Baccano! - Volume 16 - Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

The newshound hammers his own opinions into society

New York Wall Street The third floor of a certain building

“Hey there, Lester. Fame sure is rough, huh?”

“Stop, please.”

As the young journalist walked through the door, the other reporters all started razzing him at once.

Here at the editorial department of a major newspaper, one journalist had become the center of attention as the first eyewitness of an Ice Pick Thompson incident.

Lester, the young reporter, lowered himself wearily into his chair.

The other journalists considered whether to talk to him, but when they saw the chief editor approaching, they figured it could wait and returned to their own jobs.

“Lester, you okay?”

“Oh… There’s no problem.”

“How was the police inquiry? You’re usually one of the ones outside, asking how things are going in there.”

“Well, it wasn’t pleasant. They suspected I might be the culprit.”

Remembering what had happened in the interrogation room, Lester gave a short, sharp sigh.

He wrinkled his lip in utter disgust, as if he’d just bitten into a cockroach. From that expression alone, it wasn’t hard to imagine how he’d been treated.

“I bet so. After all, you submitted your article before the inquiry… Our president got a harshly worded complaint from the police, too.”

“Should probably apologize to him, then.”

“Hey, he was happy. He said sales of today’s morning edition were up thirty percent from yesterday, thanks to that.”

The man smiled wryly and shrugged, and some of the life returned to Lester’s face.

Once he’d brightened up a little, the chief editor went on gently.

“Geez Louise. The cops asked me for every little detail of your alibi, too. They wanted to know where you were researching while the previous four incidents were happening, for example.”

“Yes, and when I finally thought they were done suspecting me, they started doubting my testimony. They said I’d cooked it up on the spur of the moment, to sell more papers.”

“Yeah, well, they’re probably desperate to know whether it’s true or false. After all, it’s the first actual eyewitness testimony. Our paper’s gotten a ton of anonymous postcards, too, but it’s all bushwa. Some were so sure it was the work of ‘the Rail Tracer.’ Do you see any rails here?”

The man laughed in exasperated amazement, and Lester shook his head with a wan smile.

“Yes, I know how you feel. Up till yesterday, all the false information was giving me headaches as well.”

“You said it.”

The chief editor smiled again. Then his smile faded slightly, and he picked up a copy of their morning edition.

It listed the characteristics of Ice Pick Thompson, according to Lester.

• Arms and legs are abnormally long.

• Gaunt, wet with rain; he didn’t use an umbrella.

• Face was hidden by the collar of his coat and his distinctive hat.

• Held an ice pick in his left hand.

That was all. Constructing a mental image based on that information alone, it would be easy to assume it was fake.

“Makes me think of that old story—Spring-Heeled Jack. Minus the fox fire and bouncing.”

The demonic phantom was said to have actually existed in England at one point.

Lester sighed. “He isn’t that bizarre. He’s on Jack the Ripper’s level at best.”

“Still. What I’m getting at is that your eyewitness account is kinda half-assed in several places. Are you thinking about what’ll happen when they catch the guy? Is that why you’re worried about saying anything too clear?”

“That’s right. I’d rather not be called a liar.”

As they were talking, the staff member who’d been tending the phone raised a hand to get their attention.

“Lester. Phone call for you.”

“Oh, come on. The police again?” the chief editor complained.

The man shook his head, putting a hand over the receiver.

“He says he’s a Mr. Carl from the Daily Days.”

Evening The speakeasy Alveare

The bar was filled with a sweet aroma.

Alveare (Italian for “beehive”) was an odd little place, located between Little Italy and Chinatown.

Outwardly, it was a honey shop that fit its name, but it had another, hidden side.

If you walked between the shelves stocked with jars of honey, you’d find your way to the cash register, and behind it was a sturdy door with a peephole. If the proprietress let you through that door, you found yourself inside a direct result of the Prohibition Act.

A law that banned alcohol.

The law had been created with the public goal of societal order, but what it had produced was a kind of societal lawlessness several times more absurd and magnificent than it had been before the law was passed, and it had considerably more support from the people.

Speakeasies were where people could come together away from the eyes of the law and drink forbidden liquor together.

Both men and women stopped by in search of alcohol, and sometimes children visited, too. These nocturnal watering holes were built in the spaces between the citizens’ thoughts and the law, and they could never be made public.

In this era, New York teemed with these disguised underground taverns. There were said to be more than thirty-two thousand of them in New York alone, and finding a street that didn’t have one was a nearly impossible task.

The mafia amassed their power with bootleg liquor, and as a result, the effect of the law was the exact opposite of what had been intended. Most people rejected the restrictions of the Prohibition Act in favor of the allure of alcohol on the night wind.

In the back of a tailor’s shop.

On the second floor of a car factory.

In a shoemaker’s warehouse.

In the bottom of a boat moored by the riverbank.

In an unused operating room at a hospital.

These loopholes in the law existed even inside churches and funeral parlors.

Alveare was yet another sanctuary built in one of those loopholes.

As Lester made his way toward the back of the place, he glanced around warily.

