because he had lucked into a crew run by one Miguel Pieraro, a man who had, in the Rhino’s opinion, probably shot dogs with more highly developed codes of honour than Morales.
The Rhino had no idea where Pieraro was now, of course, but he wished him and his family well. He knew they’d spent some time in the refugee camps outside Sydney when they’d got off Miss Julianne’s boat, and that they’d applied to move to America as part of President Kipper’s resettlement program. Roberto meanwhile was ensconced in his newly constructed Presidential Palace in Caracas.
The traffic snarl edged forward, gradually taking the two Hummers away as the Rhino rounded the corner into Perrett Street, a wide, sprawling boulevard that had been a boggy salt marsh five years ago. Or maybe the town dump. He’d heard that a couple of blocks of New Town lay over the city’s former garbage dump, rumoured to be the last resting place of a dozen or so Javanese gangsters who’d tried to take over the waterfront markets in the fearful confusion following the Disappearance. Probably bullshit. In his experience, frontier towns loved their own creation mythology so much, they tended to its growth like a pot-addled hippie with a bumper crop of hand-raised weed. There was no shortage of that here either, if a Rhino were so inclined. As it stood though, he’d never acquired a taste for the stuff, preferring his cigars. And those, sadly, were hard to come by these days, at least any of appreciable quality.
The smell of wood smoke in the air, mingled with the meat of the nearby barbecue pits drew him on. He was glad the rib joint was only a few steps away now. Further up Perrett, where the three official casinos had spun off a dense cluster of parasite businesses, such as the Korean and Thai brothels, the crowds were neutron-star dense. If the hookers didn’t flick your bic, or if you’d already had it flicked, you could try the slots, some blackjack or maybe poker at the unlicenced gaming houses. When you got hungry, you had your choice of corn-dogs, pretzels, yakimandu and gaegogi from the food carts. Street walkers and black-market dopers draped themselves around canvas stalls selling cheap Nike and Reebok knock-offs. The path through was nearly impassable to most, but merely a nuisance for a determined Rhino.
For now, only a dozen or so hungry fans were pressed up against Blue Smoke’s small serving window, including a few sailors trying to get a taste of a home that no longer existed. Later, when the dry-rubbed baby back pork and Texas-style beef ribs came out of the barbecue pit, the kerbside here would be gridlocked with his fellow countrymen, bidding up the price of everything by four or five hundred per cent. Including the cone full of buffalo wings he was about to buy with a fistful of local currency.
Much as it pained him, he accepted payment in anything except the newbie these days. He still kept a stash of ‘noobs’, though, in the hope that maybe someday they just might be worth something. If things ever got real tight, he could sell some to the speculators, who were forever trying to keep the street price down or praying for a rapid rise. But things weren’t that tight for the Rhino, not just yet.
He could only shake his head at the business smarts of the two smokehouse assholes who’d come up with the idea of auctioning off their wares during peak hour. A couple of guys from Houston, who’d already moved down under long before the Wave swept away their hometown, they’d run a successful barbecue joint in Sydney and expanded in a big way when the first American refugees poured into the camps there back in ‘03. Assholes didn’t even work the grill anymore. They’d franchised and retired about a year after coming up with the idea of swapping set menu prices for a bidding war during the busiest hour of service - just after they opened up the pits for lunch. The Rhino didn’t know whether he resented them for making their baby back pork ribs so prohibitively fucking expensive that he could never afford to eat them, or because he hadn’t thought of some similarly cunning idea to enrich himself out of the end of the world.
All he’d managed was to get his ass nearly shot off in New York on a wild fucking goose hunt for some asshole who didn’t even exist, except as a lure for some other asshole who wanted him dead simply because he’d helped Miss Jules get out of Acapulco alive …
The cast-iron doors of the smoker swung open and an employee reached in with tongs to pull the ribs out. He held a batch of pork ribs up for all to see while the initial price went up on a chalkboard. Hands full of currency were in the air as the shouting began. Casting a sideways glance at the sailors, the Rhino saw their crestfallen faces as the price soon soared out of their reach.
