The Rolling Bootlegs (19 page)

“B-but, you know… It could be the cops…”

“I’ll check.”

Nimbly climbing onto an oil drum that sat beside the fence, Miria peeked at the scene on the other side.

“…!”

No sooner had she hastily clambered down than she leaped at Isaac and clung to him, shivering hard.

“Wh-wh-wha, what’s wrong?”

“It’s
them
!
Them!
The ones who hit you yesterday… The ones Ennis beat up and took to the police! There’s one missing, but it’s them for sure!”

She didn’t seem to have realized it was the group they’d attacked the previous night.

“…Really?”

“Uh-huh!”

After a little thought, Isaac reached a conclusion.

“I see… Is that what it was!”

“Wh-what?”

“They must have broken out of jail!”

“Eeeeek, vicious criminals!”

“I bet…they’re planning to get revenge on Ennis.”

“This is awful! Ennis is going to die!”

As she shrieked, her face was dead white.

“It’s all right. Ennis is tough, remember? She can take those guys as often as—”

“No, no, no she can’t!”

“?”

“Because, I mean, they… They had machine guns!”

At those words, even Isaac went pale.

“…You’re kidding…”

Ennis could die. Their hero—or, no, their heroine—was on the verge of being killed. …But what could they do?

Isaac looked down for a while. Then he murmured, as if talking to himself:

“You know… By rights, I should have gotten killed by those thugs yesterday.”

“Huh?”

“But Ennis saved me, you know. That’s why, to me, Ennis is a hero.”

“To me, too…!”

“And heroes… They don’t die. They mustn’t die.”

“…”

Isaac seemed to be brooding over something. At the sight of his face, Miria gulped quietly.

“…Holmes, shot and killed when thugs he’d captured broke out of jail… Conan Doyle didn’t write a story like that. He hasn’t written one like that.”

“…Isaac…?”

“I think it’s probably…because that would be boring. Because readers who like Holmes would be sad. If he’s going to get killed, it has to be by a lifelong nemesis like Moriarty or it’s no good… Those guys aren’t big enough for that. Am I right, Miria?”

“…Uh-huh.”

It was absurd logic, but he was probably desperate, in his own way. Desperate to find the words to psych himself up.

“She’s our hero… No, our heroine…and I think we have to return the favor she did us. Listen, Miria… Maybe we can’t become good people anymore, no matter how hard we try, but…at least Ennis…”

“We absolutely positively have to save her!”

Without even listening to the end of what he was saying, Miria grabbed Isaac’s arm and began to run, chasing after Dallas and the others.

“He… H-h-h-h-hey, wait, I’m the only one who’s g-g-g-going… L-l-l-listen, we’ll be up against machine guns, and you might die too-too-too… Fnghah!”

He’d been talking as he was pulled along at a run, and he’d bitten his tongue.

Putting a hand to his mouth, Isaac thought:

Oh, I’m so glad I’m with Miria.

He smiled as if he found it funny.

A priest and a nun tore through a town of redbrick.

They had no crucifixes.

They didn’t know the words to any prayers.

Even so, they were trying to save someone.

As he gazed at the old man, Maiza was trembling. Watching the two of them quizzically, Firo spoke to his senior executive.

“…Uh… What’s with the loony old fool? Do you know him?”

Firo had been eyeing the coot suspiciously, but then he noticed a familiar form on the ground behind the codger, in the hallway that led to the honey shop.

“…Miz Seina? …Wha…? Miz Seina!”

Involuntarily, Firo stood up. Seeing his expression, the other executives also stood, one after another. In a moment, a tense atmosphere had descended over the speakeasy.

The old man laughed merrily, as if the mood didn’t bother him at all.

“…Haaaa-ha! Don’t worry, Maiza. Or you, nameless sacrifices… I only hit the woman a little and knocked her down. That said, I struck her a bit too hard, so one or two of the bones in her neck might be broken…”

“…Bastard! I’ll rip you to pieces!”

