Free Zero History by William Gibson Page B

and sorting the things on the bed. There was a large freezer-bag full of small, sharp-looking tools, fine-tipped brushes, tiny tins of paint, bits of white plastic. As if Heidi had adopted a twelve-year-old boy. “What’s this?”
    “Therapy,” Heidi croaked, then made a sound like a vulture about to bring up something too putrid to digest, but Hollis had heard it before. She thought she remembered who Heidi had learned it from, a supernaturally pale German keyboardist with prematurely aged tattoos, their outlines blurred like felt pen on toilet paper. She put the bag and its mysterious contents on the dresser and picked up the phone, French, early twentieth century, but covered entirely in garishly reptilian Moroccan beading, like the business end of a hookah in the Grand Bazaar. “Pot of coffee, black, two cups,” she said to the room service voice, “rack of dry toast, large orange juice. Thanks.” She removed an ancient Ramones T-shirt from what was then revealed as a foot-tall white china reflexology model, an ear, complexly mapped in red. She put the T-shirt back, arranging it so that the band’s logo was optimally displayed.
    “What about you?” asked Heidi, from beneath her laundry.
    “What about me?”
    “Men,” said Heidi.
    “None,” said Hollis.
    “What about the performance artist. Jumped off skyscrapers wearing that flying-squirrel suit. He was okay. Hot, too. Darrell?”
    “Garreth,” said Hollis, probably for the first time in over a year, not wanting to.
    “Is that why you’re here? He was English.”
    “No,” said Hollis. “I mean yes, he was, but that’s not why I’m here.”
    “You met him in Canada. Bigend introduce you? I didn’t meet him till later.”
    “No,” Hollis said, dreading Heidi’s skill at this other, more painful unpacking. “They never met.”
    “You don’t do jocks,” said Heidi.
    “He was different,” said Hollis.
    “They all are,” said Heidi.
    “Was fuckstick?”
    “No,” said Heidi. “Not that way. That was me, trying to be different. He was as undifferent as you can get, but he was somebody else’s undifferent. I just had this feeling that I could step into somebody else’s shoes. Put all the tour stuff in boxes. Shop at malls. Drive a car I’d never have thought of driving. Get a fucking break, you know? Time-out.”
    “You didn’t seem very happy with it, when I saw you in L.A.”
    “He turned out to be a closet creative. I married a tax lawyer. He started trying to produce. Indie stuff. He was starting to mention directing.”
    “And he’s in jail now?”
    “No bond. We had the FBI in the office. Wearing those jackets with ‘FBI’ on the back. They looked really good. Great look for a small production. But he couldn’t be on the set.”
    “But you’re okay, legally?”
    “I had Inchmale’s lawyer, in New York. I won’t even lose the share of his legitimate property I’m entitled to as the ex. Should they leave him any, which is unlikely. But seriously, fuck it.”
    Breakfast arrived, Hollis taking the tray from the Italian girl at the door, with a wink. Tip her later.
    Heidi batted her way out of the laundry pile. Sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on an enormous hockey jersey which Hollis, born without the gene for following team sports, recalled as having belonged to someone quite famous. Heidi definitely did jocks, though only if they were sufficiently crazy. Drumming for the Curfew, she’d had a spectacularly bad string of boxers, however good it might have been for publicity. She’d put one of them out cold with a single punch, at a pre-Oscars party. Very frequently now, Hollis was grateful for having had a pre-YouTube career.
    “I never got what he did, Garret,” said Heidi, pouring herself half a cup of coffee, then topping it up with what remained in the whiskey decanter.
    “Garreth. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
    Heidi shrugged, her shoulders almost lost within the jersey. “You know me. Get this