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A motorcycle roared outside the shop. Chow Mein looked up from the counter. The door burst open and Rasp marched up to the desk, a clinking cardboard box in her arms. Her flip-flops smacked against the floor like someone being slapped with a fish. She dropped the box on the counter with a loud clatter, then wiped her hands on her jeans.
“Hey,” she said. “Where’s Cola?”
“He’s in the back at the moment,” Chow Mein said, closing the record book. “What can I do for you?”
“He’s in the back?” she said. “Well, get him for a second. I need to sell something.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “What do you need?”
Rasp’s bangs fluttered as she sighed. She opened the box, revealing six bottles tucked in cardboard compartments. Chow Mein took out one of the bottles and held it like an antique wine dealer. The label read Better Living Distilled Beverage.
“Squirt and I got a couple of boxes,” she said. “We thought we’d drink one and sell the other to you. Six carbons.”
Chow Mein turned the bottle around in his hand. The glass was smooth and clear, with a finely printed label. The price above the bar code was four carbons.
“Where did you get these?” he said.
“A neutral,” Rasp said.
Chow Mein raised his eyebrows. “A neutral?”
“Yup. Driving through town. He had about six cases in his trunk.”
He gave her a wry look, then slid the bottle back into the box. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We don’t sell alcohol.”
Rasp stared at him. “What?” she said. “Cordelia’s been taking this stuff all day!”
“Then take it to Cordelia.”
“She said she’s not buying anymore.”
“Then take it down to the bar.”
“Same shit.”
“Then take it to the market.”
“That’s a week away!”
“Then I guess you’ll just have to drink it all yourselves, won’t you?”
Rasp glared at him. Her mouth worked furiously. Then she grabbed the box, the bottles clinking around inside. “Fine,” she spat. “Fine. I don’t want to sell to this trashy place anyway. Not when you’ve got fucking waveheads hanging around out front.”
Chow Mein looked up. “There are waveheads out front?” he said. He unlocked the cash register and pulled out the drawer. “All right. Stay here. I’ll give you a carbon for one of the bottles.”
Rasp stopped. Her expression wavered as she debated between storming out and accepting his money. Finally, she snatched the carbon and stuffed it in her pocket. “Fine,” she said. She handed him a bottle and followed him outside, blinking in the bright sunlight.
A lawn chair was propped up in front of the store with a sleeping man sprawled out in the seat. Dry, sun-bleached hair sprouted from his hair like straw. White blisters and peeling scabs marred his skin, which was rough and charred as beef jerky. Chow Mein’s insides shuddered with revulsion. He twisted open the bottle, then dumped the liquor onto the wavehead’s skull.
“Wait!” Rasp shrieked. “Stop! What are you doing?”
The wavehead shrieked and jumped out of the chair as if he’d been doused with acid. “What the fuck?” he shouted, scrabbling at the alcohol dripping down his face. “Oh God! What the fuck, man?”
“Get away from my store, David,” Chow Mein said.
“What the fuck is your problem?” he said. “Jesus! Ow! That fucking stings!”
The wavehead tore off his shirt and mopped his face with it. He kicked the chair closed, then grabbed it and dragged it off to the road. He slung his shirt over his shoulder and started down the highway, the metal legs of the chair scraping against the pavement. His feet were calloused and bare.
Rasp yanked the bottle out of Chow Mein’s hand. She peered inside, then sighed and tipped out the last few drops. “Yeah!” she said. “Great! Thanks for wasting the good city stuff!”
She hefted the box from the porch, the bottles rattling inside, then stormed off to a rusty green car parked in front of the sidewalk. Chow Mein shook his head and headed back inside. Cherri Cola had emerged from the back with a stack of magazines. He looked up from the magazine rack, where he was sorting the back issues.
“Hey,” he said. “Who was that?”
“Rasp,” Chow Mein said as he headed for the desk. “She was trying to sell a box of city alcohol.”
“Oh yeah?” Cherri said. “People have been bringing that in all day, Tom. Someone tried to sell me a bottle of aged wine. Twenty carbs in the city.”
“Stolen merchandise,” Chow Mein said.
“Yeah. That’s what I’m thinking. Probably another laid-off employee.”
The door opened and Cherri looked up. A girl with curly blonde hair walked in, a wicker picnic basket dangling from her arm. She looked uncertainly from Chow Mein at the desk to Cherri at the magazine rack. “Hi,” she said cautiously.
