The Rolling Bootlegs (7 page)

“Hey… Maiza, c’mere a second!”

Hearing Firo calling from the street, Maiza poked his head out of the greengrocer’s.

“What is it? …Oh!”

Billows of gray smoke rose over the roof of the shop across the way. It wasn’t that far, probably about two streets over.

“I’m gonna go take a look.”

“Wait, don’t rubberneck. If the police come…”

Firo was carrying the bootleg liquor they’d just bought at a speakeasy. Granted, it was hidden in a crate labeled for another product, but the day the police—particularly Edward—found it, something horrendous would happen.

“It’s fine. I’d never be that clumsy.”

Firo didn’t look particularly worried. With a little wave for Maiza, he ran off.

“Ah… I hope he learns to curb that side of himself after the ritual…”

With a small, wry smile, Maiza also began heading toward the scene, though at a walk.

“No…”

Having exited the car, Ennis gazed at the rising smoke, wondering if she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere. Or rather, she wished she had.

However, as she stood there, dazed, the small sign on the second floor of the burning building—the one that said B
ARNES
C
O
. G
RANARY
—vividly spelled out the sad reality. The cool expression she’d worn in front of the old men had vanished completely. The situation was simply that abnormal.

“What in the world could have…? Where is Barnes…?”

The young female chauffeur pushed her way through the crowd to stand at the front of the ranks of spectators. Every person she shoved aside regarded her crossly, but the fire soon recaptured their attention, and no one complained enough to impede her progress.

She saw the building’s interior beginning to crumble. Even from a distance, she could see that several holes had opened in the street-level flooring. If the finished product had been stored in the cellar,
even if she dashed inside now… It would probably be impossible to retrieve.

It was hopeless. How should she report this to Szilard, her master? She herself bore not the slightest responsibility for the situation, but even so, her heart was heavy. It wasn’t likely that Szilard himself would fly into a rage, but he would certainly look displeased. What hurt more than that, though, was the realization that the faces of the old men would doubtless appear several times more despairing than her own.

“…Miss. Miss.”

At the sensation of a hand on her shoulder, Ennis returned to herself with a jolt.

There was a boy standing in front of her. He seemed to be roughly her age, or maybe a little younger.

“Are you all right? Your face is very pale…”

His manner of speech was mature and didn’t match his appearance, but she could tell he seemed to be worried about her.

Had she really let her emotions show in her face so clearly? Hastily pulling herself together, she gave the boy a curt answer:

“Oh… No, it’s nothing. Thank you for your concern.”

With that, she turned on her heel and pushed her way back through the crowd, making for the outside of the ring of rubberneckers that had formed around the fire.

Barnes, at least, might have managed to escape. With that hope in mind, she quickly disappeared into one of the alleys, intending to search the surrounding streets.

It had been a very cold response, but that being the one given, there was no help for it.

When Firo had reached the fire, a large black passenger car had been parked beside it.

Initially, he’d been taken aback that the person who’d emerged from the driver’s seat was a young woman. The next thing about her—she looked to be a year or two older than he was, but they were probably about the same age—that caught his eye was her clothes. Even though she was a dame, she wore a black two-piece suit, and
her boots were sturdy, the sort that soldiers or policemen might wear. It was an entirely unfeminine outfit, but maybe the cloth was very thin… Though it was a suit, it didn’t give the impression of being stiff. Even her hair, which was clipped short, could have been considered heresy for women of the day, but… In an odd way, it harmonized with her outfit and actually lent her a bewitching allure.

Firo had been drawn, very slightly, to her countercultural appearance.

Not only that, but, for some reason, the woman had looked more startled than was strictly necessary on seeing the fire, and she’d abruptly started elbowing her way through the crowd in an attempt to get closer.

Finally reaching a spot where she had a better view of the fire—in other words, in front of the other looky-loos—an air of despair, or rather, profound sadness, had seeped into her expression, and she’d seemed rooted to the spot.

Firo had found himself unable to just stand by and watch. He’d pushed his way through the crowd himself and spoken to her, but such had been her response to his efforts. He watched her go, feeling a little disappointed, but…

Huh? She’s not heading for the car…?

The automobile in which the woman had arrived had been surrounded by a wave of newcomers. However, she hadn’t even bothered to check on it. Instead, she made a beeline for an alley in a completely different direction.

There really must have been something going on. Firo was curious, and at the same time, he wanted to talk with her just a little more. Frankly, it was that “love at first sight” thing.

By the time the balance in Firo Prochainezo’s head, wavering between the fire and the girl, had tipped completely toward the latter, he’d already started swimming against the flow of the crowd.

“That’s weird… Maybe I should’ve taken a right at that last street…”

The streets of New York were laid out like the mesh of a net. They
were regular, but because they were so vast, their geometric ranks turned the city into a labyrinth.

