Zero History by William Gibson Page A

pleasure.
    “You like dogs?” She was sure that Bigend had been paying whatever lowlife had been wielding that herf gun, though he’d never come right out and tell you that, unless he had some specific reason to.
    “I met a very nice dog in Basel,” Milgrim said, “at …” A micro-expression of anxiety. “At a friend’s.”
    “Your friend’s dog?”
    “Yes,” said Milgrim, nodding once, tightly, before taking a sip of his Coke. “You could have used a spark coil generator instead,” he said to Bigend, blinking, “made from a VCR tuner. They’re smaller.”
    “Who told you that?” asked Bigend, suddenly differently focused.
    “A … roommate?” Milgrim extended an index finger, to touch his stack of tiny, elongated white china tapas dishes, as if needing to assure himself that they were there. “He worried about things like that. Out loud. They made him angry.” He looked apologetically at Hollis.
    “I see,” said Bigend, although Hollis certainly didn’t.
    Now Milgrim took a pharmacist’s folded white bubble-pack from an inside jacket pocket, flattened it, and frowned with concentration. All of the pills, Hollis saw, were white as well, white capsules, though of differing sizes. He carefully pushed three of them through the foil backing, put them in his mouth, and washed them down with a swig of Coke.
    “You must be exhausted, Milgrim,” said Pamela, seated beside Hollis. “You’re on east coast time.”
    “Not too bad,” Milgrim said, putting the bubble-pack away. There was a curious lack of definition to his features, Hollis thought, something adolescent, though she guessed he was in his thirties. He struck her as unused to inhabiting his own face, somehow. As amazed to find himself who he was as to find himself here in Frith Street, eating oysters and calamari and dry shaved ham.
    “Aldous will take you back to the hotel,” Pamela said. Aldous, Hollis guessed, was one of the two black men who’d walked over with them from Blue Ant, carrying long, furled umbrellas with beautifully lacquered cane handles. They were waiting outside now, a few feet apart, silently, keeping an eye on Bigend through the window.
    “Where is it?” Milgrim asked.
    “Covent Garden,” said Pamela.
    “I like that one,” he said. He folded his napkin, put it beside the white china tower. He looked at Hollis. “Nice meeting you.” He nodded, first to Pamela, then to Bigend. “Thanks for dinner.” Then he pushed back his chair, bent to pick up his bag, stood up, shouldering the bag, and walked out of the restaurant.
    “Where did you find him?” Hollis asked, watching Milgrim, through the window, speak to the one she supposed was Aldous.
    “In Vancouver,” Bigend said, “a few weeks after you were there.”
    “What does he do?”
    “Translation,” Bigend said, “simultaneous and written. Russian. Brilliant with idioms.”
    “Is he … well?” She didn’t know how else to put it.
    “Convalescing,” said Bigend.
    “Recovering,” said Pamela. “He translates for you?”
    “Yes. Though we’re beginning to see that he may actually be more useful in other areas.”
    “Other areas?”
    “Good eye for detail,” said Bigend. “We have him looking at clothing.”
    “Doesn’t look like a fashion plate.”
    “That’s an advantage, actually,” said Bigend.
    “Did he notice your suit?”
    “He didn’t say,” said Bigend, glancing down at an International Klein Blue lapel of Early Carnaby proportions. He looked up, pointedly, at her Hounds jacket. “Have you learned anything?” He rolled a piece of the dry, translucent Spanish ham, waiting for her answer. His hand fed the ham to his mouth carefully, as if afraid of being bitten. He chewed.
    “It’s what the Japanese call a secret brand,” Hollis said. “Only more so. This may or may not have been made in Japan. No regular retail outlets, no catalog, no web presence aside from a few cryptic mentions on fashion blogs. And eBay. Chinese