Cherri smiled and headed over. “Hey!” he said. “What did you bring us?”
The girl opened the basket. Three bottles of amber liquid were nestled inside. “Do you sell alcohol?” she said.
—
Stacks of newspapers rested on Chow Mein’s desk beside the radio. Cherri had scoured the town for issues of the Battery City Times, but found only the old headlines: Fish Shortage Comes to an End. 400 Citizens Greet Scarecrow Sprawl at Book Signing. BL/ind Medical Department Reports First Case of Radiation Poisoning in Three Years. The radio crackled in the silence, its knobs glinting in the watery yellow light.
“The report came out today,” Yoko said, her voice crackling with static. “Alcohol is banned in the city.”
Chow Mein was silent for a moment. “Well, this doesn’t come as a shock,” he said. “I knew they’d find a way to punish citizens for the riots.”
“Of course. Now the shopkeepers are selling their stock to the neutrals while they can still make a profit. Dracs are hitting warehouses and destroying entire shipments of liquor.”
“What about the black market?”
“They’re already buying it up. You might want to invest in this market, Chow Mein. I’ve got several cases of liquor that could be shipped to you when you’re ready.”
“I don’t sell alcohol,” he said.
“I know it was cheap when it was available, but it’s suddenly become a booming market. I’ve had investors call from all over the Zones. Perhaps you could help distribute it and take a shipment fee--”
“No,” he said. “I’m not doing that. I’m not a booze runner.”
“It’s not that simple anymore, Chow Mein,” she said. “If you want to survive in this market, you’ve got to ride the waves. And right now, the wave is–”
“No, Yoko,” he said. “For God’s sake, I’m not touching it. Go talk to Cordelia if you want to sell to the drunks out here.”
Yoko started to speak, but Chow Mein switched off the radio. He dropped the microphone on the desk. He sighed, then cracked his knuckles. Silence hung in the air. He thought of the last motel room, which had been cleared out after he sold the radio equipment. Could he store boxes of Battery City liquor? But when he held the bottle earlier, he had remembered the familiar taste, the pleasant numbness that dulled his brain.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Chow Mein recognized it as Cherri’s knocking. “Come in,” he said.
Cherri stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His hands were grimy as if he had been sorting dusty merchandise in the back rooms. He wiped his hands on a bandana, then sank into the chair in front of the desk.
“Hey,” he said. “I wanted to see if you figured anything out.”
Chow Mein cleared his throat. “Yes, I did, actually,” he said. “Liquor’s been banned in the city.”
Cherri’s mouth fell open. “What?” he said. He fell back in the chair. “Holy shit. You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” Chow Mein said. “The order came out today. Shopkeepers have been selling their stock to the neutrals before the Dracs can destroy it.”
“So that’s why we’ve been getting a flood of liquor today.”
“I imagine so,” Chow Mein said. “I’m sure the Zone distillers will be increasing their stock, now that it’s in high demand. Once this current surplus levels off, most of the attention will be directed at them and the black market.”
Cherri nodded. After a pause, he said “Are you okay with this, Tom?”
“Am I okay with this?” Chow Mein said. “Yes, I’m fine with it. They’ll go out tonight, drink up most of it in a depraved orgy of sex and alcohol, and by tomorrow morning the rest will be in the hands of the black market.”
Cherri smiled wryly. “Do you want me to put out a call?” he said. “I’ll tell people not to bring it to the shop.”
“Yes, put out a call,” Chow Mein said. “Tell them this isn’t a bar.”
“All right. I’ll put it out at five tomorrow. Kid and I are hitting the town early so we can talk to some people, survey the damage.”
Cherri patted the desk and climbed to his feet. He opened the door, then stopped. He turned back to Chow Mein, who was pulling old receipts from the pages of a book.
“Hey,” he said. “If you’re worried about a relapse, I just want to say that–I have faith in you, man.”
Chow Mein looked up at him. Cherri smiled faintly. Then he stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
The office was silent for a few moments. Then Chow Mein switched on the radio again. As the lights flashed on one-by-one, he thought of the celebration the Killjoys must be planning. Dancing and singing around a bonfire, shouting at each other, swigging bottles of liquor. He wouldn’t touch a drop of it. But there was one way he could make a profit, always a way he could make a profit.
“Yoko?” he said after finding her frequency. “This is Tommy Chow Mein. I’m in the market for hangover remedies.”