h. Spyder kicked at the garbage that had begun to accumulate on the site. In the trash, he found the fried remains of one of his -tattoo guns. He picked it up and weighed the thing in his hand. Dead metal. Worthless. Spyder stood up and let the tattoo gun fall back into the debris.
Jogging back to the Ducati, he gunned it to life and tore across Haight Street, up onto the sidewalk and through the caution tape into the shop, scattering trash and splinters of blackened wood. Revving the throttle, Spyder turned donuts in the debris, smoking his rear tire and scaring the winos enough to huddle together in the back. As a foot patrol cop came running into the burned shop, Spyder slammed back onto the street and away.
The light was on in Lulus Mission District apartment. Spyder rang her bell and, when there was no answer, yelled up at her window. When that didnt work, he climbed the fence into her backyard and went across a neighbors roof until, with a jump, he could reach the bottom of the fire escape. Spyder hauled himself up to the bottom landing and climbed the stairs to Lulus apartment on the fourth floor.
Through the half-open window, he could see Lulu in her old orange robe, passed out on the couch. Pushing open the window the rest of the way, Spyder stepped inside. There were little packets of foil on the coffee table, along with burnt spoons, medical tubing and a syringe with a white, crusted tip. Spyder shouted angrily at Lulu.
"Wake up, asshole. Move. Look at me. "
Lulu was limp, but she made a feeble attempt to push him away. Spyder knew that was a good sign. "Look at me, girl. Its Spyder. Open your eyes. " He stopped shaking her for a moment when he remembered that she didnt have eyes to open. It didnt matter, she w
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