The interior of the speakeasy looked like the set of a musical. The milk-white walls were illuminated by chandeliers, shining with a golden color that was reminiscent of honey.

The establishment was far bigger than the building’s exterior seemed to suggest, and it held about ten large, round tables covered with white tablecloths.

“I’d heard rumors about this, but…”

Apparently, several of what he’d assumed were separate buildings on the outside were connected on the inside. That thought changed Lester’s assessment of the speakeasy.

The Martillo Family.

He’d heard that an organization by that name ran this place. The gang was led by Molsa Martillo, and according to its members, it wasn’t technically mafia. They said it was part of the Camorra, an organization that had originated in the southern Italian city of Naples.

He didn’t know the difference between the mafia and the Camorra, and in his work as a journalist, Lester had never investigated this group very deeply.

I thought this outfit was too small to be bothered with… But I’ll be damned. From the looks of this place, you’d think it was run directly by one of the big syndicates in Chicago.

There was a stage of sorts at the back of the establishment, with more lightbulbs than usual around it.

On that stage, an Asian girl in a cheongsam was dancing with a large sword, and most of the customers were enjoying her flowing performance alongside the bootleg liquor.

Still, it practically reeks of honey in here.

The smell of honey was far stronger in the speakeasy than it had been among the jars of honey in the store.

The cloying fragrance mingled with the alcohol, and he wondered if drinking might make him sick.

Thinking he should probably hurry and sit down, Lester took another look around the place, and—

—at a table in the back, he saw a raised hand and a face he recognized.

Carl.

His old colleague.

A veteran reporter with more experience than he had.

And—the man he’d once tried to emulate.

And now he’s just a loser who switched to a dinky little paper.

Spotting the man he was trying to develop that conviction about, Lester swallowed hard, steeled himself, and started toward him.

“Hey, Lester. It’s been a long time.”

“…Evening.”

Nodding to the man, Lester took a seat.

Carl poured liquor into a cup for him. “Did she let you in without trouble?”

“Yes, quite easily, once I mentioned your name… I’m glad to see you’re in good health.”

“Well, I am, yes.”

“How’s your daughter doing?” Lester casually asked, watching to see the other man’s reaction.

In order to care for his ill daughter, this man had moved from the fast-paced workload of the major paper to the Daily Days, which could give him more flexible hours. Lester had heard the story, but as far as he was concerned, when Carl had disappeared, he’d just sneakily quit while he was ahead.

However—

“Oh, she died the year before last.”

“……”

The man’s frank remark left Lester speechless.

“But she didn’t suffer too much. For that I’m grateful.”

“I… I’m sorry.”

“Nah. It’s my fault for not getting in touch with you about the funeral. I wanted to lay her to rest quietly, you see, so I didn’t tell anyone except relatives and the president of my current company. Both my wife and my daughter died before I did, so now I can go to bars without worrying about what time I get home.”

Is that how it is?

Lester had no way to determine whether the other man’s actions were right or wrong, but he probably wouldn’t have gone to the funeral even if he had been contacted. He decided not to pursue the subject further. Instead, he asked about the reason for this meeting.

“Why did you call me here?”

“Ah, direct as ever. I’ve told you it’s easier to get information if you get a guy drunk first, haven’t I?”

“I’m well aware that wouldn’t work on you.” Lester’s face was expressionless while he answered.

Carl smiled quietly back at him.

As the silence became unbearable, Lester took a sip from his glass, but—

“It’s sweet?!”

—at the unexpected flavor, he abruptly pulled the glass away from his lips. Forget the alcohol; the sweetness was enough to burn his throat all on its own.

Watching Lester blink rapidly in surprise, Carl smirked, and he laughed out loud. “Ha-ha! It’s a shock, isn’t it? This place puts honey in their liquor. Everyone reacts that way at first.”

“…Are you tryin’ to mess with me?”

“No, no. Once you get used to the sugar content, it’s actually quite good,” Carl replied, taking a sip himself.

Lester watched him, bristling, but he went on with the conversation. “And? If you’ve got business, hurry up and state it. I’m a busy man, you know.”

“Yes, I saw today’s morning edition.”

“…Thanks.”

“It’s incredible. I bet you really impressed editorial with that one.”

…What’s he doing?

From what Lester knew, Carl wasn’t the type to be sarcastic or gripe. He’d switched to another newspaper, then lost his daughter. Had it changed him?

As Lester puzzled over his former coworker’s behavior—Carl smiled, citing a passage from the article.

“‘He was a thin man with abnormally long arms, and his face was hidden by his hat and collar,’ hmm…?”

Carl grinned—and then his smile abruptly vanished, and his sharp eyes met Lester’s.

“…That’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

Silence.

On the stage, the sword dance was reaching its climax, and Carl and Lester’s conversation didn’t travel beyond their table.

Still, Carl kept his voice low.

The claim that Lester’s testimony was a lie could destroy his future.

How much time had passed?

A few seconds ticked by, but they felt like hours to Lester. When he finally responded, his face was neutral.

