Zero History

—“and I think it might have some sort of tracking bug in it.”
“Really?” said Ajay.
“Really,” said Hollis, passing it to him.
“Why would you think that?” He held it to his ear, shook it, smiled.
“Long story.”
“The only way to tell would be to cut it open …” He’d padded to the window, moving
like a cat, and was peering closely at the base. “But someone already has,” he said,
looking up at her. “Been sliced off here, glued back on, then sanded out.”
“Ajay’s handy,” said Heidi.
“I’m not interrupting you, am I?” Hollis asked.
Ajay grinned.
“We were waiting for you,” Heidi said. “If you didn’t turn up, we were going to the
gym. Ajay’s the one who told me about your boyfriend.”
“An absolutely blinding ’chutist,” said Ajay, solemnly, lowering the figurine. “Seen him
twice, ’round the pubs. Regret to say I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Do you know where he is?” Hollis asked. “How he is? I’ve just learned about his
accident. I’m terribly worried.”
“Neither, really, sorry,” said Ajay. “Though if there had been further bad news, we’d
have heard something. He’s very well-thought-of, your man. Has his fan base.”
“Do you know any way that I might find out?”
“He’s private. Not at all clear what he does, aside from the odd jump. Do you want me
to open this?” Holding up the ant. “Heidi’s got the perfect set of tools for it. Building her
Breast Chaser.” He grinned.
“Your what?” Hollis asked Heidi.
“It’s therapy,” Heidi said, crossly. “My psychiatrist taught me.”
“What is?”
“Plastic models,” said Heidi. She sat up, put her feet on the floor, toenails freshly and
glossily blackened.
“Your psychiatrist taught you to build models?”
“He’s Japanese,” Heidi said. “You can’t make a living as a psychiatrist in Japan. They
don’t really believe in it. So he came to L.A. Office near fuckstick’s, Century City.”
Ajay had crossed to the intricately inlaid vanity, on which Hollis now saw small tools,
plastic parts still attached to their molding-trees, miniature cans of spray paint, narrowtipped
brushes. All of this spread over a thick layering of newspaper. “This’ll do it,” he
said, seating himself on the low stool, and raising a thin rod of aluminum, tipped with a
small isosceles blade. Hollis peered over his shoulder. Saw a brightly colored box
standing against the mirror, printed with a painting of a very militant-looking robot
warrior in a sort of Aztec headdress, the words BREAST CHASER in sans serif caps. The rest of the
writing was in Japanese.
“Why do they call it that?” Hollis asked.