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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 bear the weight of a healthy girl； and most could have been reduced to matchsticks by a ninety…pound junkie。
One dancer stood in the dust…choked area behind the stage waiting for her cue。 A muffled cough and snort sounded over the P。A。 She would bet her day's tips that Tommy； the DJ； was doing a line right there in the booth。 Usually he went to the men's room； but the manager wasn't here today； and no one else cared。
〃And now…in her last set of the day…The Sweetest Charm of the Orient…MISS LEE！〃
The first notes of her music pounded out of the speakers； a Cure song cranked up so loud that the words were distorted； but it didn't matter because no one else in this club had ever heard of the Cure except maybe a couple of the other dancers； and no one cared what music she danced to anyway as long as she showed her tits。 Miss Lee threw back the dusty velvet curtain and kicked one leg out； long and silky…pale； shod in a spike…heeled； silver…chained； black leather ankle boot； and the crowd went wild。
If you could call five or six unshaven； seedy…looking men a crowd。
And if a few listless hoots and whistles； the lewd waggling of a tongue in the general direction of her crotch； or the simple act of lifting beer to mouth could be considered wild。
Miss Lee undulated onto the tiny stage。 A ring of globe…shaped bulbs lit her from below； playing over her black vinyl T…strap and bra as she moved； showing off what curves she had。 Five or six of the bulbs were dead； spaced at uneven intervals like rotten teeth in a jaw。 She stalked to the pole placed strategically at center stage； wrapped her arms around it； and straddled it。 She arched her back and worked the pole with her hips； letting her mouth fall open and her eyes slip half…shut into the dazed； drugged…looking expression that was supposed to pass for ecstasy。 Then she pushed away from the pole； paused in front of the first stage rat； and began a slow insistent grind in front of his face。
After a couple of minutes he pinched two crumpled dollar bills out of his shirt pocket and slid them into her garter； making sure to run his nicotine…withered fingers as far up her thigh as he thought he could get away with。 His sour scowl never wavered。 Miss Lee gave him a geisha smile and moved on to the next customer； who was marginally young and good…looking； and therefore less likely to tip。
She wondered what they would think if they knew where her stage name came from。 She had been born in New Orleans of Korean parents； and Loup； the Pink Diamond's manager； had advised her to pick 〃some kinda fake Chinese name〃 to capitalize on her ethnic looks。 （〃Lotta guys go in for that kinda thing；〃 he'd added as if letting her in on a big guy…secret。） She had chosen the name Lee after a character from her favorite book； Naked Lunch。 When a customer was nasty or business was bad or she was just in no mood to shake her ass for a bunch of human dildoes； she would think of junk…filled needles jabbing into putrescent veins； of swollen cocks leaking foul greenish slime； of beautiful boys fistfucking by the light of a rotten…che