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ot and poured it through。 A few seconds later the machine began to bubble and a dark； rich scent filled the kitchen。 The odor nauseated him： he knew what he was probably going to have to do。
Zach couldn't wait for the pot to fill。 As soon as a cupful had collected； he yanked it out and splashed it into a mug。 The stream of brewing coffee sizzled against the hotplate。 Zach's nerves twitched in sympathy。 He thrust the pot back in； flipped the switch off； grabbed the steaming mug； and hurried back to the bedroom。
〃Trev？ Want some joe？ C'mon 。 。 。〃 He slid a hand behind Trevor's neck and propped his head up； wafted the mug back and forth under Trevor's nose without much hope。 As he had feared； Trevor made no response。 He was gone； all right。
Zach looked into the mug。 The black surface of the coffee shimmered； as full of subtle sinister colors as an oil slick。 To Zach it looked like the surface of death。 His heart twinged； and Zach apologized to it in advance for what he was about to do。
He took a deep breath and blew on the demon joe； the drug that bore his father's name。 He said a prayer to his various gods； steadied his hand。
Then he raised the mug to his lips and drank the bitter brew straight down。
Chapter Twenty One
Trevor felt himself rising through the syrupy air of the room； through the ceiling and the roof； out into the night。 The sky arched above him like a great black bowl pricked with diamonds。 He saw the kudzu swarming over the roof； the sturdy little car parked behind the house； the willow tree in the yard where he and Zach had talked that first day； fronds wavering in the terrible razor…edged moonlight。 He was rising and rising。 He could see the streets of Missing Mile in the distance； dark and still。 The house was far below him now； a toy rectangle he could almost forget。
This isn't where I'm supposed to be； he realized。 Got to get back to Birdland 。 。 。
All at once it was like a film being run in reverse and speeded up； he was falling in a dizzy spiral back toward the roof； through the sucking vines； back through the ceiling and into the rooms and melting down the walls and crackling through the power lines and dripping from the faucets and disappearing down the drains； into the broken fragments of the mirror 。 。 。
He was there。
The thought filled him with a cold excitement that was almost fear。 Whatever； wherever Birdland was； he was there now。
The sensations of his body returned。 He opened his eyes and found himself standing on a street corner in a city he could not name。 It was like a posite of every city he had ever been in； the run…down sections and shady neighborhoods： ashen buildings squirming with illegible graffiti； broken and boarded windows； ragged posters stapled to telephone poles； peeling from brick walls。 The few splashes of color in the landscape seemed somehow wrong。
The sidewalk and the street were empty。 Though the slice of sky above him was an unhealthy purplish color that reflected back the city's light 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 di