The Rolling Bootlegs (14 page)

The color of night had already come right down to the line between the sky and the ocean, and stars had begun to show through here and there. It was as though Manhattan’s blue-crystal sky had shattered and darkness had come to the city in its place. But as if to drive away that darkness, colorful lights bloomed up from the ground, radiating from the main streets outward. Reflecting off the red bricks that colored the buildings, the lights summoned a crowd that was different from the town’s daytime bustle.

New York’s unprecedented Great Depression. Its spirit might have taken a hit, but the city wasn’t dead yet.

As if they’d been waiting impatiently for night to arrive, New York’s 32,000 speakeasies woke up and began to stir.

Manhattan swallowed up people’s desires, and was on the verge of revealing another face.

Alveare (“the Beehive”), one of the handful of nightclubs run by the Martillo Family, was located between Little Italy and Chinatown. Outwardly, as its name suggested, it was a specialty shop that sold honey. However, if you went back behind the register and through a sturdy door fitted with a peephole, you’d find yourself in a speakeasy, where those who’d chosen to duck the eyes of the law gathered. Both men and women came here in search of liquor. Sometimes even children visited. It was a watering hole set up in the space between the law and the town.

In New York at the time, disguised speakeasies like this one stood cheek by jowl with one another. These loopholes in the law were found everywhere—one in the back of a tailor’s shop, another in the basement of a drugstore, and even inside churches and funeral parlors.

Alveare was another sanctuary built inside one of these loopholes.

Even further underground, there was a spacious hall. Ordinarily, it was a forbidden room that no one was allowed to approach, but today about a dozen men were gathered there. Even with that many people, silence and an atmosphere of tension enveloped the room.

The electric lights were off, and the only source of light was a single flame: that of a lamp, in the center of a round table.

“Firo Prochainezo.”

Quietly, the silence was broken. The enormous table took up half of the already crowded room, and men were stationed around its edge at equal intervals. Only the man who had spoken was seated; the rest stood.

The owner of the voice was Molsa Martillo, current head, or
caposocietà
, of the Martillo Family. He was a man of over fifty, who impressed with a dignity befitting his age and a fine physique that belied his years.

He was flanked on either side by two upper-level executives: Kanshichirou Yaguruma, a Japanese man who held the position of elder, or
primo voto
, and Ronny Schiatto, the secretary, or
chiamatore
. Maiza, the
contaiuolo
, stood next to Ronny, two places away from Molsa.

Although he hadn’t ended up in the role of elder because he was elderly, Yaguruma was well past sixty and, at a glance, gave the impression of being the proprietor of a Chinatown herbal medicine shop.

Meanwhile, Ronny was still young, with distinctive, almond-shaped eyes that gave him a fox-like air.

Although the roots of the Camorra were in Italy, Molsa wasn’t particular about nationality. As a result, their membership included an assortment of races.

Firo, who stood directly in front of Molsa, responded with a tense voice:

“…Yes,
capo masto
. I’m here.”

“…Can you answer the questions I am about to ask you without falsehood or deceit?”

“I can.”

After a silence of several seconds, the “dialogue” began.

“Do you wish to become a camorrista?”

“Yes.”

“The Camorra is an organization that was born inside a jail in Italy, our distant homeland. If you cross this line, prison may someday rob you of your freedom. The flame of your life might also be snuffed out in a fight that seems unfair. Do you understand these things?”

“I do.”

“Your right foot is in prison. Your left foot is in your coffin. Even then, do you wish to keep your eyes fixed on your own path, and to at times grasp honor with your right hand?”

“I do.”

“If necessary, can you use your left hand to take your own life for our sake?”

“…Yes.”

“Firo Prochainezo. If your father killed one of our comrades, could you kill your father and avenge your comrade?”

That question demanded a brief silence.

Firo didn’t know his father’s face. He’d been born and raised in a slum in Hell’s Kitchen, where Italian immigrants tended to gather. His father had been Italian, and his mother had been American with English ancestors. Apparently, when his father had been in Naples, Italy, he’d been a member of the Camorra. There had been a war between organizations over there, and when his had lost the fight, they’d come to America.