“And here I wondered what this was about. But you’re just jealous? You may be the one who came up with the Ice Pick Thompson name, but scoops on that story belong to whoever gets them.”

“Of course. As long as they’re true.”

“Cut it out,” Lester said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to dislike you any more than I already—”

But Carl interrupted, rather aggressively. “Did you think I didn’t know?”

“…Huh?”

“Did you think I couldn’t check into those five victims?”

“What are you…?” The expression on Lester’s face was uncomprehending, but his gaze was elsewhere.

Carl set his elbows on the table, clasped his hands in front of his mouth, and kept on talking to the younger reporter, who still refused to look at him.

“No, it’s not what connects the five of them…”

“……”

“If we include you, it’s six.”

At those words, Lester fell silent.

It wasn’t clear how Carl interpreted that; he focused on Lester and quietly continued.

“You noticed it, too, didn’t you? When the first victim turned up, I bet you thought it was just a coincidence. Or you tried to think so. You did the same thing when the second one was killed.”

“……”

“By the third and fourth victims, though, you must have been sure: These serial murders were not random or for fun.”

“Why…? I don’t understand what you’re saying. How do you think I’m connected to the victims?” Lester bravely soldiered on, but his face was already pale. He tried to take a drink of liquor to camouflage his discomfort, but it was too sweet; the smell was an assault on his nostrils, and he couldn’t get the liquid down his throat.

“You know that very well yourself. The Daily Days newspaper may be relatively minor…but I’d bet its abilities as an information broker are beyond what you can imagine. I’m always startled by how sharp-eared and perceptive the president and vice president are, myself, but I digress.”

“……”

“I don’t know whether you actually saw a murderer. But if the murderer is the person you imagine them to be…then if that person were arrested, you’d be up a creek, wouldn’t you? On the other hand, you also can’t leave them on the loose. After all—”

“…I’m sorry, I really have no idea what you’re talking about. I have to edit tomorrow’s articles, so I’ll be going now.” With that, Lester rapidly got to his feet.

A voice called after him, but he ignored it and dashed out of the shop.

The proprietress held him back for just a moment, but when he told her “Carl’s paying,” she easily let him go.

Run. Run. Run.

Run. Run. Run. Run.

Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun.

He had no idea where he’d run, or how.

Nevertheless, to get even a little farther away from Carl, he kept running from alley to alley to alley—

Finally, exhausted, he braced his hands on the wall at a corner of the alley and vomited up what little liquor he’d managed to get down.

He’d been running from Carl’s words more than from the man himself. And from the “fact” those words represented.

Dammit.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. Why—why is this happening?

Then he remembered all that he’d witnessed. Everything he knew.

The thing he had in common with the victims, something only he should have known.

Leaning against the brick wall, he shouted into the deserted alley.

It was the one and only solid fact he could know right now.

“Dammit, goddammit… If it’s true… If Ice Pick Thompson really is who I think it is, then…”

There was no telling what his eyes were seeing as his frightened gaze wandered through the darkness.

“Then… Then the next target—! It… It’s gonna be me!”

He forced himself to acknowledge the hopeless truth with a scream no one else would hear.

“I’m… I’m the only one left!”

Meanwhile Somewhere in Little Italy

In an alley just off Mulberry Street, a lone boy stood frozen before the entrance of a small jazz hall.

The free and easy notes of the music filtered out, beckoning passersby into the building.

Yet, the boy couldn’t move.

He stayed there in front of the door, unable to leave, unable to step inside. All he could do was stand there, like a stone statue.

They’re just on the other side of this door. They’re here, in the basement of this place… The Gandor Family.

The Gandor Family.

They were the small syndicate in charge of this area, and if he could believe what the proprietor of the used bookstore had told him, they seemed to have some connection with people who didn’t die.

This very jazz hall was their hideout, and although the proprietor hadn’t said his name, that immortal was probably in there, too.

And yet Mark couldn’t take that first step.

Remembering why he’d come here, he tried over and over to summon the nerve, but—

If I step over this threshold, I really won’t be able to go back anymore.

—the conflict in his mind kept his feet rooted in front of the entrance.

The boy had resolved to die once. Why was he here, then? Why was he preparing to face an immortal monster?

With all these emotions and questions inside him, the boy waited.

There was a snik, and an easygoing voice reached the boy from somewhere behind and above him. “Saaay, what’s the matter?”

“Huh…?” When Mark turned around, he heard that sound again.

Snik.

Snik.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, but he couldn’t place it at first.

Not until he saw that the man behind him was holding two enormous pairs of gleaming silver scissors.

“You’re not going in?”

“Aah! …U-um…”

“It’s okaaay—they have juice and other drinks for kids, toooo. I drink them all the time, so if you ask, they’ll bring you some right awaaay.”

From his voice and gestures alone, he seemed like an agreeable young man, if rather childlike.

Except the scissors in his hands lent an air of insanity to his smile.

Mark didn’t know his name, but he was Gandor Family’s top torture specialist, Tick Jefferson.

Standing in front of him…

…the young torturer smiled innocently and snicked his scissors.

Snik snik

Snip, snip snick