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his brain； or hacking paths through the infinite mazes of forbidden puter systems； or simply skating around the boards where he was not just wele but absurdly revered。
Only long after sundown would he venture into the French Quarter to prowl the gaslit side streets； to walk among euphorically drunken； tourists and roustabouts on neon…smeared Bourbon Street； to meet his friends passing a bottle of wine in front of Jackson Square； or lingering in the dark bars and smoky clubs of Rue Decatur； or occasionally throwing a small party in Saint Louis #1； the old cemetery on the edge of the Quarter。
But today he descended the stairs to the sidewalk； pushed the iron gate open； and drew in a noseful of the humid air as if it were perfume。 And it was； of a sort； it felt like wet cotton in his lungs； but it carried the fragrance of the Quarter； a heady melange of thousands of odors： seafood and spices； beer and horseshit； oil paints and incense and flowers and garbage and river mud； and underlying it all the clean crumbling smell of age； old iron； softly sifting brick； stone trodden by a million feet； recording the infinitesimal imprint of each。
Zach's third…floor apartment overlooked tiny Rue Madison； one of the two shortest streets in the Quarter； along with its twin Wilkinson on the other side of Jackson Square。 His row of buildings was decorated with intricate black ironwork。 Only a block long； quiet little Madison ran straight into the technicolor melee of the French Market。
Zach passed the vintage clothing store on the corner； knocked on the open door and waved to the hippie proprietor （who had recently given him a neighborly deal on a black frock coat lined with royal purple silk； though it would be too hot to wear the thing until Christmas）； then cut through an area housing an informal bazaar where you could find useless crap or the very treasures of Lafitte； depending upon the day and your luck。 Then he was in the French Market； surrounded on all sides by delicious smells and harmonious colors and all the symmetry and bounty of the edible vegetable kingdom； heaped together in great glowing piles under one old stone roof。
There were pyramids of tomatoes so achingly scarlet that they hurt the eyes； bushel baskets of eggplants like burnished purple patent leather； the verdant green of bell peppers and the delicate； creamy green of the tender little squash called mirliton。 There were onions as large as babies' heads； red and gold and pearly white。 There were nuts and ripe bananas and cool frosted grapes； fresh herbs by the bunch； great thick braids of garlic and dried red tabasco peppers hanging from the rafters。 There were stalks of fresh sugar cane； sold by the foot so you could gnaw and suck out the sweet juice as you walked through the market smelling and marveling。 There was homegrown rice； and barrels full of shining red beans to cook it with； and long links of smoky Cajun sausage to throw in for flavor。 There was a fish market to the side where you could buy fresh crabs and crawdads and catfish； bright blue Gulf shrimp as long as your hand； even alligator if you liked。
And in front of every stand were the vendors hawking their wares； old men who had e in laden pickup trucks before dawn； their faces seamed leather； black or tan； Cajuns； Cubans； occasional Asians。 The Market； Zach thought； was probably one of the most culturally and racially diverse spots in the city。 Good karma for a place where； not two hundred years ago； slaves had done the morning shopping。
Every vendor had the finest； the freshest； the cheapest goods in all the Market； they all proclaimed so； each more loudly than the next； until the clamorous praise for fruits and vegetables rose to the roof and spiraled out between the stone columns。 They would sell it to you by the piece； or the pound； or the whole damn lot if you fancied。
But Zach fancied other things。 He walked through； looking but not stopping； until he reached the fringes of the flea market that took up the rear part of the building。 Here the wares tended more toward the tacky or the weird； tables full of shell magnets and ceramic crawfish salt shakers alternating with stands that sold leather jewelry； boot knives； essential oils and bundles of incense and suspicious…looking cassette knockoffs of whatever CDs the vendor had recently bought。
Several of the people running the weirder stands nodded to him。 There was Garrett； a nervous kid with bleached…blond hair and great tragic angel…eyes； who painted pictures way too scary for the Jackson Square portrait crowd； he had a table full of crucifix pendants and rhinestone cat's…eye sunglasses； and was doing a brisk business。 There was Serena； purple…haired patchouli…daubed priestess as calm as her name； nodding happily before her altar of bootleg Cure and Nirvana； serene until some unsuspecting light…fingered customer happened along and mistook her for an easy mark。 Then she whipped into ultraviolent motion； straight…arming the hapless thief with one hand； retrieving her merchandise with the other。 There was spooky Larese with her black Cleopatra eyeliner and tattered velvet dress； who did Tarot readings on the square when she wasn't selling her homemade voodoo dolls in the Market。 Her readings were not lucrative； she told her customers so many accurate bad things about themselves that they almost always demanded their money back； and she always gave it back… but with a date scrawled across it in indelible Magic Marker； a day and year sometimes far in the future； sometimes ominously near。
Zach scanned the stands and tables。 The sign changed locations every day； but someone always had it。 Finally he spotted it taped to a table of hats manned by a lean young man with skin the color of cafe noir and a mass of dreadlocks that seemed to burst like snakes out of the top of his skull； twisting halfway down his back； some of the strands interwoven with threads of purple； red； yellow； and green…the colors of Rasta and Mardi Gras。 This gentleman went by the mellifluous name of Dougal St。 Clair。 The sign taped to the edge of his table； neatly printed and discreet； read HELP us IN THE FIGHT AGAINST DRUGS！ ANY DONATION APPRECIATED。