Just about the time Firo came into the world, Firo’s father had died of tuberculosis.

He’d grown up not knowing his father, and before he reached his tenth birthday, his mother had died as well.

Again, it had been tuberculosis. His mother had been kept isolated from everyone around her, and her death had seemed to be a very lonely one.

For a few years after that, he’d done anything and everything to stay alive. He hadn’t had the leeway to distinguish between good deeds and bad ones. He’d been drifting around New York when he’d tried to steal a wallet from Yaguruma, the syndicates’s
primo voto
. The moment he’d tried to stick his hand into the elderly Asian’s jacket, Firo’s vision had somersaulted. He’d been thrown by Yaguruma hundreds of times since then, but that first time had been the most memorable.

That was when Firo had become involved with the Family. To him, the members who passed in and out of Alveare really were like family.

He’d never given much thought to where he belonged.

But Firo liked these guys.

That was all it was, but to him, it was enough.

“…Yes. If the one who was killed truly was our comrade, I would bury my blade in the heart of a relative.”

“I see. …Listen, Firo. The path you are about to start down is…a spiral… Yes, something like a huge spiral staircase.”

This wasn’t a question. He spoke slowly, in the sort of tone he would have used to give advice to his own child.

“Our world is like a spiral staircase: Once you take that first step, you’re in, and after that, the only way to go is down. Some go down cautiously, holding the railing, and others fall spectacularly down the center of the spiral. Some may descend through that hole elegantly, with a parachute, and be showered with praise, while others will have their parachute strings summarily cut. We’re petty beings who continue to descend that staircase, nothing more. What waits for us at the very bottom is the end of our lives. Either we fall from the staircase to be dashed to the ground and die; or we descend normally, walking until we’re exhausted and then die; or we die satisfied, as if we’re going to sleep. The fact that you die at the end is the same in every world, but most people die on mountaintops, or…well, someplace close to heaven, although I don’t know whether or not it exists. However, for us, there is no going up. Capone may look as if he’s going up, but even he’s only descending gracefully, in the
midst of applause, just like one of the president’s parades… Yet still, in the end, he’s going down just the same.”

At this point, he paused. Drawing a deep breath, he said:

“When a guy shines as bright as Capone…people outside the spiral staircase, people living normal lives, can see him. However, most are never noticed. The only thing people think is that there’s something buzzing around on a staircase that goes down into the bowels of the earth.”

Molsa’s eyes opened wide, and he gazed intently into Firo’s.

“Firo Prochainezo. I’ll ask you one more time. It’s not too late for you to turn back. Even if you’ve done wrong before, if it’s nothing too serious, you’ll be able to head for the ‘up’ staircase. You may be shut up in the big house for several years, but you can make a fresh start from there. However, if you cross this line, there’s no turning back. Until now, others have used you, but when you become a camorrista, you’ll be someone who uses others. You’ll turn some of the gears—only a few, mind—of the underworld. Once that happens, you can’t go back. If you try to turn back, the fellas who are descending the staircase with you will drag you down and throw you into the well at its center. Frankly, I think you could do just fine on the straight and narrow, too. You’ve got the ability for it. Firo Prochainezo. Do you intend to step onto this staircase, even so?”

Molsa’s speech ended there. Once again, silence descended upon the room.

The lamp’s flame flickered wildly.

How much courage must it have taken Firo to utter his next words… To respond to Molsa?

“…Yes. I’m prepared.”

As he finished speaking, sweat ran down his back like a waterfall, and salty drops fell from his clenched fists.

“…I see… In that case, show us your resolve.”

Firo took a step forward.

He drew his own knife…and stuck it into the tabletop. There were a dozen or so scars around it, probably left over from former rituals.

A handgun sat a short ways in front of the upright knife. Firo
picked it up and aimed it at Molsa. Then he turned the muzzle toward his own heart.

