The Brave New World - 133 Lamb Chops and the Tax Collector

Harold drank all his water before following Gladys out of the kitchen. He also ate the worn-out slice of lime. It had seen plenty of use, its pulp was bleached white; it was time to retire it from service.

He ate the rind too – it was very bitter, and so he wasn’t smiling when he re-entered the living room. It contained just Sean and Maureen; his wife and the Ramseys were gone.

“They’re out back setting up the barbie,” Sean said, unasked; he was clearly skilled at reading people’s thoughts, and scored a point with Harold for that. He scored another point when he added:

“We brought a couple of bottles of gas. Hopefully the nozzle will fit. We also brought some meat. Very salty, we didn’t want it to go bad, but your wife said she can deal with it.”

“I’m sure she can,” said Harold. “And thank you.” His lip trembled; he stopped himself at the last moment from asking whether they’d brought any booze. But Sean, the orthopedic surgeon from Melbourne, was Superman in disguise. He said:

“We’ve also brought a jug of red. It will make all that salt bearable.” He smiled at Harold.

Harold said:

“Thank you, thank you! That’s quite a feast we’re about to have. Things were tight here for a while, you know. If the army hadn’t trucked in some food, we’d have been in poor shape. I take it things weren’t so bad in Melbourne?”

“Mixed. The first week after the disaster, everyone was sort of stunned and trying to function as normal. Then everything got progressively worse, and by the end of the month it was risky to go out. Then the army stepped in, and they were fairly brutal. They shot some looters, and then they shot some people who were protesting about the killed looters. They also started distributing food, the new government announced the currency reform and that all debt was cancelled, and everyone calmed down and got busy thinking how to make some money

“But the past few weeks, it became pretty clear we’d end up starving if we didn’t make a move. So we sold or bartered whatever we could sell or barter. We’ve still got the house, but I don’t think we’ll see it again. We aren’t going back.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Harold. It wasn’t exactly the right thing to say. When Harold became aware of that, he added:

“I don’t mean you aren’t welcome here. You’re very welcome, more than welcome. But I’m sorry about your house.”

“We also lost over a hundred thousand in stocks and shares,” said Sean.

“Are you sure? Lost, just like that?”

“They’re worthless. I managed to cash our life insurance policies back in January, and withdrew all the money we had in the bank. Just in time, too. Our bank collapsed a week later. Practically all of them did, over the next few weeks. There are no banks or any financial institutions left. The whole financial system is just gone.”

“There was a demonstration day before we left,” Maureen said. “Bank tellers and brokers and people like that. They aren’t getting much sympathy.”

“We had this fellow living down the street,” said Sean. “His wife used to work as a loan officer at Standard Commercial. She was beaten up and raped. They didn’t even bother to report it to the cops. They moved even before we did.”

“Forgive my curiosity,” said Harold. “How did you get here? It couldn’t have been easy, it’s a long trip.”

“We got places on a train to Brisbane,” Sean said. “That cost a small fortune in bribes. There are very few trains running, and almost all carry freight only. We traveled in a boxcar full of canned apple juice. We stopped at Dave’s – that’s my older brother, he lives in Brisbane – for a couple of days. Then another train took us all the way to Cairns, and the army kindly transported us here, for a relatively modest financial consideration, as they put it.”

“Basically, we were scared out of our wits for over a week,” added Maureen. “Traveling with all that cash.”

Harold nodded.

“I can imagine,” he said. “No, I probably can’t. What about your brother – David, like his father? Dave said he would be coming, too.”

“In a week or so,” Sean said. “He still had a few loose ends to tie up. But he’ll definitely be joining us soon.”

“Attention, everyone,” Dave Ramsey said, entering the room. “I hereby announce we’re going to dine on lamb chops in about half an hour. Can you help out with that, Harold? Sean and I have to fetch something from my house.”

He winked, and Harold knew that he meant the money. The Ramsey clan was basically financing the purchase of the colonial licenses. Harold and Gladys had lived comfortably on their pensions – their house was all paid up – but they had little in the way of savings. They had received no money at all from the beginning of the year, and were flat-out broke by the end of February. And the two colonial licenses, with full privileges that included a license to trade colonial goods, cost a hundred thousand dollars each.

Dave had done his best to put Harry at ease about that. He’d said:

“Harry, without you this whole thing wouldn’t have been possible. That bloody cube landed in your yard, not mine. We’ve been practically living at your place ever since. And it’s not like we’ve got other options of spending all that money. It’s worthless, the only thing you can spend it on is a colonial license.”

Harold told Dave Ramsey he was very grateful, and he was. But he also wished he didn’t have to depend on Dave’s money. It just didn’t feel right.

Just an hour later, everything felt right for Harold. He’d just eaten his best meal in over a month. He’d had a couple of glasses of red wine. Life was good.

