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'
Miss
Linda
Lee
.
’
Case
shook
his
head
.
'
No
girl
?
Nothing
?
Only
biz
,
friend
artiste
?
Dedication
to
commerce
?
’
The
bartender
’
s
small
brown
eyes
were
nested
deep
in
wrinkled
flesh
.
'
I
think
I
liked
you
better
,
with
her
.
You
laughed
more
.
Now
,
some
night
,
you
get
maybe
too
artistic
;
you
wind
up
in
the
clinic
tanks
,
spare
parts
.
’
'
You
’
re
breaking
my
heart
,
Ratz
.
’
He
finished
his
beer
,
paid
and
left
,
high
narrow
shoulders
hunched
beneath
the
rainstained
khaki
nylon
of
his
windbreaker
.
Threading
his
way
through
the
Ninsei
crowds
,
he
could
smell
his
own
stale
sweat
.
Case
was
twenty
-
four
.
At
twenty
-
two
,
he
’
d
been
a
cowboy
,
a
rustler
,
one
of
the
best
in
the
Sprawl
.
He
’
d
been
trained
by
the
best
,
by
McCoy
Pauley
and
Bobby
Quine
,
legends
in
the
biz
.
He
’
d
operated
on
an
almost
permanent
adrenaline
high
,
a
byproduct
of
youth
and
proficiency
,
jacked
into
a
custom
cyberspace
deck
that
projected
his
disembodied
consciousness
into
the
consensual
hallucination
that
was
the
matrix
.
A
thief
,
he
’
d
worked
for
other
,
wealthier
thieves
,
employers
who
provided
the
exotic
software
required
to
penetrate
the
bright
walls
of
corporate
systems
,
opening
windows
into
rich
fields
of
data
.
He
’
d
made
the
classic
mistake
,
the
one
he
’
d
sworn
he
’
d
never
make
.
He
stole
from
his
employers
.
He
kept
something
for
himself
and
tried
to
move
it
through
a
fence
in
Amsterdam
.
He
still
wasn
’
t
sure
how
he
’
d
been
discovered
,
not
that
it
mattered
now
.
He
’
d
expected
to
die
,
then
,
but
they
only
smiled
.
Of
course
he
was
welcome
,
they
told
him
,
welcome
to
the
money
.
And
he
was
going
to
need
it
.
Because
-
still
smiling
-
they
were
going
to
make
sure
he
never
worked
again
.
They
damaged
his
nervous
system
with
a
wartime
Russian
mycotoxin
.
Strapped
to
a
bed
in
a
Memphis
hotel
,
his
talent
burning
out
micron
by
micron
,
he
hallucinated
for
thirty
hours
.
The
damage
was
minute
,
subtle
,
and
utterly
effective
.
