Zero History

15. THE DROP
Fitzroy,” Clammy said, on her iPhone. She was staring up at the round bottom of
Number Four’s birdcage, having left a freshly coiffed Heidi in Selfridges, preparing to
test for residual viability in several of fuckstick’s credit cards.
“Fitzroy?”
“This neighborhood,” Clammy said, “Melbourne. ’Round Brunswick Street. Rose
Street, off Brunswick. Rose Street’s got this artists’ market. Mere took me. Meredith. Ol’
George knew her.”
That would be “Olduvai” George, the Bollards’ brilliant, virtually forehead-free
keyboardist, whom Inchmale said had more brains in his little finger than the rest of them
put together. An even No. 2 crop that looked like a very tight fur hat. Like one of
Clammy’s black cashmere beanies, except he couldn’t take it off. Massive jaw and
cheekbones, permanent glossy black stubble, huge deep-set intelligent eyes.
“First thing I saw was her Hounds, girls’ Hounds,” Clammy continued.
“Looked good?”
“Hit it in a minute.”
Meaning, she thought, that he hadn’t, but would’ve. In theory at least. “And you had
Hounds in common?”
“Wanted to,” Clammy said, “worst way. I’d seen that pillock Burton in a pair. Fat ass.”
The transition from “arse” not yet quite bridged. Burton, whose fat ass she thought she’d
heard cited before, did something in a band Clammy detested. The intensity of loathing
one professional musician could manifest for another had been one of her least favorite
things about the business. She’d bypassed it, she supposed, by generally avoiding the
company of professional musicians. They weren’t all like that, by any means, she knew,
but better safe than sorry.
“So you admired her jeans?”
“Made it known,” Clammy said, “that I knew what they were.”
“And?”
“She asked me if I’d like a pair. Told me she knew of a drop.”
“Drop?”
“A shipment.”
“Where from?”
“Didn’t want to ask,” he said, gravely. “Wanted me Hounds. Next day, she said. Said
she’d take me.”
It was growing dark outside, taking Number Four with it. The bottom of the birdcage
hung above her, the shadow of a mothership, discoidal, like solidified dusk. Waiting to
radiate some energy, carve her with crop circles perhaps. She became momentarily aware