Zero History

72. SMITHFIELD
Milgrim made his way back from Benny’s shower wearing a ragged, piebald terry robe,
vertically striped in what must originally have been rust and a very lively green, and his
Tanky & Tojo brogues, unlaced, over wet bare feet. Fiona followed, draped in the
MontBell sleeping bag, in a pair of oversized rubber flip-flops. Milgrim hoped she
wouldn’t get athlete’s foot. He hoped neither of them would. The concrete floor of
Benny’s shower had felt scarily slimy, the water scalding hot until it suddenly ran cold.
Not a stall, just a length of slanted concrete floor against a wall. And had in fact been
dark, which he’d actually been glad of. He didn’t like thinking, now, how he must look
from behind, in the bright beam of her tiny flashlight, in this robe and the brogues. There
hadn’t been any towels.
They picked their way through the minefield of foam cups and engine parts on the
floor of Benny’s workshop.
Back in the cube, Milgrim took his clothes into the micro-washroom and closed the
door. Banged his elbow toweling off with the robe, which smelled faintly of gasoline.
“Here’s the robe,” he said. “It’s not that wet.” He opened the door partially and held it out.
She took it.
He used one of Bigend’s Swiss towels for a touch-up, then struggled into his clothes.
The softly scrabbling Saharan ghost of Jimi Hendrix filled the cube and the washroom.
“Hullo?” he heard her say. “Yes. Just a moment.” Her pale bare arm passed her iPhone in.
“For you.”
He took it. “Hello?”
“The tasking,” said Winnie.
Milgrim, who hadn’t been expecting this at all, could think of nothing to say.
“I haven’t heard from you,” she said.
“I did meet him.”
“And?”
“I don’t think he’s working for one of those companies you described. I think he’s
Hollis’s boyfriend.”
“Why would he hire Hollis’s boyfriend?”
“He’s that way,” said Milgrim, more confidently. “He prefers to hire amateurs. It’s
something he talks about.” It still amazed Milgrim, slightly, to be telling anyone the truth,
about anything. “He doesn’t like”—and Milgrim strained his memory—“strategic
business intelligence types.”
“Hiring an amateur, in his present situation, could be suicidal. Are you sure?”
“How could I be sure? Garreth doesn’t feel like someone from a company, to me. Not
like an amateur either. Knows what he’s doing, but I don’t know what that is. But I think