Pangaw would, on earth, be seen as a bizarre anachronism. It was for all intents and purposes a frontier town, forged out of wood, stone, and the materials that would be used to build simple settlements. It also had a modern vein to it; near the other side of the gate was a car park where several other misshapen junkers were parked. Beyond the car park was a single road featuring packed-in houses on either side. On the right hand side, around one hundred meters up, was a tavern with the words 'Red Lion' painted onto a metal sheet that hung around a foot above the door. Once they had left the car, they headed towards the tavern.
The streets were not full of people, but there were residents walking around, and they wore a bizarre mix of clothes. Some were marked as new arrivals from the clothes they wore; it was clear they had died in them, because there were bloodstains on them that had survived a wash. Others had clothes that they had clearly made themselves, such as t shirts barely sewn together or shorts that were simply wrapped around the legs and held using knitting needles or sharp pieces of metal. Other people were dressed in more finery; one lone man walked the streets in overalls that were made of some fine, silk-like material that Moriarty guessed wasn't grown on earth. Overall, the men and women of Pangaw dressed not dissimilarly to residents of earth, but the minor differences were strikingly surreal.
The Red Lion was a primitive, functional place, and the main bar was about the size of a hotel lobby. Everything was made of various shades of wood; the walls were darkly panelled, and the bar, tables and chairs were wooden also. Some was very well made, some wasn't. This was a slow night for the bar, as only several sour-faced patrons were dotted around. Once they had observed the place from the window, they headed inside, passing through the saloon-styled doors.
The locals looked up briefly at the new arrivals, then returned to their own thoughts as Fring and Moriarty approached the bar. It was built sturdier than the tables and chairs in the bar, which Moriarty supposed made sense because if the bar gave way, most of the alcohol would also. The booze was not in traditional bottles, but jars on the counter with handwritten labels. Serving at the bar was a woman in her fifties, pale and plump, with short hair and a tight-fitting t shirt. She had a no-nonsense look about her, but she smiled at the two men warmly.
"Evenin' lads," she said, in a thick Geordie accent. Moriarty suddenly realised why the tavern was called the Red Lion; it was an English pub, run by an English woman. "What can I get you's?"
"Do you serve food?" Moriarty asked politely, a touch of desperation in his voice that he hoped wasn't picked up upon.
"For another hour or so, pet," she said. "We've got beef, chicken, ostrich and ostrich egg. I recommend the beef, like."
He pulled the strange notes with gold leaf out of his pocket and presented them to the landlady. "Is this currency good here?"
"You must be from the Fields," she replied. "Aye, this money's definitely good here. I'm Vicky. Welcome to East Cadaris."
"Thank you," said Fring. "My name is Walter Salamanca."
"John Holmes," said Moriarty, catching on. "East Cadaris? Is that where we are?"
"Aye," said Vicky. "How'd you come across this much money? Most of the newborns don't earn their first dollar until they've been here a week. You must be brand new, otherwise you would have known your money was good here, like."
ECD stands for East Cadarian Dollar, Moriarty thought to himself suddenly. He guessed by extension that CM stood for Cadarian Mile (it certainly didn't mean centimetres) although he didn't know why it excluded the eastern segment of the name.
"We found this," said Fring, his mind leaping into action, "alongside a car with the key in the ignition, around five miles back. There looked like there had been a struggle. We didn't know who to alert, so we thought it was best to take the car and the money to town."
"Hessians," said Vicky, her voice full of anger. "Bet yers any fucking thing. Those bastards have gotten worse and worse."
"Haitians?" asked Fring, puzzled.
"No, not Haitians, pet, Hessians," she said. "I'm not bein' racist, like. The Hessians are a group of thugs that plague this highway. They're outlaws. Like one o' them biker gangs, innit, like the Hells Angels. They're even named after those outlaw horsemen back in the olden days."
"I remember reading about the Hessians in school," said Moriarty. "German horseback mercenaries in the American revolution. The Headless Horseman was a Hessian, and if they're a biker gang then the name could be a reference to him."
"Do you think they would commit murder?" Fring asked, and for a moment Moriarty had to admire his impeccably feigned concern.
