　the　French　Market。
　　Zach　passed　the　vintage　clothing　store　on　the　corner；　knocked　on　the　open　door　and　waved　to　the　hippie　proprietor　（who　had　recently　given　him　a　neighborly　deal　on　a　black　frock　coat　lined　with　royal　purple　silk；　though　it　would　be　too　hot　to　wear　the　thing　until　Christmas）；　then　cut　through　an　area　housing　an　informal　bazaar　where　you　could　find　useless　crap　or　the　very　treasures　of　Lafitte；　depending　upon　the　day　and　your　luck。　Then　he　was　in　the　French　Market；　surrounded　on　all　sides　by　delicious　smells　and　harmonious　colors　and　all　the　symmetry　and　bounty　of　the　edible　vegetable　kingdom；　heaped　together　in　great　glowing　piles　under　one　old　stone　roof。
　　There　were　pyramids　of　tomatoes　so　achingly　scarlet　that　they　hurt　the　eyes；　bushel　baskets　of　eggplants　like　burnished　purple　patent　leather；　the　verdant　green　of　bell　peppers　and　the　delicate；　creamy　green　of　the　tender　little　squash　called　mirliton。　There　were　onions　as　large　as　babies'　heads；　red　and　gold　and　pearly　white。　There　were　nuts　and　ripe　bananas　and　cool　frosted　grapes；　fresh　herbs　by　the　bunch；　great　thick　braids　of　garlic　and　dried　red　tabasco　peppers　hanging　from　the　rafters。　There　were　stalks　of　fresh　sugar　cane；　sold　by　the　foot　so　you　could　gnaw　and　suck　out　the　sweet　juice　as　you　walked　through　the　market　smelling　and　marveling。　There　was　homegrown　rice；　and　barrels　full　of　shining　red　beans　to　cook　it　with；　and　long　links　of　smoky　Cajun　sausage　to　throw　in　for　flavor。　There　was　a　fish　market　to　the　side　where　you　could　buy　fresh　crabs　and　crawdads　and　catfish；　bright　blue　Gulf　shrimp　as　long　as　your　hand；　even　alligator　if　you　liked。
　　And　in　front　of　every　stand　were　the　vendors　hawking　their　wares；　old　men　who　had　e　in　laden　pickup　trucks　before　dawn；　their　faces　seamed　leather；　black　or　tan；　Cajuns；　Cubans；　occasional　Asians。　The　Market；　Zach　thought；　was　probably　one　of　the　most　culturally　and　racially　diverse　spots　in　the　city。　Good　karma　for　a　place　where；　not　two　hundred　years　ago；　slaves　had　done　the　morning　shopping。
　　Every　vendor　had　the　finest；　the　freshest；　the　cheapest　goods　in　all　the　Market；　they　all　proclaimed　so；　each　more　loudly　than　the　next；　until　the　clamorous　praise　for　fruits　and　vegetables　rose　to　the　roof　and　spiraled　out　between　the　stone　columns。　They　would　sell　it　to　you　by　the　piece；　or　the　pound；　or　the　whole　damn　lot　if　you　fancied。
　　But　Zach　fancied　other　things。　He　walked　through；　looking　but　not　stopping；　until　he　reached　the　fringes　of　the　flea　market　that　took　up　the　rear　part　of　the　building。　Here　the　wares　tended　more　toward　the　tacky　or　the　weird；　tables　full　of　shell　magnets　and　ceramic　crawfish　salt　shakers　alternating　with　stands　that　sold　leather　jewelry；　boot　knives；　essential　oils　and　bundles　of　incense　and　suspicious…looking　cassette　knockoffs　of　whatever　CDs　the　vendor　had　recently　bought。
　　Several　of　the　people　running　the　weirder　stands　nodded　to　him。　There　was　Garrett；　a　nervous　kid　with　bleached…blond　hair　and　great　tragic　angel…eyes；　who　painted　pictures　way　too　scary　for　the　Jackson　Square　portrait　crowd；　he　had　a　table　full　of　crucifix　pendants　and　rhinestone　cat's…eye　sunglasses；　and　was　doing　a　brisk　business。　There　was　Serena；　purple…haired　patchouli…daubed　priestess　as　calm　as　her　name；　nodding　happily　before　her　altar　of　bootleg　Cure　and　Nirvana；　serene　until　some　unsuspecting　light…fingered　customer　happened　along　and　mistook　her　for　an　easy　mark。　Then　she　whipped　into　ultraviolent　motion；　straight…arming　the　hapless　thief　with　one　hand；　retrieving　her　merchandise　with　the　other。　There　was　spooky　Larese　with　her　black　Cleopatra　eyeliner　and　tattered　velvet　dress；　who　did　Tarot　readings　on　the　square　when　she　wasn't　selling　her　homemade　voodoo　dolls　in　the　Market。　Her　readings　were　not　lucrative；　she　told　her　customers　so　many　accurate　bad　things　about　themselves　that　they　almost　always　demanded　their　money　back；　and　she　always　gave　it　back…　but　with　a　date　scrawled　across　it　in　indelible　Magic　Marker；　a　day　and　year　sometimes　far　in　the　future；　sometimes　ominously　near。