〃Zachary！ I t'ink you need a hat； mon！〃 Dougal's face split into a grin sunny and stoned as his native Jamaica as he waved Zach over。 His voice was deep and jovial； with an accent like dark； sweet syrup。 He plucked a broad…brimmed black hat from the jumble on the table。 An Amish hat； circled with a handsome band of black leather and silver cockleshells。 To his credit； Dougal did not plop it rudely onto Zach's head； just held it out until Zach had to take it。 Zach held the hat in his hands but did not try it on。 Some of these guys could sell you anything。
〃Actually；〃 he said； 〃I wanted to make a small donation to the cause。〃
〃Ya mon。 No problem。〃 Dougal didn't exactly stick out his hand； just eased it to the edge of the table where it would be available in case anyone wanted to slip anything into it。 Zach scissored two twenties out of his pocket and palmed them over。 Dougal's dark eyes flickered； clocking the amount even as he made the money disappear。 He reached under his table and came out with a thick pamphlet； which he handed over to Zach： The Dangers of Marijuana； ever so imaginative a title； the propaganda zombies were really knocking themselves out with creativity these days。 Zach tucked the pamphlet into his pocket。
Dougal unscrewed the top of a thermos and sloshed a generous amount of steaming black coffee into the plastic cup。 The odor touched Zach's nostrils； rich with chicory。 Dougal saw him squirming and offered the cup。 〃Finish it off； mon。 Fresh this morning from Cafe du Monde。〃
Zach's hands itched to grasp the cup。 He knew how warm and forting it would feel between his palms； knew how the smooth slow…roasted flavor would roll over his tongue。 Unfortunately； he also knew how the subsequent effects would feel； his heart slamming like a caged thing against the inner meatwall of his chest； his brain drying out like a sponge； his eyeballs seeming to jitter and buzz in their sockets。 〃I can't drink coffee anymore；〃 he admitted。 〃I used to love it； but now it just gives me the shakes。〃
Dougal's heavy eyebrows drew together in genuine consternation。 〃But we got de second…best joe hi de world right here！ Jus' have a slug； it'll do you right。〃
〃I can't even drink decaf；〃 Zach said sadly。 〃My imagination's too good。〃
〃You're twenty？〃
〃Nineteen。〃
〃An' you quit drinkin' coffee…〃
〃When I was sixteen。〃
Dougal shook his head。 The frayed and festooned ends of dreads swayed gently around his face。 〃I t'ink you need to relax。 If I couldn't drink New Orleans coffee； I guess I'd be makin' even more donations to de cause than you do。〃
〃So what's the best joe？〃
〃Jamaican Blue Mountain； mon。 Fry up some salt fish'n'ackee every morning； have two…three cups of Blue Mountain； you lose dem dark circles unda your eyes。〃
Yeah； thought Zach； and die of a heart attack before I hit twenty…five。
They shot the shit for a few more minutes。 （〃Party tonight；〃 Dougal informed him； 〃buncha folks gonna dial de trip phone at Louie's；〃 which translated to 〃Anywhere from three to twenty people are going to drop acid in St。 Louis Cemetery tonight。〃） As he made his farewells and turned to go； Dougal stopped him。 〃You want de hat？ Half price…no problem。〃
Zach had forgotten he was still holding the black Amish hat。 He started to toss it back on the table； then stopped。 He didn't have a hat； and this one would keep the sun off nicely。 He put it on； a perfect fit。 Dougal nodded。 〃Very fine。 Make you look like a preacher man gone bad。〃 That sunny grin again； and Zach laughed too。 These guys could sell you anything。
On his way back； Zach stopped at a produce stand and bought a few handfuls of thin； twisted； lethally hot red and green peppers。 Once in a while the Market would get some of the orange and yellow scotch bonnets； or habaneros； that grew on bushes in Dougal's home country。 They were said to be the hottest pepper in the world…fifty times the heat of the jalapeno…and they had a sweet； fruity flavor Zach loved。 But the Louisiana peppers would do for now。 He would snack on them later； while swigging milk and speeding down the highways of hackdom。
He supposed his strange body chemistry had its rewards。 He missed coffee like a dear lost lover； but he knew no one else who could hack on acid； thrive for days on pot and Bloody Marys made of equal parts vodka； tomato juice； and Tabasco； or munch ounces of near…pure capsicum without even a scorched tongue or a burning belly to show for it。
He walked back down Madison； checked his mail…two catalogs； one from Loompanics Unlimited； which sold books about how to obtain fake IDs and disable tanks and other useful things； and one from Mo Hotta Mo Betta； which carried every fiery sauce； spread； spice； and seasoning known to humankind。 These he filed on the bed for leisurely perusal later； along with his sharp new hat。 His fingers were itchy； ready to pound some keys。
First he took out the antidrug pamphlet and removed the bag of pot taped between its pages。 Tight green bud； packed nearly flat； laced with delicate little red hairs that spelled P…O…T…E…N…C…Y。 Zach stuck his nose in the bag and breathed deep。 The smell alone was intoxicating； herbal and piney。 Anything that smelled that good just had to be illegal。
He crumbled some onto a stray sheet of paper； removed a couple of seeds and set them aside to throw in a field later； packed the weed into his black onyx pipe and lit up。 The sweet smoke curled down into his lungs； sent green tendrils into his bloodstream； uncoiled the knots in his brain。
Aaaahhh。
Time to work。
He flipped the box on； stuck the phone in the modem's cradle； and dialed an obscure local pirate bulletin board system known as Mutanet。 The BBS was an information exchange for all sorts of hackers； phone phreaks； and assorted puter weirdos。 Zach had discovered its existence by writing a program that dialed every phone number in the area code and kept a list of the ones answered by modems。 A little time spent discovering which ones led to bulletin boards…and what other ones