"Widnae be the first time," said Vicky. "I'll give 'em their due, if you give 'em what they want and don't challenge 'em, they'll leave yer unharmed. Sometimes they even leave the victim sommat to get home, a bit of money or food, like. But if yer try to fight 'em or protect what's yours, they'll hang ya out to dry. Murders are rare…but they happen." She shook her head in fear and disgust. "Stay off t' roads at night, lads, that's what I say. The night belongs to them. Everyone who lives in Pangaw is behind these walls when the sun sets. Round here, it's only safe to travel during the day. Be with you in a sec, Mark," she said, turning to one of the locals that had appeared at the bar behind the two men. He wore a dark overcoat and a check shirt that had stains on it. As Jim turned to him he smiled at Vicky, and made a circle out of his thumb and forefinger, the universal symbol for 'okay'.
Turning back to Fring and Moriarty, she said, "But I've bored ya to tears already. What'll ya have?"
"I'll have the beef," said Moriarty, and Fring agreed.
"Ye'll not have the ostrich? They're much nicer, like. The Amponsahs have a small ostrich ranch a little down the way. Don't know why so many ostriches come from the Fields, like, but they does. Nice family, the Amponsahs. Killed in a car crash together in Accra, so it's a sad story. Only the son speaks English, on account o' he was studying in England just before it happened."
"I really fancy some beef," said Jim.
"Nae probs," Vicky replied. "What about drinks?"
Moriarty inspected the labels on the drink jars. There was Home Wine (which came in red and white) Moonshine, Bathtub Gin, Pangaw Ale, East Cadaris Whiskey and Rye Special. The drink that looked the least corrosive was the Pangaw Ale, so Moriarty ordered that. Fring opted for the red home wine.
"They're both brewed local," Vicky beamed. "The Pangaw Ale is actually made right here, like, in the cellar."
She passed over two jars from the back room. He handed over some notes and she handed some back. They took a table near the window, surveying the people outside. They had what looked like one of the sturdiest tables, which was good, though their chairs wobbled uneasily. They opened their jars simultaneously, and a sweet, musky smell hit them. It was heavenly after a day of walking, driving and ultraviolence. The few locals (including Mark, who was at the bar) eyed them with interest rather than suspicion, not batting an eyelid to the fact that Moriarty was drenched in blood.
"To life after death," said Fring, and they clinked jars and drank. The Pangaw Ale definitely tasted like it had been brewed in a tiny cellar, but it tasted as good as it smelt. He wasn't an ale drinker, but he might become one if this was the standard. He drank slowly; the ale had a kick to it, and he was still far too wary of Fring to get drunk around him.
"I suggest a plan of action," said his companion, lowering his voice. "We drink our drinks, eat our dinner, then talk to Vicky about rooms for the night. After it's booked, we go out and bury the body outside of town. We drive back and we get as much information from the locals as possible. I want to know everything about East Cadaris, every conceivable thing that will help us."
"I don't think it's a good idea to bury the body tonight," Moriarty replied, in a barely-audible whisper. "You heard her…the roads are dangerous after dark. Let's wait until morning. It'll look suspicious if we take a drive at this time of night."
"If we wait until morning, the stench will be unbearable," said Gus, taking a sip of his wine. "It won't come off of us, and that will be far more suspicious. I'm sure you've disposed of bodies in your time; you should know this."
"Alright, good point," he conceded. "What if we played it another way? We head out on the road tomorrow, but we buy something in town first. Something so big you'd need to put it in the boot. We open the boot…lots of witnesses, mind…and find the body. We act as shocked as everyone else. We take a wild guess and say that the Hessians, or whatever they're called, probably dumped him there. I don't know about you, but I'm a phenomenal liar. I think we can pull this off."
"I'm sceptical," Fring replied. "We have no idea what kind of crime-solving techniques East Cadaris has."
"They have wooden road signs," said Moriarty, dismissively. "I doubt it's that up to scratch. We can do this, Gus." He took a longer sip of his ale. "Fact of the matter is, us having this money and this car is suspicious, even with the story you told. Two shifty guys who just arrived, buying a shovel and suddenly absconding for a late-night drive in bandit country? That's far more suspicious." He shrugged. "Why are we using fake names again? If anyone recently-dead recognises our faces, we're in deep shit."