This outlook was shared by everyone assembled. They tried to keep their voices down, but they still were loud enough to be heard from the front of the house.

Nicky Rizzo stood on the front steps for a moment, head inclined to the side, listening hard. It was a waste of time – he couldn’t make out what they were saying – to hell with it. He turned to the two men respectfully waiting behind his back and said:

“I’ll get them to open the door. You stay here with the gear. Understood?”

“Yes,” they both said, one right after the other.

Rizzo made his way down the side of the house. The voices grew louder, and he was tempted to stay hidden for a little while and listen to the conversation. It was a move that had saved his life on more than one occasion in the course of his exciting professional career. He had to remind himself that he was working for the government now. Skulking behind walls didn’t fit his new role. And a couple of people were watching the proceedings from across the street, excited by the arrival of Rizzo’s little caravan: a handcart filled with goodies, hauled and guarded by two men armed with assault rifles.

Nicky Rizzo stepped out from behind the wall and found himself looking into the Pendeltons’ back yard over their picket fence. He caught the smell of barbecued meat and instantly began salivating like a dog, he couldn’t help it. They’d been having lamb chops! He swallowed and said, very loudly:

“Sorry I’m late for dinner.” He grinned – he’d made everyone jump in their seats.

“Mr. Rizzo,” Harold said, “Henry Deacon told us you’d come. Let me get the gate.”

“No,” said Rizzo. “I need you to open the front door. I’ve got people waiting there.”

“What people?”

“You’ll see. Front door, please.” He walked away.

Dave and Sean rose as if on command and followed Harold into the house.

“Who was that guy?” asked Jason, Sean’s son. Jason was eighteen, and very confident: he’d been on his school’s rugby team.

“He’s our tax collector,” Susan Ramsey said, after a pause. “He’s come to collect the fees for the licenses, and issue us with equipment.”

Jason laughed with delight.

“That was your tax collector? They nominated a creep like that?”

“Jason!” hissed Maureen.

“I swear, he looks just like a cannibal creep I had to hunt down in a game.”

“Jason!”

“All right, all right,” Jason said. He turned to his sister.

“He did look like a creep, don’t you agree?” he asked.

The creep in question was busy counting the wads of cash Dave had just handed him.

“Maybe you’d like to step inside, and use a table,” Harold suggested.

“No,” Rizzo said. “Everything I do is done in plain view, with witnesses around. Just so there are no misunderstandings.”

“That must be a new experience for you,” Dave said before he could bite his tongue. Rizzo gave him a cold stare.

“It is and it isn’t,” he said. “I’ve had plenty of experience cutting assholes down to size.”

He resumed counting the money. Dave and Harold exchanged looks and Dave said:

“It’s definitely a completely new experience for me. That’s what I meant.”

“Sure,” said Rizzo. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but can you shut up for a moment? You’re making me lose my count.”

The count went on for a while, with Harold and Dave feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Finally Rizzo passed the last wad of the money to one of the two brutes he’d brought with him, and said:

“Two hundred thousand exactly. Gerry?”

The other brute stepped forward and handed Rizzo a clear plastic bag. Harold saw it contained implant kits and a couple of rolled hiber beds.

“Is there a scroll?” he asked, taking it from Rizzo. “Henry told us there’ll be a scroll with the documentation.”

“It’s in there,” Rizzo said. “Any other questions?”

“We’re cleared to launch our colonies right away?”

“Yes.”

“From the locations Henry, I mean the governor gave us?”

“Yes.”

Harold and Dave exchanged glances and Harold said:

“That’s it, then.”

“No,” said Rizzo. “I have a question for you, too. You haven’t registered a mint. Why?”

“Why should we? Is it mandatory?” Harold said.

Rizzo smiled at him as if he was dealing with a retarded child.

“No, it’s not mandatory,” he said. “It just makes sense. All the other colonizers have registered mints. Nearly fifty people who aren’t colonizers have registered mints, too. Owning a mint means you can literally make money. And you’re asking why?”

“We intend to make money in other ways. We intend to trade. We plan to grow food in the New World and send the surplus here and sell it. We anticipate great demand for food,” Harold said, paying Rizzo back with a retarded-child routine of his own.

“You know you have to keep exact records, and pay fifty percent tax?” Rizzo said.

“We do.”

“That’s good,” Rizzo said. “Because I’ll be coming round to collect it. And you know what happens to people who try to cheat on taxes?”

“They lose their colonial trade license,” Harold said.

“Correct. Thank you, gentlemen.” Rizzo turned, and his gorilla flunkeys moved to haul the handcart back into the street. Harold watched them go, and it felt unreal. The previous time he’d dealt with a government tax official, he’d tapped a computer keyboard for a few minutes.

“Wake up, Harold. We’d better go back inside,” Dave Ramsey said.

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