1931 The Grand Punk Railroad: Local

by Ryohgo Narita

  “Gentlemen, I regret to inform youthat there is a traitor in our midst.”

  The silence of the ranks was unbroken. Paying no particular heed to this, Goose loudly continued his speech.

  “A short while ago, our great leader, Master Huey Laforet, was apprehended by the government’s swine. Our great master is about to be judged by the benighted masses’ chaotic law!”

  His tone was gradually growing stronger, but there was no change in the dark light in his eyes.

  “However, that is an issue of no consequence! Through the maneuver which will be executed tomorrow evening, we will retake Master Huey without fail! The problem lies in the existence of the traitor who has made our master crawl through the land of humiliation!”

  Even after he’d said that much, there was no change. Not in the light in Goose’s eyes, nor in the expressions of the fifty men who listened attentively.

  “I investigated the existence of the traitor personally. However, even so, Master Huey is merciful. It is my intent to emulate him.”

  Clasping his hands behind him and turning his back on the ranks, Goose asked a question. A quiet, simple question.

  “Let me ask the traitor. If he has realized his error, let him take one step forward, without saying a word. If he does not have that courage, know that neither sophistry nor lament will reach me any longer.”

  At that, for the first time, expressions appeared on the faces of the ranks of men.

  The face of one man who had been standing at the head of a line twisted into a smirk, and he took a step forward.

  Then, the instant they saw that gesture, every remaining member of the ranks smirked, and all fifty men stepped forward together.

  “Well, Goose? How does it feel to be betrayed by everybody?”

  With an ironic smirk, the young man who’d taken the first step drew his gun.

  “After you tried to trick us with that painfully obvious bluff, too. My apologies. Still, you couldn’t have anticipated this outcome, could you?”

  However, Goose was unruffled. The dark glint in his eyes merely writhed, understated.

  “Let me ask you one final question, foolish Nader.”

  Possibly, he’d taken those words as surrender. Nader’s face twisted into happiness.

  “What might that be, Goose? Just so you know, if it’s about how you can be saved, I’ll tell you—there’s no way.”

  “So you dislike Master Huey and myself. Very well. However, on what sort of ideals do you intend to base your revolution? How will you bring it about?”

  As he posed his question, Goose’s expression was solemn. The traitors sneered at him with truly relaxed attitudes. Not even bothering to speak politely anymore, they answered him in tones mixed of pity and scorn.

  “Ha-ha, revolution? You’re well aware of the answer to that… It’s not even possible! Listen, we’re not gonna follow either you or Huey. We’re going to go sign on with Chicago’s Russo Family. With this many of us, all skilled fighters, we just might be able to take over the whole outfit one of these days. Actually, now that the feds have pinched Scarface, we could grab all of Chicago! From now on, the times belong to power, Goose, not ideals! At the very least, I’m more fit to use this group’s strength than you, who got booted out of the army, or Huey, who’s a total enigma.”

  Giving a faint sigh at that reply, Goose shook his head and told Nader:

  “Your answer is one I’d anticipated, but to think you’d try to join the mafia’s movement at this late date… What utter foolishness. Capone’s fall is an opportunity, you say? On the contrary. It’s robbed the Chicago mafia of any opportunities for the time being. Besides, without instructions from Master Huey or myself, do you imagine that greenhorns such as yourselves could last a single day in the shadows of Chicago?”

  “…Thanks for the warning. Is that all you had to say?”

  “No, there’s more. You called my words a bluff, but I wasn’t lying.”

  As he spoke, Goose lightly raised a hand.

  “Hmm?”

  “I told you, I’d investigated all the traitors. …As well as the friendly members who’d had enough of you.”

  As he brought his hand down, a ferocious roar rang out. It was the sound of several dozen guns firing at once, and after the roar had repeated several times, silence returned to the factory.

  “Wha…?”

  When Nader turned around, fearfully, the ash-gray floor had been stained a murky red.

  The men at the front of the ranks had acquired ventilation holes here and there on their bodies and lost their lives and were lying in the sea of red.

