Zero History

“A roll-in. Vinegar and brown paper. Quick and dirty repairs. No appointment
necessary. For couriers.”
Milgrim raised the helmet, sniffed at its interior, put it on the motorcycle where he’d
sat. She handed him his bag.
After various rippings of Velcro, the zipper down the front of her jacket made its own
loud noise. “You hadn’t ridden a motorcycle before?”
“A scooter, once.”
“There’s a center-of-gravity concept you’re missing. You need passenger lessons.”
“Sorry,” said Milgrim, and he was.
“Not a problem.” Her hair was a pale brown. He hadn’t been able to tell in Paris, in the
darkened hotel lobby. The helmet had made it stick up in back. He wanted to smooth it
down.
The man in the once-orange boiler suit came to the entrance. “Himself is on the bridge,”
he said to Fiona. He sounded Irish, but looked to Milgrim to be of some other, darker
ethnicity, his face battered and immobile. He took a cigarette from behind his ear and lit
it, using a small transparent lighter. Put the lighter in a side pocket and absently wiped his
hands on the stained orange fabric. “You could wait in the room,” he said, and smiled at
Fiona, “for all that’s good in it.” His two front teeth were framed in gold, and protruded at
an unusual angle, like the roof of a tiny porch. He drew on his cigarette.
“Is there tea, Benny?”
“I’ll send the boy,” the man said.
“Carburetors aren’t right,” she said, looking at her bike.
“I told you not to go with the Kawasaki, didn’t I?” said Benny, pinching the cigarette
for a final fierce drag, then letting it drop, to crush it with a battered, grease-soaked toe,
through which dull steel showed. “Carbs wear out. Dear to replace. Carbs on the
GT550’ve been very good to me.”
“Have a look at it for me?”
Benny smirked. “Not like I’ve real couriers needing repairs. Family men, working for a
guarantee.”
“Or home in bed, radio on, skiving,” said Fiona, taking off her jacket. She looked
suddenly smaller, in a gray turtleneck jersey. “More your usual description.”
“I’ll have Saad look into it,” Benny said, turning and walking out.
“Is Benny Irish?”
“Dublin,” she said, “father’s Tunisian.”
“And you work for Hubertus?”
“As do you,” she said, slinging the heavy jacket over her shoulder. “This way.”
He followed her, avoiding oil-soaked rags and white foam cups, some half filled with
what he assumed had once been tea, past a sort of giant red toolbox on wheels, to a
battered door. She fished a small ring of keys from her trousers, which looked as heavy,
and nearly as well armored, as her jacket.