“…Be grateful and take ’em.”
It didn’t look as though he’d taken much of a swing. However, the punch the boy paid out had enough force behind it to break the hobo’s front teeth.
“—!”
The impact of the blow slammed the back of the panhandler’s head into the brick wall. This, in combination with the pain from his front teeth, elicited a wordless scream, and thenhe slid, slowly…scraping his back down the wall…finally crumpling messily to the ground.
Unlike before, he’d completely lost consciousness, so he didn’t roll around on the pavement this time.
Slowly, the boy relaxed his clenched fist. One after another, coins dropped from it. They rained down onto the man’s face, which was smeared with blood from his nose and mouth. His mouth hung open, sloppily, and a few of the coins fell in. The dry, metallic sound of the ones that hit the pavement was drawn into the decaying air of the alley.
“…Hmm?”
Glancing over, the knife from earlier lay on the ground, a little ways away. Its shape was common, and it wasn’t worth much.
I guess I’ll toss it in the river…
The lad turned back for a moment. The panhandler was definitely out cold. Still, just to be on the safe side, the boy decided to take the weapon.
Just as he reached for the cheap, dully gleaming thing, a voice called his name.
“Firo Prochainezo. Hold it right there.”
Quietly withdrawing the hand that had almost touched the knife, the boy—Firo—cast a look toward the voice…toward the mouth of the alley…the light of the street.
He saw the figure of a young man standing with that light behind him. The newcomer was probably in his midtwenties. Over a brown suit, he wore a black coat that covered him down to his knees.
“None of that. Hands off the evidence.”
Turning unpleasant eyes on Firo, the young man slowly picked up the knife with white-gloved hands.
“Edward… What’s going on here?”
“That’s ‘Mr. Edward’ to you. Address your betters politely…kid. Or you can call me ‘Assistant Inspector Edward,’ if you’d prefer.”
With an arrogant smile, the man in the black coat—Assistant Inspector Edward Noah—quietly raised his right hand.
At that, several men appeared behind him…and began collecting the torn paper bag, the scattered coins, and the unconscious idiot, one after another. None of them paid any attention to Firo. They were each a head taller than he was, rendering him, quite literally, out of sight.
“Hey, men, be careful. Don’t step on the brat and squash him.”
Letting their boss’s lame joke pass without comment, the men continued working silently.
“…Huhn. Unsociable lot.”
“Explain this, Ed—…Mr. Edward. You’re making me look like a fool.”
Firo, who’d kept mum up to this point, spoke quietly.
The goods had been mostly taken away, and the men who’d been working diligently were nowhere to be seen. The only trace of the recent incident was a small bloodstain left by the panhandler.
Edward answered Firo’s question without turning, or even looking over.
“True, you’re not a fool. A scumbag, yes, and an urban tick, but not a fool.”
“Don’t dodge the question.”
An edge of irritation was creeping into Firo’s voice. With a sneer at that irritation, Edward leaned back against the brick wall and lit a cigar.
“Come on, dial back the menace. The scum you just laid out… We’ve had an eye on him for a while. He’s a suspect.”
“Suspected of what?”
“Murder. We think he used the same method he tried on you. He’d pretend to be a panhandler in some back alley, check the clothes—or the wallets—of softhearted ladies and gents, and if they looked like they had enough money to make it worth the risk, he’d run ’em through with a knife hidden in a paper bag… Like that. Although we only just found out about the paper bag.”
“Why’d you leave a guy like that on the loose?”
“We had eyewitness testimony, but no real clincher. We were planning to step things up by using an officer as a decoy and catching him red-handed.” Edward took a big puff of his cigar.
“…And then I showed up?”
“That’s about the size of it. Frankly, if it hadn’t been one of you people, we would have sent someone through casual-like and made sure you stayed safe, but…”
“…So you had your eye on that from the beginning. That’s a nice little hobby you’ve got. Were you watching an altercation where somebody might have gotten killed like it was a boxing match or something? …I bet you ate your way through most of your popcorn, didn’t you?”
“And because we agree, we’re overlooking your excessive use of force for you.”
“I’m so obliged I can’t stop crying.”
“You know, personally, I wouldn’t have minded a bit if you’d gotten yourself shivved and died, but… That was a very impressive dodge.”
“When somebody’s panhandling in a deserted spot like that, you keep your guard up. Then there was that obviously suspicious paper bag. …I’m lucky he didn’t have a gun in there.”
“Oho? Then why didn’t you just ignore him?”
He posed a very natural question.
“I didn’t feel like it today. If he had been just a panhandler, I was going to give him some money… Hey, why are you trying to pick a fight with me, anyway?”
“Remember what I said? The culprit only went for people with fat wallets. He only tried for scores that were worth the risk of stabbing somebody in broad daylight and making a run for it. See, I couldn’t believe a brat who’s not even twenty yet would have a fortune like that…”
This was sarcasm: Edward clearly knew he had it.
“…So, what? You’re going to take me in for theft or tax evasion?”
A sharp light had come into Firo’s eyes.