  The thirty or so men who were still standing had smoke-wreathed gun muzzles trained on the stunned Nader.

  “Y-you!”

  “What did I tell you, Nader? I said, ‘There is a traitor in our midst.’ However, I meant that you had been betrayed.”

  As Goose spoke, he was expressionless. In contrast, possibly because he hadn’t been able to process the sudden turn of events, Nader said nothing, but he was visibly bathed in cold sweat.

  “Each of these thirty men brought me reports that you intended to betray us. It seems they were unable to follow you. What a pity.”

  Maybe because he’d finally managed to get a handle on his situation, with his jaw chattering, Nader suddenly reached into his jacket and pulled out a glossy black handgun.

  A sharp, hot pain ran through his right hand.

  Thunk.

  The piece he’d just pulled fell quietly to the floor. It wasn’t until he saw the woman who’d appeared in front of him, unnoticed, that he realized his hand had gone with it, from the wrist down.

  “Cha…Chané…”

  Chané the Fanatic. The woman, who wore a military uniform, always followed Huey’s orders to the letter and was the best assassin in the organization. They said the assassins of Asia paralyzed their senses with drugs; she had paralyzed her entire body with ideas, to the extent that one wondered if she’d forgotten she was a woman, or even a human being.

  As Nader fought the pain in his arm, he desperately scanned the woman in front of him.

  “I-I thought you were dead. Didn’t you die when they caught Huey?!”

  Even at Nader’s scream, Chané stayed silent from beginning to end. Goose answered the question in her place.

  “She lived. She regrets it more than anything. I expect that’s precisely why she feels she must remove anything that threatens to obstruct the operation tomorrow evening.”

  Still silent, without even nodding in agreement, Chané quietly raised her weapon, which was dripping with blood. It was a thick, sharp military knife. The one that had just severed Nader’s hand.

  “Wait, Chané.”

  At Goose’s voice, they turned; Chané’s face looked questioning, while Nader seemed to be clinging to hope.

  And then Nader learned: Hope was something he should never have expected in the first place.

  “It would be boring to kill him easily.”

  “You sure about this, Goose? If you settle him like that, he might come back alive.”

  From the covered bed of a military truck, a subordinate spoke to Goose, who was in the driver’s seat.

  After the failed coup, Goose had tied Nader up, welded shut all the doors that led to the outside, and left the factory behind him. They’d stopped the bleeding from his wrist, but they’d destroyed all the vehicles except the ones they were using. This meant that, in order for Nader to be saved, he’d have to get out of the factory, then reach a town that lay several dozen miles away.

  “That isn’t an impossible distance to travel on foot, and it’s not as if he doesn’t have food.”

  “That’s true. You’re right. Right about now, he’s probably worn through his ropes by scraping them against a post and is trying to break down an exterior door.”

  “In that case…”

  “By the way, Spike. I trust your sniping skills haven’t deteriorated?”

  Stopping
the truck when they were about three hundred yards from the factory, he interrupted his subordinate with a question.

  “Uh…”

  “Shoot the white box beside the building entrance.”

  “…Ah. Roger that, Goose.”

  Responding with understanding, the man named Spike unfolded a bundle that had been in the back of the truck.

  Inside was a jet-black sniper rifle. It had been specially manufactured, and its barrel was longer than normal. Cheerfully, the man set it up in the back of the truck, took careful aim, and—

  “Annnd kaboom.”

  With those anticlimactic words, Spike pulled the trigger.

  A few seconds after the shot rang out, they saw the white box beside the entrance burst into flames. After Goose gained visual confirmation, he wordlessly set the truck in motion again.

  After another minute had passed, the factory exploded from the inside, shooting ferocious flames and pitch-black smoke into the sky. Seen from a distance, it looked almost like a miniature, but the delayed roar that followed echoed in their stomachs, eloquently telling of the scale of the explosion.

  “‘I might be saved.’ Dying in an instant while harboring that hope is a truly happy thing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That’s just like you, Goose. How benevolent.”

