Zero History

And two more black-suited minders. The buyer, she thought at first, was a twelve-yearold
boy, costumed like a child in some archaic comic strip: tight, silky-looking yellow
shorts to midthigh, a red-and-green-striped long-sleeved jersey, a yellow beanie, yellow
boots like oversized baby shoes. He looked sour, petulant. And then she saw the hint of
five-o’clock shadow, the jowls. He was talking with a slender young woman in jeans and
a white shirt.
“Designer,” George said, after another eager swallow. “Harajuku. Fabulous collection.”
“Of Chanel?”
“Everything, apparently. I’m guessing it’s gone well for Mere.”
“How can you tell?”
“He’s still alive.”
The dress forms, she saw, were bare and gray.
Now the designer turned, flanked by the two remaining suits, and walked toward them.
They watched him pass.
“Are the people who buy Chanel all like that?” she asked.
“Never sold any before. Time you met Mere.”
He led her past the orange bubble-furniture.
Meredith Overton was stroking the horizontal screen of an iPhone, pinching up virtual
bits of information. Ash-blond, wide gray eyes. She looked up at them. “It’s in the bank,
in Melbourne. Direct transfer.”
“Did well, I take it?” George was smiling broadly.
“Very.”
“Congratulations,” said Hollis.
“Hollis Henry,” said George.
“Meredith Overton,” taking Hollis’s hand. “Mere. Pleased to meet you.” Hollis guessed
that her jeans were Hounds, slender and too long, worn rucked rather than rolled, and a
man’s rumpled white oxford shirt, though it fit too well to really be a man’s.
“They didn’t want the purses,” Meredith said. “Just the couture. But I’ve backup buyers
for those, dealers here at the fair.” She pocketed her phone.
Hollis, out of the corner of her eyes, saw Milgrim pass them. He carried a small camera
at his side, and seemed to be looking at nothing in particular. She ignored him. “Thank
you for being willing to see me,” she said to Meredith. “I suppose you know what it’s
about.”
“Bloody Clammy,” said Meredith, but not uncheerfully. “You’re after Hounds, aren’t
you?”
“Not so much the product as its maker,” Hollis said, watching Meredith’s expression.
“You wouldn’t be the first.” Meredith smiled. “But there isn’t much I can tell you.”
“Would you like a coffee?” Offering Meredith her own cup. “I haven’t touched it.”
“No, thank you.”
“Hollis has been extremely helpful,” George said, “about Inchmale.”