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much at all。 But Kinsey knew it for what it was： a towering monument to his gullibility。
She could still be pregnant； he reasoned as he walked to the restroom。 She really could need money for an abortion。 Somebody could be giving her coke。 Maybe she was even selling the shit to get the money she needed。
Yeah； right。 The things she had said about the father of her embryo…if embryo there was…hardly suggested that he would be giving her free drugs。 And Kinsey knew that the market for cocaine in Missing Mile was very poor indeed。 You could hardly turn around without bumping into a pothead or a boozehound； and they treated psychedelics like candy； but coke was another thing。 Most of the younger kids seemed to think it was boring： it didn't tell them stories or give them visions； didn't drown their pain； didn't do anything for them that a pot of strong coffee couldn't do for a fraction of the price。 They would probably snort coke if it was handed to them； but they wouldn't spend their allowances on it。 And most of the older townie crowd couldn't afford it even if they wanted it。
Rima； though； seemed to have had a constant low…grade cold for the last couple of months。 She was always going to the restroom to blow her nose； but she always came back still sniffling。 How clear was hindsight。
You could still call the cops； Kinsey told himself as his cupped palm hovered over the toilet bowl； ready to tip the little packet in。 Show them this stuff。 She couldn't be far out of town yet。
His hand tilted。 There was a tiny splash； barely audible； the packet floated serenely on the still surface of the water。
She had every intention of ripping you off。 Bust her。
His fingers found the flush lever； pushed it。 There was a deafening liquid roar…Kinsey thought the plumbing in this building was of approximately the same vintage as the Confederate boardinghouses up the street…and the packet was gone。
Pregnant or not； she's in some kind of trouble。 That's one thing she wasn't lying about。 Why make it worse for her？
Later； mopping the floor near the stage； he glanced up at the art wall。 The words WE ARE NOT AFRAID gleamed softly at him； and he knew that wherever Rima was now； whatever she was doing； those words did not hold true for her。
He could not resent letting her take her last pay； though。 There was always a chance she would use the money to help herself； to get away from whatever （or whoever） had made her stash cocaine in her pocketbook and steal from people who wished her well。 There was always a chance。
Yeah。 And there was always a chance that John Lennon would rise from the dead and the Beatles would play a reunion show at the Sacred Yew。 That seemed about as likely。
Kinsey shook his head dolefully and kept mopping。
Chapter Two
Zachary Bosch awoke from fascinating dreams； pulled the pillow off his face； rubbed his eyes； and blinked up at the green lizard on the ceiling just above his head。
He slept in a small alcove at the side of the room； where the ceiling was lower and cozier than the rest of his lofty French Quarter apartment。 The plaster here was soft and slightly damp； cracked with age； yellowed from two years of Zach smoking in bed。 Against the dingy plaster the lizard was a vivid； iridescent green。 Children in New Orleans called such creatures chameleons； though Zach believed they were actually anoles。
He reached for the ashtray next to the bed and the lizard was gone in a brilliant flicker of motion。 Zach knew from experience that if you were fast enough to catch them by the tail； the thready appendage would e off； still twitching； in your hand。 It was a game he often played with the little reptiles but seldom won。
He found the ashtray without looking； brought it up and nestled it in the hollow of the sheet between the small sharp mountains of his hipbones。 In the ashtray was a tightly rolled joint that had been the size of a small cigar； a panatela or whatever the things were called。 Zach hated the taste of tobacco and its harsh brown scorch in his lungs； he never touched the stuff。 His friend Eddy put it simply if inelegantly： 〃If it's green； smoke it。 If it's brown； flush it。〃
Zach had smoked half of this particular green the night before； while concocting a news story to plant in the Times…Picayune just to amuse himself； a tasteful little number about some petrified fetus parts removed from a woman's womb ten years after an illegal back…alley abortion。 If it wasn't true； it ought to be…or rather； the public ought to think it was。 In today's moral climate （cloudy； with a fascist storm front threatening）； illegal abortions needed all the bad publicity they could get。