  At Spike’s ironic comment, Goose smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Joining in, the terrorists riding in the truck bed burst out laughing.

  All except one: Chané, who was in the passenger seat.

  “All right: Tomorrow evening’s plan must not fail. Once you’ve finished your preparations, make for Chicago Union Station.”

  Goose went over the next day’s plan with his group of more than thirty elites.

  “This country needs a rest. In order for that to happen, Master Huey is indispensible.”

  With the dark light in his eyes at maximum brightness, Goose made a quiet declaration:

  “To that end, let us make the passengers on the Flying Pussyfoot the valuable foundation…under our grave marker, the headstone of the Lemures.”

  PROLOGUE IV

  HOMICIDAL MANIACS

  December 30Afternoon

  Today is the worst day of my life.

  In a certain mansion in Chicago, Placido Russo, the boss of the Russo Family, was sure of this.

  The first trouble to occur had been that the month’s takings—a vast amount—had been stolen down to the last red cent while they were being transported.

  The criminals had been a man and a woman. Apparently, they’d been wearing Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb uniforms. Someone had suddenly yelled, “Keee-rack!” at the transporters from behind, and when they turned around, baseball bats had been swung at them. They’d managed to dodge the first attack but had then been hit in their faces with fistfuls of pepper and lime. While they writhed in pain, the bag had been lifted and the getaway made.

  Ridiculous. At first he’d thought it was a joke and had tortured the couriers, but apparently, it had been true.

  If that had been all, it wouldn’t have been so bad. But after that, a rumor had come in that one of his executives and several subordinates had been turned into pulverized cinders outside the city.

  He hadn’t confirmed it yet, but considering that a group had gone out to that district the previous evening to spy on some delinquents and hadn’t yet returned, it was probably safe to assume that it was fact.

  On top of that, the terrorist wannabes who should have joined up with them today hadn’t made contact, either. According to his subordinates’ reports, all that was left of the factory they’d been using as their hideout was a mountain of rubble and corpses.

  It would have been a nuisance to have people making noise about the Russo Family in connection with that conflagration, so he had the majority of his men out dismantling the factory and hiding the bodies.

  “Dammit! That lowlife Nader must’ve messed up. I guess he was just a two-bit punk. Which makes me an idiot to have expected anything from him.”

  However, the problem was serious. If Nader had sung about his relationship with the Russos, they might find themselves the target of unnecessary malice. After all, the other guys were terrorists. Not only that, but he really couldn’t tell what they were thinking.

  The gang of delinquents was a nuisance, too. They should have been able to ice the boss and his lieutenants at a stroke and end the whole thing; he’d never imagined they’d get killed by their targets instead.

  “For now, I’ll start with those weird robbers. Damn them. Starting tomorrow, I’ll throttle every blasted couple in this town…!”

  “Yeaaaah, I wouldn’t, Uncle. Do it, and you’ll have people thinking you’re a jealous old geezer who can’t get a date.”

  Someone suddenly spoke up from behind. When he hastily turned, his nephew, Ladd Russo, was standing there.

  Hair that was neither long nor short, and the dark suit that was standard among the mafia. He was a bit on the tall side, but none of his features particularly stood out. He was a genial-looking young man, and the word normal seemed to fit him like a glove. In contrast, the way he spoke was incredibly flippant, and he had no concept of manners.

  “Oh, it’s you, Ladd. I don’t have time to deal with you today. Scram!”

  “Hmm? What’s this, what’s this, what’s this? That’s pretty cold, ain’t it, Uncle? What makes you think you’ve got that kind of leeway, hmm? It’s money, you know, money, money, the almighty money that you value right next to your almighty life, and some almighty somebody else took off with it. So this is what you really want to say, ain’t it, Uncle? Leave no stone unturned— Nah, burn the jungles to ash if you have to, find the criminals, and choke ’em, choke ’em, choke ’em until they foam at the mouth and keep choking ’em until their eyes pop out and then keep right on choking ’em—”

  As his nephew kept talking, his derisive tone never wavered. Placido shouted at him, his face bright red.