　　Zach　scanned　the　stands　and　tables。　The　sign　changed　locations　every　day；　but　someone　always　had　it。　Finally　he　spotted　it　taped　to　a　table　of　hats　manned　by　a　lean　young　man　with　skin　the　color　of　cafe　noir　and　a　mass　of　dreadlocks　that　seemed　to　burst　like　snakes　out　of　the　top　of　his　skull；　twisting　halfway　down　his　back；　some　of　the　strands　interwoven　with　threads　of　purple；　red；　yellow；　and　green…the　colors　of　Rasta　and　Mardi　Gras。　This　gentleman　went　by　the　mellifluous　name　of　Dougal　St。　Clair。　The　sign　taped　to　the　edge　of　his　table；　neatly　printed　and　discreet；　read　HELP　us　IN　THE　FIGHT　AGAINST　DRUGS！　ANY　DONATION　APPRECIATED。
　　〃Zachary！　I　t'ink　you　need　a　hat；　mon！〃　Dougal's　face　split　into　a　grin　sunny　and　stoned　as　his　native　Jamaica　as　he　waved　Zach　over。　His　voice　was　deep　and　jovial；　with　an　accent　like　dark；　sweet　syrup。　He　plucked　a　broad…brimmed　black　hat　from　the　jumble　on　the　table。　An　Amish　hat；　circled　with　a　handsome　band　of　black　leather　and　silver　cockleshells。　To　his　credit；　Dougal　did　not　plop　it　rudely　onto　Zach's　head；　just　held　it　out　until　Zach　had　to　take　it。　Zach　held　the　hat　in　his　hands　but　did　not　try　it　on。　Some　of　these　guys　could　sell　you　anything。
　　〃Actually；〃　he　said；　〃I　wanted　to　make　a　small　donation　to　the　cause。〃
　　〃Ya　mon。　No　problem。〃　Dougal　didn't　exactly　stick　out　his　hand；　just　eased　it　to　the　edge　of　the　table　where　it　would　be　available　in　case　anyone　wanted　to　slip　anything　into　it。　Zach　scissored　two　twenties　out　of　his　pocket　and　palmed　them　over。　Dougal's　dark　eyes　flickered；　clocking　the　amount　even　as　he　made　the　money　disappear。　He　reached　under　his　table　and　came　out　with　a　thick　pamphlet；　which　he　handed　over　to　Zach：　The　Dangers　of　Marijuana；　ever　so　imaginative　a　title；　the　propaganda　zombies　were　really　knocking　themselves　out　with　creativity　these　days。　Zach　tucked　the　pamphlet　into　his　pocket。
　　Dougal　unscrewed　the　top　of　a　thermos　and　sloshed　a　generous　amount　of　steaming　black　coffee　into　the　plastic　cup。　The　odor　touched　Zach's　nostrils；　rich　with　chicory。　Dougal　saw　him　squirming　and　offered　the　cup。　〃Finish　it　off；　mon。　Fresh　this　morning　from　Cafe　du　Monde。〃
　　Zach's　hands　itched　to　grasp　the　cup。　He　knew　how　warm　and　forting　it　would　feel　between　his　palms；　knew　how　the　smooth　slow…roasted　flavor　would　roll　over　his　tongue。　Unfortunately；　he　also　knew　how　the　subsequent　effects　would　feel；　his　heart　slamming　like　a　caged　thing　against　the　inner　meatwall　of　his　chest；　his　brain　drying　out　like　a　sponge；　his　eyeballs　seeming　to　jitter　and　buzz　in　their　sockets。　〃I　can't　drink　coffee　anymore；〃　he　admitted。　〃I　used　to　love　it；　but　now　it　just　gives　me　the　shakes。〃
　　Dougal's　heavy　eyebrows　drew　together　in　genuine　consternation。　〃But　we　got　de　second…best　joe　hi　de　world　right　here！　Jus'　have　a　slug；　it'll　do　you　right。〃
　　〃I　can't　even　drink　decaf；〃　Zach　said　sadly。　〃My　imagination's　too　good。〃
　　〃You're　twenty？〃
　　〃Nineteen。〃
　　〃An'　you　quit　drinkin'　coffee…〃
　　〃When　I　was　sixteen。〃
　　Dougal　shook　his　head。　The　frayed　and　festooned　ends　of　dreads　swayed　gently　around　his　face。　〃I　t'ink　you　need　to　relax。　If　I　couldn't　drink　New　Orleans　coffee；　I　guess　I'd　be　makin'　even　more　donations　to　de　cause　than　you　do。〃
　　〃So　what's　the　best　joe？〃
　　〃Jamaican　Blue　Mountain；　mon。　Fry　up　some　salt　fish'n'ackee　every　morning；　have　two…three　cups　of　Blue　Mountain；　you　lose　dem　dark　circles　unda　your　eyes。〃
　　Yeah；　thought　Zach；　and　die　of　a　heart　attack　before　I　hit　twenty…five。
　　They　shot　the　shit　for　a　few　more　minutes。　（〃Party　tonight；〃　Dougal　informed　him；　〃buncha　folks　gonna　dial　de　trip　phone　at　Louie's；〃　which　translated　t