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At last the crying faded to an occasional long tremor that jerked through the boy like an electric current。 He had been leaning hard against Kinsey； his sharp chin digging into Kinsey's shoulder。 Now he pulled away and slumped on the bar stool； swiping at his face。 Kinsey decided not to give him time to be embarrassed。 〃Let's go。〃
Trevor gave him a half…wary； half…questioning look。
〃You shouldn't be by yourself tonight；〃 Kinsey told him。 〃You're ing home with me。〃
He expected argument； maybe refusal； and he was prepared to push the issue。 But if anything； Trevor looked relieved。 Kinsey wondered whether the boy had been planning to hike out to Violin Road； to sleep in that bad memory of a house。 The house of Trevor McGee's thwarted doom and； perhaps； of Trevor Black's impending destiny。
Trevor slung his backpack over his shoulder； turned off the bar lights； and followed Kinsey out of the club； down the bad end of Firehouse Street； into the silent silver…lit night。
Chapter Four
Four rings。 Zach counted them with his teeth gritted； his free hand viciously shredding a fundamentalist tract he'd picked up somewhere； Tomb of the Unborn。
Then the gentle click of a lifted receiver； muted Dixieland jazz playing in the background。 〃Hi； this is Eddy Sung。〃
〃EDDY FOR CHRISSAKE YOU GOT TO HELP ME I GOT TO GET OUT OF…〃
The Dixieland changed abruptly to grinding industrial hardcore。 〃I'm sorry I'm not here； but if you leave your number I'll call you back as soon…〃
〃AWWWW SHIT； GODDAMMIT； EDDY； PLEASE BE THERE！！！ PLEASE PICK UP！！！〃
A squealing snatch of violins； then Eddy's answering machine beeped in his ear。 Zach took a deep sobbing breath； resisted the urge to slam his own phone into the cradle hard enough to crack its casing； and tried to speak calmly。 〃Ed…I'm in trouble。 You always said you coveted my apartment； well； call me soon enough and you might get the goddamn thing。〃
He hung up； spun aimlessly in the middle of the room for several moments。 The puter screen caught his eye； still pulsing like some obscene digital orifice。 Yes； you could fall headlong into that screen； that alternate reality like a cradling mouth or womb； never ing up for air； never realizing that so slowly； so smoothly you took no notice； it was chewing and digesting you 。 。 。
No。 Blaming the puter for his troubles； that was like a terminal lung cancer victim blaming a pack of cigarettes or； worse； his faithful old Zippo。 It was a tool and he had chosen to use it。 His troubles were with They whose clammy suckered tentacle grasped the other end of that tool。 William Burroughs had advised him to know what was on the end of his fork； but had he listened？ Of course not…and now the dirty tines were on the verge of impaling his tongue。
But in that direction madness lay。
He leaned against the doorjamb that led into the bathroom…with its polished sea…green tiles and its skylight in the ceiling high above the tub； taking a shower here was like standing beneath a sunlit waterfall； and where would he ever find such a place again？ A green waterfall of a bathroom…an apartment with all his things in it； a block from the wondrous bazaar that sold everything he needed； two blocks from the bank of the Mississippi that coursed 。 through the city like a throbbing brown artery？
Before moving in here two years ago； Zach had spent most of his time on the streets and at various friends' houses。 This was the first place that had ever felt like home。 He wasn't sure he knew how to live anywhere else； wasn't sure anywhere else would have him。
But that didn't matter。 He had been cutting things too close； taking too many dumb chances。 When he started hacking three years ago； it had been just another lark； another way of amusing himself； a curiosity like getting drunk on sloe gin or watching the Psychic Friends Network on late…night cable TV。 During his brief high school career he had taken an elementary programming class and ended up getting himself kicked out of the school puter room； which robbed him of his only good reason to show up at the brain…numbing； tomblike institution at an inhuman hour each weekday morning。
At sixteen； two years after leaving home； Zach dropped out and started casting about for something better。 He had known immediately that hacking was it。 He'd only had a cheap PC…clone with a slow modem at first； but fucking around on the underground bulletin boards he found with his automatic dialing program led him to wonder about other networks； secret systems and databanks that were supposed to be hidden but were actually right there； tantalizingly there； vibrating behind a thin membrane of mands and passwords。
Free information and money； if only you could get at it。 Zach soon discovered that he could。 And it was so damn easy 。。。
But if they caught you at things like stealing from credit card panies and breaking the systems of Southern Bell； affectionately known as the Gestapo among phreaks and hackers； it could be worth ten years in a federal prison。 Sure； you might get out in half as many； or even less。 But the thought of even one day in the pen was too much for most hackers； conjuring up vivid images of great tattooed baby…rapers and serial killers cornholing their lily…white butts； then snapping their skinny necks。
Zach let his knees buckle and slid down the door frame to the floor。 He'd kicked off his sneakers at some point； and the green tiles were blessedly cool against the soles of his feet。 He saw the round mirror above the sink reflecting his empty room； saw the dripping faucet that over the years had left a stain on the porcelain like the imprint of rusty teardrops； saw the blue ceramic mug that held two toothbrushes； one purple and one black。 He kept an extra because Eddy had been known to sleep over on occasions when they watched one bad film too many or talked too far into the night or simply drank themselves into a stupor on the cheap bourbon Eddy loved。
There was nothing untoward to it； though； nothing sexual； not even a furtive drunken groping here or there。 Zach liked Eddy too much for that。
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