  “Don’t put me on your level, you murdering hedonist! Do you have any idea how much money and manpower I’ve spent cleaning up the guys you kill for fun?!”

  Murdering hedonist. There was really no better way to describe Ladd.

  His true nature wasn’t his appearance or his words. It lay in the pleasure he sought, and in his greed for it.

  He lived purely to kill. What distinguished him from hitmen, who killed for a living, was that he killed for fun.

  Even so, Ladd had been kept in the family because he was incredibly skilled at finishing off enemies during disputes. It certainly wasn’t his job, but it was true that as a result, he was known as the best killer in the Russo Family.

  That’s right: He was a crazed, murdering hedonist who lived to follow his desires. Placido was sure of it.

  At least he had been, up until this moment.

  “Hey, there’s no problem. I brought you some good news, Uncle.”

  “Say your piece. Then get out.”

  His uncle brushed him off coldly, and Ladd gave an exaggerated shrug. Then he said something far too abrupt.

  “See, I hear you’ve got money problems, Uncle, so I’m gonna go cause a little trouble tonight. If I pull it off, I’ll lend you some of mine. My dough.”

  Because the way he’d phrased it had been unnatural, for a moment, Placido didn’t understand what his nephew was saying. Anticipating this, Ladd kept speaking.

  “It’s that, that thing—the limited express leaving from Union Station tonight. The Flying Pussyfoot, I think it was. The nonstop that goes straight to New York. I’m gonna hijack that a little and run it right into the middle of Manhattan.”

  At those words, the inside of Placido’s head went pure white for a while.

  “…And that bit’s a bluff. First, I threaten ’em with that, see? Then, if they don’t pay up, I turn it into a passenger kidnapping on the spot. Well, then, see, if I kill off about half the passengers, I bet the railway company will probably cough up for me. I get to kill people, I get money�
�� Sounds like a plan, right, Uncle?”

  “Get out.”

  That was all Placido could say. His reason had finally begun to work again. Whether the guy was joking or serious, he couldn’t waste any more time on him. Where were the guards, where had the servants gone to?

  “Hey, somebody toss this idiot out.”

  As Placido called for someone, the half-open door slowly opened farther, and several men and a woman came in.

  They were all strangers to Placido. Disturbingly, all of them were dressed in white. The men wore white suits or sweaters, and the woman wore a pure-white dress. Their outfits were too much for a wedding; it looked as if they were headed to a costume party.

  At that point, for the first time, a trace of impatience appeared in Placido’s expression, and an alarm bell began to sound in his head.

  Even then, holding onto all the dignity he could muster, he questioned the intruders:

  “Who are you?”

  However, Ladd was the one who answered the question.

  “My men-and-friends who share my hobby. Oh, and the doll’s Lua. She’s my lover-and-girlfriend-and-fiancée, so treat her nice, Uncle.”

  “Um……uh, delighted…”

  Even the woman’s face was white, and she gave a greeting that wasn’t a greeting in a scarcely audible voice.

  “She’s, whaddaya call it, kinda timid? See, though, I’m always wired, and it neutralizes that, so we go round ’n’ round ’n’ round, see? I guess you’d say we’re a good couple?”

  “Silence!”

  Placido’s angry roar echoed through the room. Lua flinched and shrank into herself; Ladd gave an especially exaggerated shrug.

  “You come in here and spout complete hogwash— Dammit, what are the guards doing?!”

  Placido stood up, striking the desk with his fist as he did so. He grabbed Ladd’s collar and hauled him up.

  “Listen to me, you blasted lunatic brat! Go right ahead: Kidnap or murder or whatever you want, but you are not allowed to use our outfit’s name. Kill however you want and die however you want, but do it as a nameless nobody, a guy who doesn’t exist!”

  He spit the words at him, loaded with menace, but they seemed to have no effect whatsoever on Ladd; he talked back to his furious patriarch.