Zero History

founder and CEO.” “CEO,” he realized, having said this, had started to sound somehow
sleazy.
She nodded, making eye contact again. “You don’t seem to have left much of a trail,
Mr. Milgrim. Columbia? Slavic languages? Translation? Some government work?”
“Yes.”
“Zero history, as far as ChoicePoint is concerned. Means you haven’t even had a credit
card for ten years. Means no address history. If I had to guess, Mr. Milgrim, I’d say
you’ve had a problem with drugs.”
“Well,” said Milgrim, “yes.”
“You don’t look to me like you’ve got a problem with drugs now,” she said.
“I don’t?”
“No. You look like you’ve got a set of reflexes left over from having had a problem
with drugs. And like you may have a problem with the company you’re keeping. But
that’s what I’m here to talk with you about.”
Milgrim took a sip of whatever was in his glass. Some corrosively bitter Italian lemon
soda. His eyes teared.
“Why did you go to Myrtle Beach, Mr. Milgrim? Did you know the man you met with
there?”
“His pants.”
“His pants?”
“I made tracings,” Milgrim said. “I photographed them. He was paid for that.”
“Do you know how much?”
“No,” said Milgrim. “Thousands.” He made a thumb-and-forefinger gesture
unconsciously indicating a certain thickness of hundred-dollar bills. “Say ten, tops?”
“And were they Department of Defense property, these pants?” she asked, looking at
him very directly.
“I hope not,” Milgrim said, out of a deep and sudden misery.
She took a longer swallow of her beer. Continued to look at him that way. Someone
chuckled in one of the honor bar’s adjoining rooms, from behind drawn French doors of
that same red mahogany. The chuckle seemed to match the decor.
“I can tell you they weren’t,” she said.
Milgrim swallowed, painfully hard. “They weren’t?”
“But they’d like to be. That could be a problem. Tell me about the man who let you see
them.”
“He had a mullet,” Milgrim said, “and he was wearing Blackie Collins Toters.”
“He was wearing—?”
“Toters,” Milgrim said. “I Googled them. They have Cordura Plus pocket linings, for
guns and things. And outside pockets for knives or flashlights.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling briefly, “sure.”
“Sleight said he was special … something?”