Randy, who’d been in the corner, angrily pounded the table with his fist. After a moment, Pezzo’s fat hand also struck it. The reaction jolted the plates off, and they shattered on the floor.

“My, my… There are seven bones in the neck, you know. Such a fuss over one or two…”

He gave a mocking laugh. It wasn’t only Randy now: The other executives, Firo included, were enraged as well. They started toward the old man, reaching into their jackets as they went.

“Wait! Please!”

They were checked by Maiza’s shout.

Unusually for him, cold sweat had broken out on his face.

“Men… He’s only after me. I’ll deal with him, so while I do, please escape through the back door.”

“Maiza…?”

“Hey… What’re you talking about, Maiza?!”

After a little hesitation, their leader gave a straightforward, bare-bones explanation of his connection to Szilard:

“He is the man who once…killed…thirteen of my…my companions, and…my younger brother.”

At his words, in an instant, silence fell over the room. That silence was broken by Szilard himself.

“I’ve ‘eaten’ five since then, so it’s technically eighteen. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“…Szilard…”

Only Firo, who was right next to him, saw it. Maiza’s face wore an expression he’d never seen before, not once in the five years since he’d met him.

Although he didn’t really understand why, the moment he saw the hot fury that blazed in those eyes, anger began boiling over inside Firo, too.

“Maiza… I don’t get any of this, but… In other words, this guy’s your enemy, right?”

“…That makes him our enemy, too, yeah?”

Picking up the thread of the conversation, Randy simultaneously launched the battle.

Even as he finished speaking, he shot Szilard with the handgun he’d pulled out of his jacket.

There was a loud
bang
, and a red hole opened in the right side of Szilard’s chest.

Immediately afterward, the hole was joined by another.

“And actually, he was enough of an enemy the second he laid a finger on Seina. Right, Randy?”

As he spoke, Pezzo also held a gun wreathed in smoke.

“In any case, it would be a waste to get our knives rusty on this old gink.”

“Make sure you don’t hit Seina.”

Seeing that the old man hadn’t gone down yet, the other executives drew their pieces, one after another.

Maybe they didn’t care that it could mean jail time, or maybe they’d given themselves over to rage: They didn’t show the slightest hesitation.

Dry explosions echoed through the room.

“It’s no good… Guns won’t work on him.”

Maiza’s murmur was drowned out by the thunderous roar.

The rain of bullets didn’t stop until they’d all exhausted their supply.

The bullets that had passed through Szilard’s body or missed it entirely had turned the magnificent, richly ornamented interior into something that looked like the walls of a Bronx public toilet.

“…Hey…Maiza…”

As he asked the question, Randy shook his head.

“What gives…? That old guy’s still on his feet…”

Szilard’s upper body was riddled with holes. However, once again, his mouth had twisted hugely.

Seeing this, Maiza yelled his answer:

“I’ll explain later; just run! Please!”

He was too late.

Szilard reached down toward his feet. A black case sat there. It was an expensive-looking case, about the right size for a tenor saxophone.

“I tell you, learning not to feel pain was a lot of work. There’s no point in being indestructible if I lose consciousness, after all.”

Beaming, he crouched down and opened the case with a light
click
.

Very few of the people in the speakeasy had managed to predict what was inside it.

Even after Maiza’s warning, not one of them made a move to run.

“If my spine or head are damaged, I stop being able to move for a little while, but… Well, on the whole, you aimed for my heart. I’m grateful for that. …Although, even if you had aimed for my head, I would have been able to dodge.”

Firo, who’d been the first to realize what was in the case, launched himself forward with all his might.

He closed the distance in one sprint and tried to kick the black case Szilard was opening away from him. Since Szilard was bending over, he was also planning to send a good kick into his face.

“You’re very young.”

Szilard’s arm stopped his leg.

“Yes… Young. That’s more aggravating than anything.”

Firo had been thrown off balance, and Szilard drove a kick into his stomach.

“Gah…!”

