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'
I
ran
into
one
of
your
pals
,
’
he
said
,
'
a
Modern
.
’
'
Yeah
?
Which
one
?
’
'
Lupus
Yonderboy
.
Had
a
message
.
’
He
passed
her
a
paper
napkin
with
W
I
N
T
E
R
M
U
T
E
printed
in
red
feltpen
in
his
neat
,
laborious
capitals
.
'
He
said
-
-
’
But
her
hand
came
up
in
the
jive
for
silence
.
'
Get
us
some
crab
,
’
she
said
.
After
lunch
in
Baltimore
,
Molly
dissecting
her
crab
with
alarming
ease
,
they
tubed
in
to
New
York
.
Case
had
learned
not
to
ask
questions
;
they
only
brought
the
sign
for
silence
.
Her
leg
seemed
to
be
bothering
her
,
and
she
seldom
spoke
.
A
thin
black
child
with
wooden
beads
and
antique
resistors
woven
tightly
into
her
hair
opened
the
Finn
’
s
door
and
led
them
along
the
tunnel
of
refuse
.
Case
felt
the
stuff
had
grown
somehow
during
their
absence
.
Or
else
it
seemed
that
it
was
changing
subtly
,
cooking
itself
down
under
the
pressure
of
time
,
silent
invisible
flakes
settling
to
form
a
mulch
,
a
crystalline
essence
of
discarded
technology
,
flowering
secretly
in
the
Sprawl
’
s
waste
places
.
Beyond
the
army
blanket
,
the
Finn
waited
at
the
white
table
.
Molly
began
to
sign
rapidly
,
produced
a
scrap
of
paper
,
wrote
something
on
it
,
and
passed
it
to
the
Finn
.
He
took
it
between
thumb
and
forefinger
,
holding
it
away
from
his
body
as
though
it
might
explode
.
He
made
a
sign
Case
didn
’
t
know
,
one
that
conveyed
a
mixture
of
impatience
and
glum
resignation
.
He
stood
up
,
brushing
crumbs
from
the
front
of
his
battered
tweed
jacket
.
A
glass
jar
of
pickled
herring
stood
on
the
table
beside
a
torn
plastic
package
of
flatbread
and
a
tin
ashtray
piled
with
the
butts
of
Partagas
.
'
Wait
,
’
the
Finn
said
,
and
left
the
room
.
Molly
took
his
place
,
extruded
the
blade
from
her
index
finger
,
and
speared
a
grayish
slab
of
herring
.
Case
wandered
aimlessly
around
the
room
,
fingering
the
scanning
gear
on
the
pylons
as
he
passed
.