He had made sure to stress that the woman suffered great pain； bloated grotesquely； and was of course rendered infertile。 By the time he finished writing the article； Zach had caught himself feeling tender； almost protective； toward his hapless fiction。 She was a true martyr； the finest kind of scapegoat； a vessel for imaginary pain so that real pain might be thwarted。
Zach felt for a book of matches on the floor； found some from mander's Palace； lit the joint and sucked smoke in deep。 The flavor filled his mouth； his throat； his lungs； a taste as bright green as the lizard。 He stared at the matchbook； which was a darker green。 The restaurant was one of the oldest and most expensive in the city。 A friend of a friend who was deep in hock on his American Express card had taken Zach to the bar there recently； and charged Zach's four extra…spicy Bloody Marys to his Visa。 They always did shit like that。 Stupid patterns； intricate webs they wove that ended up trapping themselves most tightly of all。
Geeks； marks； and conspiracy dupes。 In the end they all amounted to the same thing： sources of ine for Zachary Bosch； who was none of the above。
His third…floor apartment was full of dust and sunlight and tons upon tons of paper。 His friends who knew his reading habits； his smoking habits； and his squirreling habits swore the place was one of the most hair…raising fire hazards in all New Orleans。 Zach figured it was damp enough to discourage any flames that escaped his notice。 In deep summer； water stains spread across the ceiling and the fine old molding began to sweat and seep。
The paint had long since begun to peel； but this never bothered Zach； since most of the walls were covered with scraps of paper。 There were pictures torn from obscure magazines that had reminded him of something； newspaper clippings； headlines； or sometimes single words he had put up for their mnemonic effect。 There was a large head of J。 R。 〃Bob〃 Dobbs； High Epopt of the Church of the Subgenius and one of Zach's favorite personal saviors。 〃Bob〃 preached the doctrine of Slack； which （among other things） meant that the world really did owe you a living； if only you were smart enough to endorse the paycheck。 There were phone numbers； puter access codes and passwords scribbled on yellow Post…it notes whose glue would not stick in the damp。 These last were constantly fluttering down from the walls； creating canary drifts among the debris on the floor； and sticking to the soles of Zach's sneakers。
There were boxes of old correspondence； magazines； yellowing newspapers from all over the world and in several languages…if he couldn't read an item； he could find someone to translate it inside of an hour…distinguished dailies and raving tabloids。 And books everywhere； crammed into shelves that covered one wall nearly to the high ceiling； spread open or with pages marked beside his bed； stacked into Seuss…like towers in the corners。 There was every kind of fiction； telephone books； puter manuals； well…thumbed volumes with titles like The Anarchist's Cookbook； High Weirdness by Mail； Principia Discordia； Steal This Book； and other useful bibles。 A cheap VCR and a homemade cable box were rigged up to a small TV； the whole setup was nearly hidden behind stacks of videocassettes。
Pushed up against the far wall was the heart of the chaos： a large metal desk。 The desk was not visible as such； though Zach could find anything on； in； or around it in a matter of minutes。 It was heaped with more papers； more books； shoeboxes full of floppy disks； and the unmistakable signature of the ganja connoisseur： an assortment of ashtrays overflowing with ashes and matches； but no butts。 Marijuana smokers； unlike those who indulged in tobacco； did not leave spoor。
In the center of the desk； rising above the ashtrays and drifts of paper like some monolith of plastic and silicon； was a puter。 An Amiga with an IBM card and Mac emulation that allowed it to read disks from several different kinds of puters； a sweet little machine。 It was equipped with a large…capacity hard disk； a decent printer； and…most important for his purposes…a 2400…baud modem。 This inexpensive scrap of technology； which allowed his puter to municate with others via any number of telephone lines； was his meal ticket； his umbilical cord； his key to other worlds and to parts of this world he had never been meant to see。
The modem had paid for itself several hundred times over； and he had only had this one for six months。 He had an OKI