Zero History

“Not unlike rare stamps, apparently, except that you can wear them. A segment of his
clientele appreciates Gabriel Hounds, though they’re a minority among what we take to be
the brand’s demographic. We’re guessing active global brand-awareness, meaning people
who’ll go to very considerable trouble to find it, tops out at no more than a few
thousand.”
“Where did the dealer in Amsterdam get his?”
“He claimed to have bought it as part of a lot of vintage new old stock, from a picker,
without having known what it was. Said he’d assumed they were otaku-grade Japanese
reproductions of vintage, and that he could probably resell them easily enough.”
“A picker?”
“Someone who looks for things to sell to dealers. He said that the picker was German,
and a stranger. A cash transaction. Claimed not to recall a name.”
“It can’t be that big a secret,” Hollis said. “I’ve found two people since breakfast who
knew at least as much about it as I’ve told you.”
“And they are?” Bigend leaned forward.
“The Japanese woman at a very pricey specialist shop not far from Blue Ant.”
“Ah,” he said, his disappointment obvious. “And?”
“A young man, who bought a pair of jeans in Melbourne.”
“Really,” said Bigend, brightening. “And did he tell you who he bought them from?”
Hollis picked up a slice of the glassine ham, rolled it, dipped it in olive oil. “No. But I
think he will.”