William Gibson - Zero history

“What would one of those constitute, for me, in your opinion?” she asked, taking a seat.

“Having someone to have one with, to begin with,” said Inchmale, putting down the teapot. “But you know I thought he was a good chap before.”

“That was what you said about Phil Spector.”

“Allowance for age,” said Inchmale, “misfortune. Genius. Lemon?” He proffered a wedge of cut lemon in an ornate silver squeezer.

“No lemon. What are ‘curly stays’?”

“Corsetry.”

“I just heard a Catalan car thief use the phrase.”

“Did he speak English? Perhaps he was trying to describe a permanent wave.”

“No. Part of a bicycle.”

“My money’s on corsetry. Do you know that Heidi’s stuck a man with a Rhenish dart?”

“Rhenium,” corrected Heidi.

“Rhennish is the hock, yes, and I might well ask for some, shortly. But you,” he said to Hollis, “you appear to have signed on to a firm in transition.”

“And on whose recommendation?”

“Am I prescient? Have you known me to be prescient?” He tried his tea. Returned his cup to the saucer. Added a second lump. “Angelina tells me that the London PR community are behaving like dogs before an earthquake, and somehow everyone knows, without knowing how, that it’s about Bigend.”

“There’s something going on in Blue Ant,” Hollis said carefully, “but I couldn’t tell you exactly what. I mean, I don’t know exactly what. But Hubertus doesn’t seem to be taking it that seriously.”

“Whatever that was in the City last night, he doesn’t take that that seriously?”

“I don’t think that’s the same thing, exactly. But I can’t talk about it.”

“Of course not. That oath you swore, when you joined the agency. The ritual with Geronimo’s skull. But the tonality Angelina’s picking up isn’t that he’s in trouble, or that Blue Ant is trouble. It’s that he’s about to become exponentially bigger . PR people know these things.”

“Bigger?”

“Whole orders of magnitude. Things are shifting, in anticipation. Things are getting ready to jump on the Bigend boat.”

“Things?”

“The ones that go bump, darling. Like tectonic plates, colliding, in this city of ancient night.” He sighed. Tried his tea again. Smiled.

“How’s with the Bollards?”

His smile vanished. “I’m thinking of taking them to Tucson.”

“Whew,” said Heidi, “ lateral fucking move.”

“I’m entirely serious,” said Inchmale, and sipped his tea.

“We know,” said Hollis. “Have you told them?”

“I’ve told George. He took it remarkably well. The novelty of working with exceptional intelligence. Clammy, of course, is pissy.”

“Then change his name,” said Heidi, squeezing a lemon wedge above her tea with the filigreed instrument Inchmale had used before.

“What happened after you left with Milgrim last night?” Hollis asked her.

“They followed us. Probably picked up by the other car, the one that faked us into the alley. Figured out which way we were heading, got ahead of us, dropped the guy with the bandaged head, and another one. They waited for us, got behind us, followed us. Clueless. I stopped and bought some clothes, pretended we were changing our look.”

“There was something open?”

“ Street clothes. For their benefit. Then we headed for the subway. When I saw that they didn’t intend for us to get on the subway…” She shrugged.

“Heidi-”

“In the head ,” said Heidi, tapping the roots of her bangs with a forefinger, in an inadvertent little salute. “It’s bone . His head was probably sore already…”

“Milgrim’s in trouble for that. They’re blaming him, apparently.”

“Your boyfriend’s hired Ajay. What’s that about?”

“Milgrim. It’s complicated.”

“It’s got Ajay over the moon. Gave notice at his bouncing job.”

“Bouncing?”

“Security at some pervy club.” She looked around at the evening crowd. “Now he’s gone all Secret Squirrel on me. So have you.”

“Come to Tucson with us,” said Inchmale to Hollis, suddenly appearing, in his way, from behind what she thought of as his exterior asshole. “Get some sun. Mexican food. You can help in the studio. George likes you. Clammy, amazingly, doesn’t hate you. I don’t like the weather around Bigend now. It’s all on the label. You can have associate producer credit. Let Bigend reach whatever critical mass he’s headed for. Be elsewhere. You can bring your boyfriend, of course.”

“I can’t,” said Hollis, reaching across the hassock and the tray with the Bunnykins service, to give his bony knee a squeeze, “but thanks.”

“Why not?”

“Garreth’s trying to straighten out the trouble with Milgrim for Bigend. They have an agreement, and it involves me. I’m with Garreth now. It’ll be okay.”

“As a middle-aged human of reasonably sound faculties,” said Inchmale, “I must inform you that it may well not be ‘okay.’ ”

“I know that, Reg.”

Inchmale sighed. “Come and stay with us in Hampstead.”

“You’re going to Tucson.”

“I’m the decider,” said Inchmale. “Haven’t decided when to go yet. And there’s the business of convincing Clammy and the others.”

“Is Meredith around?”

“Yes,” said Inchmale, as if not entirely pleased by the fact. “She distracts George, and is entirely concerned with her own agenda.”

“I’d hate to run into anyone like that ,” said Heidi, looking at Inchmale. “I don’t think I could handle it.”

Hollis’s iPhone rang, in the left pocket of her Hounds jacket. “Hello?”

“Are you in the bar?” Garreth asked.

“Yes. What are ‘curly stays’?”

“What?”

“ ‘Curly stays.’ Pep said.”

“Forks. Front and rear. On a Hetchins frame, they’re recurved.”

“Okay.”

“Can you go out front for me and watch for a van? It says ‘Slow Foods’ on the side.”

“ ‘Slow Foods’?”

“Yes. Just have a look at it for me.”

“For what?”

“If you think it looks right.”

“What’s right?”

“If it’s reasonable-looking. Whether or not you’d notice it, remember it.”

“I think I might remember what it says.”

“I don’t mind that, actually,” said Garreth. “It’s the plain white ones people imagine are watching them.”

The toilet in Bigend’s cube was like the coach toilet on a plane, but nicer: Scandinavian stainless, tiny round corner sink to match, bead-blasted faucet-handles. The plumbing under the sink reminded Milgrim of aquarium tubing.

He was brushing his teeth, after shaving. Fiona was with Benny, supervising the mounting of something on her bike. Periodically, above the buzz of his toothbrush, he could hear, from the garage, the brief but enthusiastic whoop of what he assumed was a hydraulic driver of some kind.

Something was happening. He didn’t know what, and didn’t want to ask Fiona, else he destabilize whatever it was that had allowed her thigh and calf to find themselves across his thighs. And not be, he checked his memory again, immediately withdrawn, upon her waking. And she hadn’t volunteered anything, other than that Bigend had delegated something to someone named Wilson, whose orders she now followed. She seemed quietly excited, though, and not unhappy to be. Focused.

There weren’t enough towels in Bigend’s toilet, though what there were were Swiss, and white, and very nice, and had probably never been used before. He finished brushing, rinsed, washed toothpaste from his mouth with cold water, and dried his face. The hydraulic driver whooped three times in rapid succession, as though recognizing one of its kind across a clearing.