He thought he’d been following the girl, but at some point, he seemed to have fallen prey to the urban maze. He’d lived in this city for a long time, the roads home to the hideout, to speakeasies, to all sorts of destinations in his head. However, if the target was a moving person, it was hopeless.

Besides, if he wasn’t mistaken, this was Gandor Family turf.

The Gandor Family was one of New York’s many Mafia outfits, and their scale and the size of their territory weren’t much different from those of the Martillo Family. That said, the men who ran the syndicate, the three Gandor brothers, had a reputation for being merciless and aggressive, and on top of that, all of their members were notorious thugs ready to brawl at the drop of a hat.

“Man… I hope that broad hasn’t gotten herself kidnapped.”

It was a pretty ominous-sounding worry but by no means an empty figure of speech. It was a distinct possibility on this family’s turf.

The guys under the Gandors’ direct supervision are one thing, but since the punks-in-training don’t get bawled out directly by the brothers, it’s tough reining them in…

Pausing to take in his surroundings, Firo picked up on something reminiscent of men shouting. With nothing else to go on, he headed toward the voices.

Turning the corner of an alley, he saw several figures. Four young toughs had a single old man surrounded.

Edging closer, Firo could make out what they were saying. None appeared to have noticed him yet.

“…I said
apologize
, you old fart!”

“Enough of your bushwa…! It was you curs who tripped me!”

Responding to the old geezer’s lip, one of the thugs kicked him in the stomach.

A low groan escaped the old man, and he doubled over.

“Don’t mess with us, Gramps. We said, real polite-like, ‘That’s a heavy-looking box you got there. Want us to carry it for you?’ and do you remember what
you
said? Hmm?”

Another of the toughs, not the one who’d unleashed the kick, lightly smacked his elderly, writhing prey on the cheek.

“‘Get lost, you lowlife scum,’ you said. What a nice, friendly thing to say, huh?”

Another blow. This time he smacked the other cheek. It probably didn’t hurt, those slaps being intended to cause psychological pressure.

“Thanks to that, my leg just sort of stuck itself out there…and because you tripped on it, you got your dirty mites all over it. It’s so itchy I think I’m gonna die. What’re you gonna do about it?”

“What kind of claptrap are you…?”

“Nobody asked for your opinion.”

The one who seemed to be the leader kicked the old man’s shin hard with his toes.

Assailed by violent pain, their victim decided it would be best to just apologize and give them money.

He didn’t have time to bother with this filth. He had a mission to carry out.

“A-all right, I was wrong. If it’s money you w—”

One of the thugs curved his thumb and index finger as if he were holding a golf ball and jabbed them into the geezer’s throat. He couldn’t scream even if he’d wanted to. He couldn’t breathe, either.

“Nobody.
Asked.
How many times are you gonna make me say it?”

The pain was so intense that the old man nearly dropped the crate he was holding. However, grudging even the time it would take to catch his breath, he focused all his nerves on hanging on to the box.

“…What’s up, Gramps? Is that box that important?”

One of the men reached for the crate. At that, although there was no telling where the old man found the strength, he hugged the box to his chest as if protecting it from his attackers, and tried to run.

However, they tripped him again, and he toppled to the ground.

He’d fallen facedown, and they delivered a vicious kick to his ribs. The same foot was then used to flip him onto his back.

“We’ll take that box off your hands. …Not that that means we’re letting you off the hook.”

Keeping one foot planted on the elderly fellow’s stomach to hold him down, the leader bent over, reaching for the box.

Even then, the old man tried to resist. When he attempted to say something, a man in lightweight clothes who’d been standing on the sidelines kicked him in the head.

Overcome by the sensation of his brain rattling in his skull, the old man passed out.

“All right… What’s this stuff? Liquor?”

Opening the box, the muggers found two deep-green bottles. A liquid that wasn’t water splashed inside the oddly shaped receptacles. It was the way the liquid moved that made them think it wasn’t water. When it swayed, there was a subtle density to it.

If this stuff was liquor, why had the old man risked life and limb for it? Could it be terribly expensive liquor? As the leader weighed the possibilities, he noticed a boy watching them from a short distance away.

“…What, punk? What’re you looking at?”

Finding himself called out, Firo hesitated, unsure what to do.

If events had unfolded as per the thugs’ account, he figured the old man had only gotten what he deserved, so there was no help for it. He did think they’d gone a bit overboard, but it wasn’t much different from what he’d done to the slasher just that morning. Of course, at root, there was a significant difference between slander and murderous intent, but Firo didn’t particularly concern himself with that.

“Nothing… Anyone would get angry if some old bastard they just met called them ‘lowlife scum.’ That’s only natural. I was just thinking: If you rob him after that, are you prepared to get marked by the cops? Or are you confident you can vanish the coot and wipe your tracks? …Stuff like that.”