When he’d finished this sequence of actions, Firo walked around the edge of the table, gun in hand. He passed half the men as he did so, and all of them kept intense eyes fixed on him.

When he reached Molsa’s side, Firo knelt reverentially. Carefully, he changed his grip on the weapon, quietly holding it out to his leader.

The
caposocietà
took it wordlessly. Then he raised a hand and signaled Ronny, the secretary.

Ronny nodded silently, then crossed to a shelf in a corner of the room. He brought two bottles and a single glass over to Firo.

One bottle was filled with wine, and a liquid poison swirled in the other.

Molsa poured wine into the glass until it was half full, then filled it the rest of the way with poison.

Without a word, he held the poisoned glass out to Firo.

Firo took it without hesitation and slowly brought it to his lips.

When they touched the rim of the faintly shining glass—

—Molsa snatched the drink from Firo’s hand and dashed it to the floor. Red liquid and glass shards splashed at their feet.

This process had demonstrated Firo’s loyalty and courage. In leaving his knife, he’d shown a courage that didn’t depend on weapons alone. In turning the gun from Molsa to himself, he’d shown a willingness to choose his own death over shooting his
caposocietà
. In bringing poison to his lips, he’d shown devotion, agreeing to accept even death if that was what his leader ordered. The content and significance of these Camorra promotion rituals differed from group to group. In the Martillo Family, after this sequence of actions, the final “ritual” was conducted.

“
Capo
… Please test my duty,” Firo said.

Molsa nodded quietly, and then:

“Yaguruma, you stand witness. Maiza, you test Firo’s duty.”

He gave his two subordinates their orders.

Behind the round table, there was a relatively large, open space.
When Firo and the two executives moved to it, Ronny brought over three knives. One was the knife Firo had stabbed into the round table a little while earlier, and it was handed to him just as it was.

The remaining two knives were gripped in the hands of the executives, one each.

The two of them, Firo and Maiza, were about to fight a duel, right there.

One of the differences between the Camorra and the Mafia was that, while the Mafia preferred guns, the Camorra used knife skills as a way to measure their honor. The more skilled with a knife someone was, the more respect his comrades had for him.

Conversely, for the Camorra, you could say that being able to use a knife was a duty.

As a result, a test of knife skills was incorporated as one of the rituals, and although it wasn’t clear whether it meant the same thing among them, many other Camorra groups—both in Naples and in New York—included such a duel in their rituals.

The duel was said to be over when one of the combatants wounded his opponent’s arm. If Firo lost to Maiza, he’d fight again, going up against one of the other executives. If he lost against three opponents in a row, he’d hone his skills with a knife, and the ritual duel would be conducted again at a later date. Of course, until that time, he couldn’t be promoted to executive.

“…I trust there’s no ill feeling between you two? If one of you stabs his opponent in the chest, I’ll kill the one who did it then and there. Is that clear?”

Yaguruma spoke dispassionately. Although he’d emigrated from Japan, he’d lived in this country for over thirty years, so there was nothing odd about the way he spoke.

Firo and Maiza shrugged out of their jackets and hung them over the backs of nearby chairs. The two of them were in shirtsleeves, and in the dark room, the two patches of white stood out sharply.

“Not going to take your shirts off? …Well, I know it’s cold, but not only will they get cut, they’ll get bloody. …You don’t care? All right. In that case… Begin.”

Yaguruma took a step back, and Maiza and Firo faced each other.

Firo wasn’t sure how to start. Come to think of it, this was the first time he’d seen Maiza with a knife. People called him a coward behind his back, but since he was an exec, he had to have at least
some
skills with a knife, right?

Even so, Firo was sure he wouldn’t lose. If his opponent had been Yaguruma, he would have been far less confident, but he was positive he could win against Maiza, no question.

That naïve thought was shattered in an instant.

Leaning forward slightly, the tall man in front of him began to advance. His steps were slow.

Abruptly, Maiza’s arm stretched out. It really did look as if his arm had gotten longer.

“………!”

Firo jumped back immediately, only to have Maiza claim the spot where he’d been standing a moment before.