“Ha! Is that a joke? Who’d need to beat around the bush like that for a two-bit punk like you? Even if you were at the top of your ‘syndicate,’ a weak little outfit like that is nothing but bait for everybody else! The only reason it’s still around is because it’s so unappetizing no one even looks at it!”
“—One more word, and I’ll take it as an insult.” Firo spoke briefly and flatly.
Just as the boy was wondering how to get rid of this guy, someone called his name again. This voice was kind and calm, the exact opposite of Edward’s.
“There you are, Firo.”
A tall, mild-looking man with glasses stood at the border of the broad street, where Edward had appeared a short while earlier. In the light that flooded in from the avenue, his pale, brown hair shone like gold. At first glance, he could have been taken for someone Edward’s age, but the vague atmosphere the man wore made it difficult to discern how old he was.
“We were going to meet at this hat shop, weren’t we? You didn’t come. I was worried, and then I heard your voice out here…”
Although there was no telling what he was so happy about, he beamed a startlingly bright smile.
However, as if in exchange, at the sight of that effusive expression, Edward’s conceited smirk disappeared completely.
“You’re…”
“Maiza! Oh… I’m sorry. I got pulled into some trouble…”
Firo’s attitude was the polar opposite of what he’d shown Edward, the assistant inspector. He hastily straightened his collar and stood tall, correcting the slight slump his shoulders had settled into.
On the other hand, Edward glowered and stubbed out his cigar on the brick wall.
“Maiza Avaro. Well, well. Fancy meeting the Martillo Family contaiuolo in a place like this…”
There was tension in Edward’s voice. In contrast, Maiza returned his greeting with a disarming grin.
“Erm…… Ah. If it isn’t Assistant Inspector Edward. You seem to be in exceptionally good humor today.”
It was a pre
tty ironic way to greet someone who was clearly in a foul mood, but possibly because the man was beaming, Edward didn’t really feel as if he’d been the target of sarcasm.
“…Huhn… Should’ve known. Unlike the brat, you at least know how to greet people properly.”
“No, no. I won’t be able to call you ‘Assistant Inspector’ for much longer, you see.”
“……?”
“I hear you’ll be ‘Agent’ Edward, starting next week.”
At that, the assistant inspector’s eyes went wide, and his mouth flapped several times before he responded:
“What…are you talking about…?”
“Oh, was I wrong? There’s a little rumor going around town.”
Edward’s eyes flared with hatred. It was true that, next week, he’d begin his training period with the Bureau of Investigation (which would, five years later, be renamed the Federal Bureau of Investigation…the FBI). He hadn’t even told his sweetheart or his colleagues, so why were the sort of people who really shouldn’t have been in the loop in the know?
Resolving to track down the source of the information leak, the young assistant inspector turned his gaze back to Firo out of sheer embarrassment with himself.
“…Anyway, Firo, listen up. It doesn’t matter who you give handouts to. Nobody’s gonna see you as anything but a phony. Quit doing useless nonsense and either get yourself out of town already or get ready to do time.”
The conversation had shifted back to him abruptly, and for a moment, Firo was bewildered. Before long, though, he answered as though it was a pain in the neck.
“Like I care? Even if I’m posing or doing it to make myself feel good, it’s all the same to whoever gets the dough. Who exactly am I bothering with this so-called phoniness, huh? Where are they?”
“Don’t think everyone will be happy to get that dirty money you bring in.”
“…That makes donating to community chests and organized charities a real nice system, doesn’t it? There’s no way to tell which money came from where.” Firo didn’t deny the part about dirty money. “Not that I make a habit of giving handouts.”
“That again… What is today to you, anyway?”
Just as Edward asked his question, Maiza broke in:
“Firo, we should be going. …That’s all right, isn’t it, Assistant Inspector?”
“…Uh, yeah…”
“Oh… I’m sorry, Maiza. I did keep you waiting, didn’t I?”
The two of them prepared to leave. Watching them go, the young assistant inspector mulled.
A skilled up-and-comer in a syndicate and one of its senior executives. A special day.
Something occurred to the detective, and he called at the boy’s back.
“Firo, don’t tell me you’re…”
The lad stopped. His back remained turned as he faced the broad street.
“…Don’t tell me… An executive? …Are they promoting you? You? One of the associates?”
He frowned as he asked the question, as if doubting his own words.
Edward had lived in this city a long time, too. He admitted that Firo was a capable foot soldier in his syndicate, but he was too young to be promoted to executive. The “boy” wouldn’t be twenty for another year and a half, and he looked three or four years younger than that. The idea of this kid being made an executive of even a small underworld organization—no, of any organization at all, even a daylight one—was inconceivable.
Still, he’d heard there was a special ritual that accompanied promotions. Firo had said he was meeting a senior executive—one who, as a rule, would never allow an audience—at a hat shop… He knew that on “special days” a central figure of Firo’s syndicate always visited a milliner or tailor. Just knowing this wouldn’t get Edward anywhere, but it was a good way to gauge who the players were.
“Hey… Is that really it?”
The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t deny it, either. Without a word, he started walking again.
Edward took that attitude as affirmation. With an appalled smile, the sort he would have worn on hearing a tall tale down at the bar, he kept right on talking, aggressively.
