"Conroy sent a runner in with the software package that
would allow Turner to pilot the jet that would carry Mitchell
to Hosaka's Mexico City compound. The runner was a wild-
eyed, sun-blackened man Lynch called Hariy, a rope-muscled
apparition who came cycling in from the direction of Tucson
on a sand-scoured bike with balding lug tires and bone-yellow
rawhide laced around its handlebars. Lynch led Harry across
the parking lot. Harry was singing to himself, a strange sound
in the enforced quiet of the site, and his song, if you could
call it that, was like someone randomly tuning a broken radio
up and down midnight miles of dial, bringing in gospel shouts
and snatches of twenty years of international pop. Harry had
his bike slung across one burnt, bird-thin shoulder.
"Harry's got something for you from Tucson," Lynch
said.
"You two know each other?" Turner asked, looking at
Lynch "Maybe have a friend in common?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Lynch asked.
Turner held his stare. "You know his name."
"He told me his fucking name, Turner."
"Name's Harry," the burnt man said. He tossed the bicy-
cle down on a clump of brush. He smiled vacantly, exposing
badly spaced, eroded teeth. His bare chest was filmed with
sweat and dust, and hung with loops of fine steel chain,
rawhide, bits of animal horn and fur, brass cartridge casings,
copper coins worn smooth and faceless with use, and a small
pouch made of soft brown leather."
-W. Gibson, Count Zero.