He was knocked backward, ending up right where he’d started…back beside Maiza.

“Firo… As
contaiuolo
, I’m ordering you…”

As Maiza steadied Firo, who’d come close to falling over, he gave him an order.

“You go out the back door, right now, and run… No, go tell the boss and the secretary what’s happening.”

Thinking that he wasn’t the type of person who’d run away just because someone told him to, Maiza had made up an order on the spot.

“B-but, Maiza, you—”

“I’ll be fine. I don’t intend to die yet.”

Not until I’ve killed Szilard.
Maiza didn’t say the words all the way to the end, but…

“…………Understood!”

Firo had been momentarily bewildered, but when he saw the gaze Maiza fixed on him, just for an instant, he immediately broke into a run. For that one moment, the hatred had vanished from Maiza’s eyes, and they’d been smiling quietly.

They were the eyes of someone who’d made an unshakeable resolution.
If a guy in our organization has eyes like that, it doesn’t matter whether his intent is right or off the mark: There’s absolutely nothing to do about it. Either listen obediently to what he has to say, or stop him if you have to kill him. It’s a straight choice between two alternatives.

And Firo believed in Maiza’s will. He’d launched himself off the wooden floor, into a run.

“Do you think I’ll let him go? Well, I could… But, Maiza, I want to cause you as much pain as possible before I ‘eat’ you. Both physically…and emotionally.”

Smiling happily, Szilard picked up the contents of the black case.

“…Hey… Is that for real…?”

It was one of the executives who’d spoken.

Firo was running for the back door. Trained on his back…was the muzzle of the military-grade submachine gun Szilard held. With absolutely no hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

When the ferocious roar exploded behind him, Firo nearly fell in spite of himself. However, there was no impact. Without looking back, Firo disappeared down the corridor that led to the speakeasy’s back door.

“…As usual, you make no sense. Is that brat really so important to you?”

Szilard looked mystified. Maiza stood in front of him, blocking his way. The machine gun had opened pitiful holes in his body, and red liquid gushed from them like a fountain.

“…So, none of the bullets that went through you hit the boy… Hmm. Was it the quality of the powder…? Or maybe that’s the best this gun can do?”

Without seeming particularly interested in Maiza’s condition, Szilard began to look appraisingly at the machine gun, which was still faintly wreathed in smoke.

“Maiza!”

“I’m…fine… Hurry and…run…plea…”

“Maiza, you moron! You think we could run when one of our guys just got shot?! I’m gonna smack you one after we get him, so don’t you go dying yet!”

As he spoke, Randy grabbed the leg of a stool and hurled it at Szilard.

“Whoops… Hmm?”

He evaded the first stool by simply moving his upper half, but Pezzo had thrown a second one right on the heels of the first. At the same time, the other executives threw stools in rapid succession.

Concluding that he couldn’t dodge them all, with no other choice, he stopped them with his hand. A strong vibration coursed through Szilard’s arm.

Taking advantage of that moment of vulnerability, Randy, Pezzo, and several other executives closed in.

They were too spread out for him to shoot them all at once, and he didn’t have time to take them out one after another.

“Pin him down!”

Drawing his knife, Randy leaped at Szilard. Szilard’s only response was to retreat slightly.

The executives who’d closed in on him from the front didn’t notice, but from Randy’s perspective, Szilard had disappeared into a dead angle: He’d backed up into the narrow hallway.

“You’ve done well, nameless sacrifices.”

“Oh, hell…”

Unable to kill their momentum, the men had fallen into a straight line.

Then a ferocious, spear-like barrage of bullets ran them through.

After the space of a breath, Pezzo—whose shirt was now dyed red—and several other executives fell near the entrance. To make sure they were dead, Szilard raked the floor with the trench-sweeper gun. He then turned the muzzle on the others who’d stayed in the room. There was a brief roar as the speakeasy that had symbolized the splendor of the Prohibition era had become something that looked like a post–Civil War ruin.