“Seriously? They’re actually making you an exec? You? A little brat like you? You’re puttin’ me on, right? C’mon, now… Hurry up and tell me I’m wrong. I’m about to bust a gut over here. So, what, is your outfit really that short on people?”
The pair ignored him and set off. It didn’t bother Edward. He went on, laughing. “Or, you know, I always thought you had a kind of girly face… How many executives do you gotta lay to skip to the top like that, huh?”
Silently, the two men stopped.
Firo wondered if a threat was in order. His thoughts went to the knife at his hip.
“Assistant Inspector.”
However, it was Maiza who turned first.
Still wearing that benign smile, he faced the assistant inspector and said, simply:
“Go any further, and we’ll take it as an insult.”
Edward’s expression froze. His sneer died in his throat.
Maiza’s smile was simple and honest, and his tone was no different from what it had been a moment before.
However, the poor assistant inspector had realized something.
I’m going to die.
The instant he said a single word about “the syndicate” or Firo, the man in front of him would probably kill him. The cold emotion resonating deep in that voice had him convinced.
The eyes were what drove the thought home. They elicited in the inspector an unnamed fear, as if something unknowable was stealing into them from their depths…
As Edward closed his mouth, realizing he’d broken out in a cold sweat, Maiza laid a hand on Firo’s shoulder and continued:
“…True, our syndicate may exist only to be eaten…”
He paused for a moment.
“…but be careful not to let the poison do you in.”
That bastard. So he was eavesdropping.
Edward thought this but was unable to actually verbalize it. The sensation of cold sweat had reached his back.
Firo was still glaring at the assistant inspector. Patting his companion’s shoulder twice, Maiza stepped out onto the thoroughfare as though nothing had happened. As if drawn by the motion, Firo’s feet also turned toward the avenue.
“…Reme… Remember this… Even if you kill me, I’ll never accept Mafia scum like you… Someday…I’ll wipe you out…! I swear it!”
Behind them, the pair heard the assistant inspector’s strangled voice.
“Ah. We aren’t Mafia.”
Waving a hand lightly, Maiza answered without even turning around.
Firo followed him, and they disappeared into the crowd.
“We’re—Camorra.”
In the alley, after they’d gone, the assistant inspector’s fists trembled.
“Uh… Assistant Inspector, we should head back to the station.”
Just then, one of the officers who’d been confiscating the evidence a minute ago returned.
“…And where were you?”
“Erm…well… We were all waiting in the car, but you didn’t come, so…”
“Don’t give me that! You just couldn’t bring yourself to turn up until now because you were scared of that contaiuolo!”
“S-sir, that isn’t…”
The officer’s face went pale, signaling to the assistant inspector he’d guessed right.
“You scumbags call yourselves policemen?! What is our job, huh?! To protect the laws of the United States and the safety of its citizens, that’s what! Their kind threatens both! What good are we if we’re afraid of them, too?!”
He kicked at the redbrick wall repeatedly with his nearly new leather shoes.
His accusation went for himself as well. The idea irritated him even more.
“Maiza Avaro…Firo Prochainezo… I didn’t like them before, and I swear I’ll take them down someday with my own two hands!”
In
an attempt to calm the enraged assistant inspector, the foolish police officer added an ill-considered joke:
“That sounds like a line from some mafioso in a novel.”
Edward’s aggrieved leather shoe landed a vicious kick on his subordinate’s shin.
“Apparently we’re going to get wiped out.”
“Ah, scary. People like that are truly tenacious. …Although, with police officers, the tenacious ones are the ones you can trust.”
Firo and Maiza looked at each other and chuckled.
“What would we be doing trusting cops?”
After leaving the alley, the two of them walked between Little Italy and Chinatown, heading toward the Manhattan Bridge. They’d met at the shop in order to buy a hat, but since that particular haberdashery had proven “unlucky,” they’d decided to go elsewhere.
“If we’re going this way in any case, I know of a good shop.”
As a result of Maiza’s suggestion, they ended up walking for nearly an hour.
“Musicals are wonderful, aren’t they…? What do you suppose the Good Witch from The Wizard of Oz does for a living the rest of the time?”
The man called Maiza really didn’t seem like a camorrista.
He didn’t brawl, he didn’t yell, he smiled constantly, and he was polite to absolutely everybody. In general, he didn’t seem to have any of the traits of a denizen of the underworld. Had he behaved this way only in town, it would have been possible to assume that he was hiding his true colors from the world, but he remained unchanged even at syndicate meetings or when doling out orders to his subordinates.
When the Camorra and the Mafia were compared, the Camorra was often said to be the more violent of the two. However, not a glimpse of that desolate reputation was discernible in Maiza.
People said he’d been appointed contaiuolo because he was the best in the organization at reading, writing, and sums, but it was weird that a guy like him was in the organization at all, let alone an executive. That was how it felt to Firo, at least.
Some of the lowest associates even looked down on Maiza, calling him a “coward” and “gutless wimp.” Firo thought the guy was all right, so he stood up for him whenever he could, but unfortunately, if the man in question was speculating about The Wizard of Oz, nothing Firo could say was at all convincing.
The Rolling Bootlegs Page 3