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'
No
,
’
she
said
,
her
right
hand
coming
up
to
form
the
jive
for
silence
.
'
That
kind
of
kink
’
s
too
subtle
to
show
up
on
a
scan
.
’
Then
her
fingers
moved
again
:
wait
.
'
And
you
don
’
t
care
that
much
anyway
.
I
saw
you
stroking
that
Sendai
;
man
,
it
was
pornographic
.
’
She
laughed
.
'
So
what
’
s
he
got
on
you
?
How
’
s
he
got
the
working
girl
kinked
?
’
'
Professional
pride
,
baby
,
that
’
s
all
.
’
And
again
the
sign
for
silence
.
'
We
’
re
gonna
get
some
breakfast
,
okay
?
Eggs
,
real
bacon
.
Probably
kill
you
,
you
been
eating
that
rebuilt
Chiba
krill
for
so
long
.
Yeah
,
come
on
,
we
’
ll
tube
in
to
Manhattan
and
get
us
a
real
breakfast
.
’
Lifeless
neon
spelled
out
METRO
HOLOGRAFIX
in
dusty
capitals
of
glass
tubing
.
Case
picked
at
a
shred
of
bacon
that
had
lodged
between
his
front
teeth
.
He
’
d
given
up
asking
her
where
they
were
going
and
why
;
jabs
in
the
ribs
and
the
sign
for
silence
were
all
he
’
d
gotten
in
reply
.
She
talked
about
the
season
’
s
fashions
,
about
sports
,
about
a
political
scandal
in
California
he
’
d
never
heard
of
.
He
looked
around
the
deserted
dead
end
street
.
A
sheet
of
newsprint
went
cartwheeling
past
the
intersection
.
Freak
winds
in
the
East
side
;
something
to
do
with
convection
,
and
an
overlap
in
the
domes
.
Case
peered
through
the
window
at
the
dead
sign
.
Her
Sprawl
wasn
’
t
his
Sprawl
,
he
decided
.
She
’
d
led
him
through
a
dozen
bars
and
clubs
he
’
d
never
seen
before
,
taking
care
of
business
,
usually
with
no
more
than
a
nod
.
Maintaining
connections
.
Something
was
moving
in
the
shadows
behind
METRO
HOLOGRAFIX
.
The
door
was
a
sheet
of
corrugated
roofing
.
In
front
of
it
,
Molly
’
s
hands
flowed
through
an
intricate
sequence
of
jive
that
he
couldn
’
t
follow
.
He
caught
the
sign
for
cash
,
a
thumb
brushing
the
tip
of
the
forefinger
.
The
door
swung
inward
and
she
led
him
into
the
smell
of
dust
.
They
stood
in
a
clearing
,
dense
tangles
of
junk
rising
on
either
side
to
walls
lined
with
shelves
of
crumbling
paperbacks
.
The
junk
looked
like
something
that
had
grown
there
,
a
fungus
of
twisted
metal
and
plastic
.
He
could
pick
out
individual
objects
,
but
then
they
seemed
to
blur
back
into
the
mass
:
the
guts
of
a
television
so
old
it
was
studded
with
the
glass
stumps
of
vacuum
tubes
,
a
crumpled
dish
antenna
,
a
brown
fiber
canister
stuffed
with
corroded
lengths
of
alloy
tubing
.
An
enormous
pile
of
old
magazines
had
cascaded
into
the
open
area
,
flesh
of
lost
summers
staring
blindly
up
as
he
followed
her
back
through
a
narrow
canyon
of
impacted
scrap
.
He
heard
the
door
close
behind
them
.
He
didn
’
t
look
back
.
The
tunnel
ended
with
an
ancient
Army
blanket
tacked
across
a
doorway
.
White
light
flooded
out
as
Molly
ducked
past
it
.
