Zero History

Milgrim’s, Hollis saw, was blank, or rather, dimly Turneresque, faintest pink behind
steel gray, the greenish hue gone now. But Fiona’s was very busy. Figures climbing into
the black car.
“Go,” said Garreth to the car on the screen, with a little chivying gesture. “Please go.”
The car drove out of frame.
“I’m going to have to ask you all to step outside for a moment,” Garreth said.
“Why?” asked Heidi’s disembodied head.
“Because I need to do something very dirty,” he said, producing a phone like the one
he’d used to take the American agent’s call, “and because I don’t want him”—with a nod
in Chombo’s direction—“weeping in the background. Gives the wrong impression.”
Hollis knelt beside Chombo. “Bobby? Hollis Henry. We met in Los Angeles. Do you
remember?”
Chombo flinched, his eyes screwed shut.
She sang the opening line of “Hard to Be One,” probably for the first time in a decade.
Then sang it again, getting it right, or in any case closer.
He fell silent, shuddered, opened his eyes. “Do you happen to have anything like a
fucking cigarette?” he asked Hollis.
“I’m sorry,” she said “I—”
“I do,” said Heidi. “Outside.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Hollis.
“You can have the pack,” said Heidi, spreading the black fly with her white, blacknailed
hands.
Chombo was already on his feet, tugging his thin knit coat around him. He glared at
Hollis, then stepped gingerly through the zip-toothed vertical gap.
She followed him.