He looked down at the black T-shirt he'd chosen, at the square holodecal of cyberspace on his chest. It was done so you seemed to be punching fast-forward through the matrix, grid lines blurring at the edges of the decal. "Yeah. It was too tacky."
"Right," Jackie said, taking in the tight black jeans, the heavy leather boots with spacesuit-style accordion folds at the ankles, the black leather garrison belt trimmed with twin lines of pyrarnidal chrome studs. "Well, I guess you look more like the Count. Come on, Count, I got a couch for you to sleep on, up in Jammer's place." He leered at her, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of the black Levis. "Alone," she added, "no fear." "I want some new clothes," Bobby said when they'd climbed the immobile escalator to the second floor. "You got any money?" she asked. "Shit," he said, his hands in the pockets of the baggy, pleated jeans. "I don't have any fucking money, but I want some clothes. You and Lucas and Beauvoir are keeping my ass on ice for something, aren't you? Well, I'm tired of this God-awful shirt Rhea palmed off on me, and these pants always feel like they're about to fall off my ass. And I'm here because Two-a-Day, who's a lowlife fuck, wanted to risk my butt so Lucas and Beauvoir could test their fucking software. So you can fucking well buy me some clothes, okay?" "Okay," she said, after a pause. "I'll tell you what." She pointed to where a Chinese girl in faded denim was furling the sheets of plastic that had fenced a dozen steel-pipe gar- ment racks hung with clothing. "You see Lin, there? She's a friend of mine. You pick out what you want, I'll straighten it out between Lucas and her." Half an hour later, he emerged from a blanket-draped fitting room and put on a pair of Indo-Javanese mirrored aviator glasses. He grinned at Jackie. "Real sharp," he said. "Oh, yeah." She did a thing with her hand, a fanning movement, as though something nearby were too hot to touch. "You didn't like that shirt Rhea loaned you?" He looked down at the black T-shirt he'd chosen, at the square holodecal of cyberspace on his chest. It was done so you seemed to be punching fast-forward through the matrix, grid lines blurring at the edges of the decal. "Yeah. It was too tacky."
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