He’d moved to the head of the line - or rather, the front of the crush - while he’d been contemplating his sorry lot. Well, at least he was still drawing breath. He hadn’t Disappeared, leaving behind a puddle of meaty gruel and stained clothes. He hadn’t gone down screaming in the great die-off that followed. He hadn’t been turned into radioactive glass in the Mid East.
Or been stomped to death in a food riot. Or gone into a mass grave in China.
He hadn’t been gunned down during the Paris intifada either. Even pirates and great storms in the Southern Ocean hadn’t come close to seeing off Rhino A. Ross.
He was still here. And by God, he was going to enjoy his goddamn buffalo wings. If he could just get his hands on some.
‘The tangled fucking webs we weave …’ Rhino muttered, approaching a second window, devoted to poultry. A stocky Korean leaned out to take the Rhino’s order.
‘A dozen hot wings?’
‘Fifteen dollars,’ the Korean said in impeccable English.
‘Ten?’ Rhino asked, hopefully.
‘No, no, American. Fifteen or nothing.’
‘Fuck, what happened to haggling! How about twelve?’ He knew he had some change in his pockets.
The Korean grinned. ‘Thirteen fifty. Final price.’
‘Fucking rapists,’ the Rhino grumbled, holding out the greasy dollars and mining his pockets for change. He found a couple of local two-dollar coins. They looked like tiny gold dubloons. ‘
The shopkeeper blinked. ’
*
The Korean had been generous, adding a couple of extra wings to the Rhino’s order. He was still licking the thick, tangy sauce from his fingers when he arrived back at his boat, at the Gonzales Road Marina. Like so much of the city, the marina was a recent addition, a temporary floating dock, not much more sophisticated than the jerry- rigged Mulberry harbours they’d used after the D-Day landings. Except that this one had lasted three years rather than just a few weeks, in spite of Darwin’s spectacular tropical storms. It had grown, unregulated and unplanned, over the mouth of a wide inlet that ran north from Frances Bay towards an older, more established canal development.
An almost incoherent system of locks supposedly allowed boat owners further up the river to negotiate passage out into Darwin Harbour, but the arrangements were so arbitrary that most of those with the money had long ago berthed their vessels elsewhere, while those without had simply given up. Rhino had never seen the locks open, and a couple of supposedly mobile stalls that had set up shop on one of them, selling dry goods and small marine supplies to the boats tied up at Gonzales Road, had taken on a very permanent appearance. As he squinted into the glare, he noticed for the first time that a dredge had pulled up on the marsh flats across Frances Bay, on the edge of the small national park over there. Perhaps the mooted extension of the crowded marina across and into the park was going to happen after all.
The floating walkways undulated beneath his deck shoes as he stumbled home, the latter being a small cabin cruiser he’d liberated from the ghost town of Winchester Bay, a couple of hours south of Seattle. He and Jules had salvaged the boat upon hitting the West Coast after a two month cross-country hell drive. Piloted it across the Pacific with no intention of ever making the return voyage. Not after New York.
He nodded to a couple of his neighbours, other Americans mostly, although there was also a small community of displaced Mexicans at Gonzales Road, refugees resourceful enough to have bought, fought or simply sailed their way out of the post-Wave collapse and into the safe haven of Sydney. His immediate neighbours, the Gueros, had owned a sizeable fishing company in Mexico before the Disappearance, and had come north after escaping to Sydney, hoping to break into the industry here. The fact that they were his neighbours spoke poorly of their success.
He was still groggy from the beer, although the buffalo wings had helped steady his spinning head. The pontoons bobbed around enough, however, to make him careful of his step. Although he knew he’d pay for it with a headache later, the Rhino figured on getting some shut-eye before chasing down Hughie for his pay. If they’d scored well at the fish markets, he might even have enough to buy into an honest poker game he knew of back in New
