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； and hot sauce heaped in a giant glass bowl and called fea…dup…bop。 Zach kept hearing it as fetus of Bob； but that hadn't lessened his appetite。 Once Eddy's mom saw he loved the turbo…hot sauce； she kept plying him with increasingly fiery tidbits and condiments until he was munching whole the deadly little red peppers she minced into her kimchee。
It was then； he guessed； that the Sungs had decided their daughter just might be able to marry an American。 Not that they had much to say about any of Eddy's actions … though they believed she was a cocktail waitress at the Pink Diamond； or pretended they did…and not that Eddy expected Zach to marry her。
He felt a twinge of unease that was as close to guilt as he ever got。 He knew perfectly well how different Eddy had wanted their friendship to be。 But it was impossible for him。 Loving someone was okay； and fucking someone wasn't bad either。 But if you did both with the same person； it gave them too much power over you； it let them plunge their shaping hands into your personality； gave them a share of your soul。
He had grown up watching his father change his mother from a sickly…scared but harmless creature into a sadistic bitch with twisted knives for fingers and a spitting； shrieking mouth。 A mouth full of broken teeth； to be sure…but all the pain she had taken from her husband she gave back to her son； a gift wrapped in cruel words； signed in blood。
And his parents had loved each other； in whatever mutually parasitic way they were capable of。 He had watched their heart…ripping fights and sodden reconciliations； heard their anguished lovemaking through the thin walls of many cheap apartments too often not to believe that somehow they were passionately in love； or had been once。
There had never been room for him。 Zach sometimes thought that if he had not been born； the two of them might have managed a kind of happiness together； Joe with his broken…backed dreams and his fierce intelligence tamped down by liquor； Evangeline with her bruises and black eyes and always…hungry loins。 If only his mother had managed to scrape up； pun most certainly intended； the cash for the abortion she often wished aloud that she had had。 If only his father's rubber hadn't broken…and how many times had Joe taunted him about that damn rubber？ The thing was practically a Bosch family heirloom。
In the too…silent darkness Zach punched at the buttons of the radio； twisted the tuning knob。 Frizzly static greeted him； then a spurt of jazz。 A ripple of piano and tympani； a trembling； exalting alto saxophone。 He disliked the Dixieland jazz he had heard all his life； as he did Cajun music and indeed anything with accordions or brass in it； anything that sounded like growing up in New Orleans。 Such music twisted barbs into his memory； ran too deeply into his blood。
But this wasn't New Orleans stuff。 Kansas City； maybe； it sounded less frenetically cheerful； exotic somehow； musing and dreaming。 He left it on。
After the Vietnamese enclave； the highway passed through an interminable stretch of beach cabins with cute names （Jimmy's Juke Joint； Li'l Bit O'Heaven； Moon Mansion replete with a big plywood ass shining in his headlights） and private driveways that went straight down to the dark water on either side。 This was the beginning of bayou country； and there was very little solid land。 Zach pondered the name of his own imaginary cabin…Hacker Hideaway？ Outlaw Asylum？ No： Bosch's Blues。 Check all Uzis and Secret Service badges at the door。
Gradually the cabins grew sparser and shabbier； some were bereft even of their names； or bore signs with the words and crude bright illustrations worn away。 Then they were gone； and the road was empty； straight； flanked by dark expanses of water and woods and shadow。 He crossed a bridge that arced high above the water； saw moonlight shimmering on the surface like pale jewels。
The radio station never faded out； though Zach thought he drove fifty miles or more； past bland green vistas and ugly stretches of consumerland； K…marts and QuikStops and fast…food charnelhouses shut down against the night。 In one of these towns a fried human ear had been found in a box of takeout chicken； like some cannibalistic remake of Blue Velvet by way of Colonel Sanders。 Zach remembered reading the story in some tabloid out of Baton Rouge and wishing he'd thought it up himself； wondering if it were true or whether there was another prankster out there somewhere； creating urban mythology in giant digital strokes。 The same song seemed to keep playing over and over； as if the DJ had set the CD on infinite replay and gone to sleep。 The sax wailed and sobbed。 The piano dreamed behind it。
At last he reached the Gulf Coast and began his meandering trek along it。 The little coastal towns shut down after ten； there was only the long deserted stretch of white beach broken by marinas and piers； and beyond it the black expanse of the Gulf of Mexico。
His parents had brought him here once； when he was ten or so。 Zach remembered smelling the salt air as they drove down； imagining the blissful caresses of the sand and water。 In reality the sand had had an unpleasantly powdery feel； like ordinary playground dirt； there had been a scum of pollution at the water's edge； a pale brown froth that ebbed and flowed with the waves。 It smelled faintly of dead fish； engine sludge； chemicals gone bad。
But out past the beach the water was the color of new denim； and felt so good on his parched； abused skin。 He had ducked his head beneath the surface； seal…like； and hadn't stopped swimming out to sea until his father's harsh hands grabbed him by the hair and wedged the back of his swim trunks up the crack of his scrawny ass。
The car swerved slightly to the right。 Zach caught it at once； but the memories were starting to hypnotize him； to pull him toward the water。
A town marker flashed by。 PASS CHRISTIAN； pronounced not like 〃Christian；〃 Zach knew； but like a girl's name： CHRISTIE…ANN。 He was already in Mississippi； and hadn't even noticed。 Fine old Southern mansions loomed sepulchrally along the left side of the road； shrouded in ghostly curtains of Spanish moss and the giant knurled oaks that had hung on through a hundred hurricane seasons or more。 The beach on the right was pure white； shining。
Zach hooked a left off the highway and headed for Pass Christian's downtown； such as it was。 A man was pissing against a wall outside the Sea Witch Tavern。 A dim； tempting blue light burned somewhere deep in the bar； like a siren luring travelers to a watery grave。 The other buildings were dark and still。
After driving several blocks； Zach came upon a lone convenience store called Bread Basket； its neon flickering fitfully； flooding its little patch of town with erratic dead white light。 There were no cars in the parking lot； but Zach saw a clerk nodding at the register； blond head drooping over the Slim Jims and Confederate lighter displays。
As he parked the car； the jazz tune finally ended。 He heard a guttural voice as of a DJ roused from long and peaceful slumber。 〃Uh。 Yeah。 That was； uh 。 。 。 'Laura' by Charlie Parker 。。。 a whole buncha times 。 。 。〃