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ooky 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