Zero History

“What were the other people like, waiting?”
“Focused,” he said. “No chatting. And they all seemed to be alone. Trying to look
casual, like.”
“Male? Female?”
“More male.”
“Age?”
“Mixed.”
She wondered what that meant, to Clammy.
“And they were waiting for … ?”
“There was a table, in under this old beach umbrella. We were in the sun, getting hotter.
He’s sitting under there behind the table.”
“He?”
“White. Maybe thirty. American.”
She guessed Clammy might be unable to estimate age accurately, over about twenty or
so. “How do you know?”
“Spoke with him, didn’t I, when I got up there.”
“What about?”
“Shrinkage,” Clammy said. “Sizing. Hounds are sized to shrink to the label size. Just
under, in the waist, then that stretches a little. True sizes, no vanity sizing.”
“Anything else?”
“He’d only sell me the one pair. Had three in my size. Showed him the readies. Said he
couldn’t. One to a customer. Kept things moving. ’Nother twenty, thirty people behind
us.”
“What was he like?”
“Reddish hair, freckles. A white shirt I wondered about.”
“Why?”
“If it might be Hounds. Simple, like, but then not so simple. Like Hounds. He had his
cash folded in one hand. No coins. Cash only.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred Australian.”
“Was he alone?”
“Two Aussie girls. Friends of Mere’s. It was actually their pitch he was using. Sell
Mere’s belts, T’s they print, jewelry.”
“Names?”
“Nah. Mere’d know.”
“She’s in Melbourne?”
“Nah. Paris.”
She let the darkness of the mothership’s hull fill her field of vision. “Paris?”
“What I said.”
“Do you know how to reach her?”