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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 did know that there were two sides to every equation。 If the inhabitants of this universe or dimension or ic or whatever the hell it was could get high on his bodily fluids； maybe he could extract something from them； too。
He put his hand over Sammy's； forced the diamond back into Sammy's palm。
〃What if I give you some？〃 he asked。 〃Do you know where Bobby McGee is？〃
Again that slow nod。
〃Will you take me there？〃
〃 'Course I will；〃 Sammy said。 〃He's been expecting you。〃
The junkie tried to smile。 It was a ghastly sight。
〃Okay； then。〃
Sammy led him into one of the dark bars。 The interior was both garish and squalid； with walls of filthy purple velvet and a floor unwashed for so long that Trevor felt the soles of his shoes peeling softly away from it as he walked。 A sign advertising a brand of beer he'd never heard of flickered green and gold above the bar。 Reflected in a dirty mirror on the opposite wall； it made a dizzy tunnel of light spiraling away into infinity。 There was no bartender； no customers。 The place was silent。
They sat at one of the rickety little tables。 Trevor took off his pinstriped jacket； rolled up the left sleeve of his silk shirt。 He saw that his scars were still open； oozing slow tears of blood。 The stains didn't show on the black cloth； though the sleeve was wet with it。 Sammy's eyes honed in on the blood。 He looked as if he would like to lap it right off Trevor's arm。
Instead he reached into his voluminous overcoat； pulled out a length of rubber tubing； and tied it around his own arm inches above the elbow。 〃If I tie off ahead of time；〃 he explained； 〃I can shoot it while it's still good an' hot。〃 He reached over and stroked Trevor's hand。 His touch was ambiguous； not quite sexual。 〃You ready？〃
〃Clean your needle first。 You're not sticking that dirty thing in my arm。〃
〃No； that ain't where you like to stick dirty things； is it？〃
Before Trevor could fully process this remark； Sammy got up from the table； slipped behind the bar； and came back with a glass full of neat whiskey。 He took out his syringe； immersed the needle in the amber liquor and swished it around several times。 Then he pulled out a cheap cigarette lighter； ran its flame along the needle and let it linger on the tip。 The alcohol flared up clear blue； burned off fast。 Sammy glanced at Trevor。 〃Satisfied？〃
Trevor had no idea if this procedure really sterilized the needle； but at least the scummy…looking crust of dried blood was gone。 He nodded； feeling as if somewhere during this transaction he had lost the upper hand。
Sammy bent over Trevor's arm and slid the needle into the open scar closest to the elbow。 For a moment he probed； and a scintilla of pain shot through the soft meat。 Then the needle found a vein and sank in deep。 Sammy pulled the plunger slowly back。 A dark flower of blood welled into the syringe。 Trevor felt the needle shivering with each beat of his heart。
Sammy kept hold of his hand； idly stroking his wrist and playing with his fingers。 But as soon as he had a full hypo； Sammy yanked the needle out of the wound。 With absolutely no wasted motion he pulled up his own sleeve； stuck the needle deep into the flesh of his inner elbow； and pushed the plunger。 Trevor's blood seemed to rush into his vein as if his own blood were sucking hungrily at it。 Trevor saw Sammy's eyelids fluttering； the pinkish rag of his tongue glistening in his mouth。 〃Ohhh 。 。 。 thaasss the sweeeeet red 。 。 。〃
Then Sammy's hands spasmed and his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed face first on the table。 The hypo fell out of his arm and rolled off the edge of the table； the inside of the barrel still coated with a thin film of blood。 Sammy's right hand hit the glass of whiskey and sent it spinning to the floor。 Its harsh reek filled the bar。
Trevor grabbed a handful of Sammy's hair and lifted his head off the table。 It felt as light as a hollow gourd。 The junkie's face had gone a sick blue beneath the already…gray cast of his skin。 His eyes were closed； his chin slicked with spit。
Then the handful of hair separated from Sammy's scalp like dead grass ripping out of dry dirt； and Sammy's head smacked against the tabletop and split open as easily as an overripe melon。
Shards of his fragile skull went skittering away。 Much of it simply sifted to dust。 His brain looked like burnt hamburger meat； desiccated and crumbling。 Trevor saw a thing like a cloudy marble trailing a length of red string roll to the edge of the table。 One of Sammy's eyeballs。 It teetered for a long moment； then plopped moistly to the floor。 There was very little blood。 The tabletop quickly became littered with teeth the color of old ivory； drifts of hair gone ashen gray； dust that smelled like a freshly opened mummy case： faintly spicy； faintly rotten。
Trevor stared dumbly at the wreckage he had made of his father's cartoon character。 The running joke about Skeletal Sammy had been that he could shoot anything。 Morphine； Dilaudid； straight H； you name it。 Junk peddlers had tried to poison him with battery acid and strychnine when he got too deep into them for credit； but Sammy just pumped these noxious substances into the old vein and came back for more。
It had taken the son of his creator…his brother； in a way … to give Sammy the kick he couldn't get twice。 And if Sammy had ever known where to find Bobby； he wasn't telling now。
Trevor squeezed Sammy's thin wrist。 The skin flaked away beneath his fingers until he found himself clutching little more than bone。 Once more he was alone in this place that felt as empty as a junkie's promise。 Trevor rolled down his sleeve； put his jacket back on； and walked out of the bar。
The street was still deserted。 He chose a side street that ran alongside the factories but didn't seem to lead directly into them。 He had no tears left for Sammy。 He kept walking。
Zach managed to drop the empty coffee mug and curl up next to Trevor before the pain slammed into his chest。 For several seconds it rendered him quite unable to breath