ElevenBy the time they converged on Sixth Street, it was well into the a.m. The music, focused by hard walls and deep enclosures, shot laserlike onto the streets. When they opened the door to Maggie Mae’s and dissolved in sound, they searched farther for a safe haven. The trio walked a block or two past the massage parlors, bearded cowboys, studs and leather, tongue rattles and nose rings. “If it protrudes, I’ll pierce it,” the sign flashed. T. J., again in her biker duds, urged Slava to yield to an earring; he declined, pushing on through the throngs of fourth-generation hippies and automutilators. He stumbled against the eight-hundred-pound gorilla, accoutered in red hat and tie, looked up to see the birdman proffering his echnicolor assortment of parrots, macaws and cockatoos. Behind hi