"They're more likely to recognise our names," said Fring, finishing his wine. "You were in the newspaper a lot before you died. I'm willing to bet you're a household name, now. As for me, mild-mannered fast food magnate turns out to be a high-level distributor of crystal meth? That's exactly the kind of story tabloids love to pick up on. If anyone here recognises our names, we're going to be under ten tonnes of scrutiny."
"Walter Salamanca," said Moriarty, smirking. "I'm going to get you a porkpie hat and a bell."
"John Holmes," said Fring, not smiling. "I'll trade a deerstalker for that porkpie hat."
"Food's up, pets," said Vicky, appearing at the table. She put two chipped plates before them, both containing plates of succulent meat. It literally was just meat; there were no vegetables on the side or anything except the beef. Moriarty looked at it with a desperate hunger.
For the next two minutes he was in a world of his own, cherishing the beef like it was mana from heaven. It was an excellent cut, but he would have eaten it if it was rancid. Fring ate much more conservatively, using the knife and fork provided. By the time Moriarty had eaten through the entire plate, he was only halfway there.
"Enjoy?" Fring asked.
"You have no fucking idea."
"It is good," the Chilean agreed.
"So, what are you planning to do here, Gus?" Moriarty asked. "New lease on life, new world to explore. Are you going to cook some fried chicken? Set up a new branch of…Los Chicken Face, was it?"
"Los Pollos Hermanos," Gus said between mouthfuls, and this time he did smile.
"The Chicken Brothers. Alright. What are you planning to do? Set up an East Cadarian branch of Los Pollos Hermanos? Find a meth cook and eke out a living dealing drugs?"
"Perhaps," said Gus. "I won't make any judgements until I know more about the place."
"What if I were to tell you I plan to go on exactly the same?" said Moriarty, leaning in. "Once I see enough of EC to learn the lay of the land, I'm going to set up an enterprise, the likes of which this place won't ever have seen. A huge criminal empire stretched out across this new earth, with unlimited power and influence. What I'm telling you Gus, really, is that I want to make my magnum opus."
"I can only compliment your vision," said Fring. "Why are you telling me all of this?"
"Because I know an equal when I see one, and you, Gus, are my equal. I see things in your eyes that others don't. You're intelligent, you're shrewd, and you're totally ruthless. You hide behind this veil, this milquetoast act, but I can see dead though it. I'm looking for a partner, fifty fifty."
"It's an intriguing prosal," said Fring. "What would our…empire…deal in?"
"Drugs and extortion, at first," he replied. "Maybe meth, or something else if we can get a farm or a chemist. You'll oversee distribution, naturally, as it's our field, and I'd handle extortion. Once the money's rolling in, who knows? We find the best way to accumulate money and power in this place and we exploit it until we're kings."
"I'm more than willing to entertain this," said Fring. "I have to admit, one of the first thoughts I had in the Fields was rebuilding. Meth was a dirty, dirty business but was lucrative beyond measure. And I have to admit, when I first read about your exploits, I wondered what it would be like to work with you." He paused for effect, considering. "Alright, Jim. Let's see where we can take this. But before we shake, we need to get something clear. I know what a dangerous man you are, and the amount of people you've killed. Your reputation is beyond question." At this point his eyes locked deep into those of his dining companion. "I am a dangerous man too, Jim. I don't believe fear is an effective motivator, but I feel it best to tell you at this point that I am not to be underestimated. If you attempt to screw me, my response will make you wish we had never met. Is this clear?"
"Crystal," said Moriarty. His face showed no signs of fear whatsoever, but he suddenly found it difficult to match Fring's gaze. "Let's shake on it, then."
He extended his hand over the table and his new business partner shook it. A wave of understanding passed between them. Both men knew, on that warm night in Pangaw, the sheer scale of what they were undertaking, but neither could ever have guessed how much one handshake had set the wheels of fate moving. Chaos was about to fall on this new world, and chaos was about to take over the lives of this fated partnership.