Zero History

“That’s seriously long-distance.”
“It is.” He frowned. “Inchmale,” he said, “while I have you.”
“Yes?’
“He’s certainly hard on Clammy, mixing the bed tracks. I’ve stayed well out of it.”
“Yes?”
“Can you give me any advice? Anything that might make working with him easier?”
“You’ll be going to Arizona soon,” she said. “Tucson. There’s a very small studio there,
owner’s Inchmale’s favorite engineer. They’ll do some initially very alarming things to
your London bed tracks. Let them. Then you’ll basically rerecord the entire album. But
very quickly, almost painlessly, and I imagine you’ll be extremely pleased with the result.
I’ve already told Clammy that, but I’m not sure it got through.”
“He didn’t do that on the first album he produced for us, and we were a lot closer to
Tucson then.”
“You weren’t there yet. In terms of his process. You are now. Or almost, I’d say.”
“Thanks,” he said, “that’s good to know.”
“Call me, if you’re getting exasperated. You will. Clammy will, in any case. But you’ve
jumped with him, and if you let him, he’ll land on his feet, and the album with him. He’s
not very diplomatic at the best of times, and he gets less so, the further into the process
you go with him. Any idea when Mere will be back?”
He consulted a very large wristwatch, the color of a child’s toy fire engine. “Going on
an hour now,” he said, “but I’ve really no idea. Wish she’d get back myself. I’m dying for
coffee.”
“Café in the courtyard?”
“Indeed. Large black?”
“You got it,” she said.
“You can take the lift,” he said, pointing.
“Thanks.”
It was German, with a brushed stainless interior, the philosophical opposite of
Cabinet’s, but not much larger. She pushed 1, but when it passed 0, she realized that
she’d pushed -1.
The door opened on a dim, blue-lit void, and utter silence.
She stepped out.
Ancient stone groins, receding toward the street, illuminated by concealed disco
floodlights, dialed down low. A small impromptu corral of what she took to be spare
Salon du Vintage gear, on the bare stone floor, dwarfed by the arches. Folding chrome
sample racks, a few dress forms looking Dali-esque in this light.
All quite wonderfully unexpected.
And then, at the far end of the blue arches, descending stairs, a figure. As described by
Milgrim. The short-brimmed cap, short black jacket, zipped up tight.
He saw her.