been rationing the last of that mouthwash, in Myrtle Beach. He’d ask someone at Blue Ant. They had people who seemed able to find anything, who had doing that as a job description.
He put out the bathroom lights, and stood beside the bed, undressing. The room had slightly too much furniture, including a dressmaker’s dummy that had been re-covered with the same brown and tan material as the armchair. He considered putting his pants in the trouser press, but decided against it. He’d shop tomorrow. A chain called Hackett. Like an upscale Banana Republic but with pretensions he knew he didn’t understand. He was turning down the bed when the Neo rang, emulating the mechanical bell on an old telephone. That would be Sleight.
“Leave the phone in your room tomorrow,” Sleight said. “Turned on, on the charger.” He sounded annoyed.
“How are you, Oliver?”
“The company that makes these things has gone out of business,” Sleight said. “So we need to do some reprogramming tomorrow.” He hung up.
“Good night,” Milgrim said, looking at the Neo in his hand. He put it on the bedside table, climbed into bed in his underwear, and pulled the covers to his chin. He turned out the light. Lay there running his tongue over the backs of his teeth. The room was slightly too warm, and he was aware, somehow, of the dressmaker’s dummy.
And listened to, or at any rate sensed, the background frequency that was London. A different white noise.
9. FUCKSTICK
W hen she opened Cabinet’s front door, pinstriped Robert was not there to help her with it.
Due, she saw immediately, to the jackbooted advent of Heidi Hyde, once the Curfew’s drummer, in whose assorted luggage Robert was now draped, clearly terrified, back in the lift-grotto, next to the vitrine housing Inchmale’s magic ferret. Heidi, beside him, was fully as tall and possibly as broad at the shoulders. Unmistakably hers, that direly magnificent raptorial profile, and just as unmistakably furious.
“Was she expected?” Hollis quietly asked whichever tortoise-framed boy was on the desk.
“No,” he said, just as quietly, passing her the key to her room. “Mr. Inchmale phoned, minutes ago, to alert us.” Eyes wide behind the brown frames. He had something of the affect, beneath his hotelman’s game-face, of a tornado survivor.
“It’ll be okay,” Hollis assured him.
“What’s wrong with this fucking thing?” Heidi demanded, loudly.
“It gets confused,” Hollis said, walking up to them, with a nod and reassuring smile for Robert.
“Miss Henry.” Robert looked pale.
“You mustn’t press it more than once,” Hollis said to Heidi. “Takes it longer to make up its mind.”
“Fuck,” said Heidi, from some bottomless pit of frustration, causing Robert to wince. Her hair was dyed goth black, signaling the warpath, and Hollis guessed she’d done it herself.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Hollis said.
“Neither did I,” said Heidi, grimly. Then: “It’s fuckstick.”
At which Hollis understood that Heidi’s unlikely sub-Hollywood marriage was over. Heidi’s exes lost their names, at termination, to be known henceforth only by this blanket designation.
“Sorry to hear that,” Hollis said.
“Running a pyramid scheme,” Heidi said as the lift arrived. “What the fuck is
this
?”
“The elevator.” Hollis opened the articulated gate, gesturing Heidi in.
“Please, go ahead,” Robert said. “I’ll bring your bags.”
“Get in the fucking elevator,” commanded Heidi. “Get. In.” She backed him into the lift with sheer enraged presence. Hollis nipped in after him, raising the brass-hinged mahogany bench against the back wall for more room.
Heidi, up close, smelled of sweat, airport rage, and musty leather. She was wearing a jacket that Hollis remembered from their touring days. Once black, its seams were worn the color of dirty parchment.
Robert managed to push a button. They started up, the lift complaining
He put out the bathroom lights, and stood beside the bed, undressing. The room had slightly too much furniture, including a dressmaker’s dummy that had been re-covered with the same brown and tan material as the armchair. He considered putting his pants in the trouser press, but decided against it. He’d shop tomorrow. A chain called Hackett. Like an upscale Banana Republic but with pretensions he knew he didn’t understand. He was turning down the bed when the Neo rang, emulating the mechanical bell on an old telephone. That would be Sleight.
“Leave the phone in your room tomorrow,” Sleight said. “Turned on, on the charger.” He sounded annoyed.
“How are you, Oliver?”
“The company that makes these things has gone out of business,” Sleight said. “So we need to do some reprogramming tomorrow.” He hung up.
“Good night,” Milgrim said, looking at the Neo in his hand. He put it on the bedside table, climbed into bed in his underwear, and pulled the covers to his chin. He turned out the light. Lay there running his tongue over the backs of his teeth. The room was slightly too warm, and he was aware, somehow, of the dressmaker’s dummy.
And listened to, or at any rate sensed, the background frequency that was London. A different white noise.
9. FUCKSTICK
W hen she opened Cabinet’s front door, pinstriped Robert was not there to help her with it.
Due, she saw immediately, to the jackbooted advent of Heidi Hyde, once the Curfew’s drummer, in whose assorted luggage Robert was now draped, clearly terrified, back in the lift-grotto, next to the vitrine housing Inchmale’s magic ferret. Heidi, beside him, was fully as tall and possibly as broad at the shoulders. Unmistakably hers, that direly magnificent raptorial profile, and just as unmistakably furious.
“Was she expected?” Hollis quietly asked whichever tortoise-framed boy was on the desk.
“No,” he said, just as quietly, passing her the key to her room. “Mr. Inchmale phoned, minutes ago, to alert us.” Eyes wide behind the brown frames. He had something of the affect, beneath his hotelman’s game-face, of a tornado survivor.
“It’ll be okay,” Hollis assured him.
“What’s wrong with this fucking thing?” Heidi demanded, loudly.
“It gets confused,” Hollis said, walking up to them, with a nod and reassuring smile for Robert.
“Miss Henry.” Robert looked pale.
“You mustn’t press it more than once,” Hollis said to Heidi. “Takes it longer to make up its mind.”
“Fuck,” said Heidi, from some bottomless pit of frustration, causing Robert to wince. Her hair was dyed goth black, signaling the warpath, and Hollis guessed she’d done it herself.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Hollis said.
“Neither did I,” said Heidi, grimly. Then: “It’s fuckstick.”
At which Hollis understood that Heidi’s unlikely sub-Hollywood marriage was over. Heidi’s exes lost their names, at termination, to be known henceforth only by this blanket designation.
“Sorry to hear that,” Hollis said.
“Running a pyramid scheme,” Heidi said as the lift arrived. “What the fuck is
this
?”
“The elevator.” Hollis opened the articulated gate, gesturing Heidi in.
“Please, go ahead,” Robert said. “I’ll bring your bags.”
“Get in the fucking elevator,” commanded Heidi. “Get. In.” She backed him into the lift with sheer enraged presence. Hollis nipped in after him, raising the brass-hinged mahogany bench against the back wall for more room.
Heidi, up close, smelled of sweat, airport rage, and musty leather. She was wearing a jacket that Hollis remembered from their touring days. Once black, its seams were worn the color of dirty parchment.
Robert managed to push a button. They started up, the lift complaining
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