“Fuck it,” said Heidi, “I’m walking. Where’s Hollis?”
“At Cabinet. I’m taking Milgrim.”
“You do that,” said Heidi, taking the black helmet and placing it on Milgrim’s head. The hairspray was still there. She gave the helmet a sharp rap with her knuckles, in parting. Milgrim threw his leg over the seat behind Fiona and put his arms around her, conscious of girl within the armor. Blinking at the newness of that. Turned the helmet to see Heidi, dimly, through the miserable visor, marching away.
›››
“Faggot above a load,” said Bigend, seated behind a very basic white Ikea desk. It had a broken corner and was stacked with books of fabric samples.
“Excuse me?” Milgrim was perched on a ridiculous violet stool, deeply and cheaply cushioned.
“Archaic expression,” said Bigend. “Faggots, properly speaking, being pieces of firewood. When one had a faggot above a load, one was about to drop one. It meant that something was excessive, too busy.”
“Foley,” said Milgrim. “In the car in front of us.”
“I gathered as much.”
“Where’s Aldous?”
“Being questioned by various species of police. He’s good at that.”
“Will he be arrested?”
“Unlikely. But when Fiona debriefed you, in Paris, you told her that you’d gone to Galeries Lafayette. That Foley had followed you there, as you’d guessed he would, and that you’d slipped the Neo, having determined that Sleight was using it to allow Foley to track you, into, I believe she said, a pram.”
“Not a pram,” said Milgrim, “exactly. More modern.”
“Was there a reason for choosing that one particular pram?”
“The woman, the mother, was Russian. I’d been eavesdropping.”
“What sort of a woman did you take her to be?”
“The wife of an oligarch, would-be oligarch…”
“Or gangster?”
Milgrim nodded.
“Accompanied by at least one bodyguard, I would imagine?”
Milgrim nodded.
Bigend stared at him. “Naughty.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t as though I don’t want you to become more proactive,” said Bigend, “but now that I understand what you did, I see that you’ve been irresponsible. Impulsive.”
“You’re impulsive,” said Milgrim, surprising himself.
“I’m supposed to be impulsive. You’re supposed to be relatively circumspect.” He frowned. “Or, rather, not that you’re supposed to be, particularly, but that I expect it of you, on the basis of experience. Why did you do it?”
“I was tired of Sleight. I’ve never liked him very much.”
“One doesn’t,” agreed Bigend.
“And I’d never really thought about the idea of his being able to track me with the Neo before. I’d taken that for granted, assumed it was something you wanted him to do, but then you were expressing distrust for him, suspicion…” Milgrim shrugged. “I felt impatient, angry.”
Bigend studied him, the weird cathode blue of his suit seeming to float in Milgrim’s retina at some special depth. “I think I understand,” he said. “You’re changing. They told me to expect that. I’ll factor it in, in future.” He took an iPhone from an inner pocket and squinted at its screen, replaced it. “The woman in Seven Dials. The federal agent. I need to know more about that. All about it.”
Milgrim cleared his throat, something he tried never to do in situations like this. His bag was at his feet, the laptop in it, and now he resisted the urge to look at it. “Winnie,” said Milgrim, “Tung Whitaker.”
“Why are you wearing the Sonny logo?” interrupted Bigend.
“Heidi bought it from a cleaner.”
“It’s a Chinese brand, if one can call it a brand. Logo, rather. Used for the African market.”
“I don’t think he was African. Slavic.”
“Jun,” called Bigend, “come here.”
A small man, Japanese, with round gold glasses, entered from the darkened shop. Milgrim hadn’t seen him when Fiona had ushered him in, only the other driver, the urine-sample man. “Yes?”
“Milgrim needs some clothes. Put an outfit together.”
“Would you mind standing, please?” asked Jun. He wore a type of pointedly British hunting cap, Milgrim thought by Kangol. Milgrim associated it with the Bronx of another era. He had a small, very neat mustache.
Milgrim stood. Jun walked around him. “A thirty-two waist,” he said. “A thirty-two inseam?”
“Thirty-three.”
He looked at Milgrim’s shoes. “Eight?”
“Nine,” said Milgrim.
“British eight,” said Jun, and went back to the darkened front of the shop, where Milgrim knew the urine-sample driver was sitting, with his umbrella.
“She’s not interested in you,” Milgrim said. “She thought you might be Gracie’s business partner. She had no way of knowing what she was watching, in Myrtle Beach. So she followed me back here. And I think…”
“Yes?”
“I think she wanted to see London.”
Bigend raised an eyebrow.
“But the police, authorities, wouldn’t really help her much with you. She said you were connected. With them.”
“Really?”
“But they asked her about your truck.”
“Asked her what?”
“They were curious about it.”
“But what did she want from you?”
“She’d thought that by learning more about you, she’d learn more about Gracie, about Foley. But as soon as she learned that you were just a competitor, that you were interested in U.S. military contracts yourself, she stopped being interested in you.”
“You told her that?”
“And she stopped being interested in you,” repeated Milgrim.
There was a silence. “I see what you mean,” said Bigend.
“I wasn’t volunteering information. I was responding to specific questions. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Jun returned, his arms full of clothing, which he put down on the desk, pushing the fabric samples aside. There was a pair of very new, very bright brown shoes. “Stand, please.” Milgrim stood. “Remove jacket.” Milgrim unzipped the Sonny and took it off. Jun helped him on with something made of fragrant tweed, immediately removed it, tried another, equally fragrant, walked around, buttoned the jacket, nodded.
“But why didn’t you tell me this at the time?” asked Bigend.
“Remove trousers, please,” said Jun, “and shirt.”
“I was too anxious,” said Milgrim. “I have an anxiety disorder.” He sat down on the horrible stool and began to remove his shoes. Taking them off, he stood and began removing his pants, grateful to have something to do. “I didn’t make her follow me. You sent me to Myrtle Beach.”
“You may have an anxiety disorder,” Bigend said, “but you’re definitely changing.”
“Remove shirt, please,” said Jun.
Milgrim did. He stood there in black socks and underpants from Galeries Lafayette, with a peculiar awareness of something just having shifted, though he wasn’t clear what. Jun had been busy unbuttoning and unfolding a tattersall shirt, which he now helped Milgrim into. It had a spread collar, Milgrim saw, and as he was buttoning the front he discovered that the barrel cuffs extended nearly to his elbows, with a great many pearl buttons.
“Have you been to Florence?” asked Bigend as Milgrim was fastening those very peculiar cuffs.
“Florence?” Jun had just handed him a pair of whipcord trousers.
“Tuscany,” said Bigend, “is lovely. Better this time of year. The rain. More subtle light.”
“You’re sending me to Italy?”
“Along with Hollis. I want you both out of here. Someone is angry with you. I’ll generate deep Blue Ant traffic, to the effect that you’re both in Los Angeles. Perhaps that will convince Oliver.”
Milgrim heard that scream, outside of Bank Station, took a breath, but found that no words came. He zipped up his new pants. Which were oddly narrow in the ankles, and cuffed.