Baccano! - Volume 18 - Chapter 2

Chapter 2 No Rest for the Agents

A few days earlier Somewhere in New York Victor’s investigation headquarters

“Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know. Shut the hell up.”

In a storehouse in one of the brand-new warehouse districts on the outskirts of Manhattan, a simple row of desks had been set up and covered with messy piles of transmitters and documents.

In this extremely sparse investigation headquarters, a man with glasses spoke in a loud, irritated voice. “How many weeks has it been since Huey evaporated from his goddamned cell at the end of the year? Are you people incompetent? Damn right you are! And so am I. We haven’t found one damn clue about what that terrorist is up to!”

The man, whose temples were twitching as he berated both his subordinates and himself, was Victor Talbot. One of his men, Bill, scratched at his own temple and drawled, “Uh… Well, I understand that you’re upset with Laforet, but would you go on, Assistant Director?”

“…Yeah, you’re right. Sorry ’bout that.”

Apologizing with surprising meekness, Victor—assistant director of a special department that existed within the Division of Investigation—took another look around the warehouse. Bill and Donald, who’d been working under him for a while now, were in there; he also spotted Edward Noah, who’d acquired too much dignity for them to get away with calling him “newbie” at this point.

The Bureau of Investigation had undergone a name change in 1933, becoming the Division of Investigation, but the positions Victor and his men held were still the same. He’d heard a rumor that the name would change again in July, this time to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but his group’s distinctive character probably wouldn’t even flicker.

Around the men who’d been with him for long years were several unfamiliar faces. Their eyes were focused either on Victor or on their sheaves of documents. Everyone looked tense. They were new members—agents who’d been brought in as reinforcements when the terrorist Huey Laforet had broken out of jail.

They were dealing with immortals, beings that shattered preconceived notions, so naturally, they’d been strictly screened to ensure their philosophies and personalities would be a good fit.

However, that wasn’t the only problem.

“Just to be on the safe side, I’m gonna ask—how much do the newbies understand?” Victor asked.

“Uh… What do you mean by ‘understand,’ sir?” Bill replied.

“Okay, here’s a question: You over there, new kid. Who’s our enemy?”

The person he’d abruptly called on responded without a moment’s hesitation. “Those who would harm the nation.”

“Tch… Correct,” Victor grumbled.

Edward was familiar with the man’s personality by now and understood the meaning behind his boss’s frustration. He probably wanted the newbie to say “It’s Huey Laforet” so he could show off and tell him, “Absolutely wrong, you idiot!” Edward heaved a mental sigh over his boss, who was in the habit of acting overly controlling in weird situations.

Oblivious to his subordinate’s feelings, Victor impassively went on with his lecture.

“Not everyone who’s involved with the elixir of immortality is the enemy. Whether they’re immortals or demons, we’ll pull the ones we can use over to our side and make ’em work for the good of the country… Although it’s pointless to hope for hard work from a bunch who can just exist forever.”

It’s often said that people live in order to die. Victor had predicted that when people who’d gained eternal life got lazy and started to think, I’ll get around to it someday, their someday would never come, so they’d grow lazier.

And in fact, once they’d lost their mortal time limit, several of the immortals he knew had degraded into apathetic ennui before they eventually disappeared.

Of course, they hadn’t vanished of their own accord. They’d all been consumed by the hand of a guy named Szilard Quates.

Immortals. As the word implied, they had escaped the irreversible current that flowed from life to death, gaining the right to live forever.

Thanks to the alchemical elixir of immortality, they had acquired bodies that would never age. In addition, those bodies would regenerate completely from any disaster whatsoever, even if they were cut into tiny pieces, burned, ground to a paste, or dissolved in acid.

According to the demon who’d given Victor and the others the elixir, there was only one way for them to die. He’d said it was a measure for when they grew tired of living, when eternity was nothing but despair for them.

Fellow immortals were able to kill one another.

Or more accurately, they could absorb the other into themselves. To use one turn of phrase, eat them.

They’d place their right hand on the other’s head and focus on their wish to eat.

With nothing more than that simple magic word, the immortals—who could survive a dip in molten lava or a beheading—would summarily vanish from this world.

All the knowledge they’d stored up over those long years would be inherited by the one who’d eaten them.

Assuming the newcomers would already know this about the immortals, Victor went on. “Even if the likes of terrorists and the mafia weren’t interested in eternal life, they’d probably be real keen on the idea of pawns that won’t go down. You fellas need to keep a sharp lookout for those antisocial elements and for spies from enemy nations… Especially spies. For example, if they made somebody who held classified intel drink the elixir of immortality, then ate them…all those secrets would be theirs.”

“In that case, you mean an actual immortal would be working as a spy?”

“That’s right. Don’t try to size up immortals using common sense. Not only do they not die, they’ve lived several hundred years. They’re like storybook vampires; you’ve gotta take a different idea of common sense than you’re used to. Particularly when it comes to the ones that didn’t get lazy.”

Remembering Huey’s face, Victor ground his teeth as he went on. “You’ve already pounded the name Szilard Quates into your heads, right? The old guy was greedy as hell. He was the type who wanted money, power, everything. He also wanted knowledge twice as much as the next guy. Lots of alchemists have an unlimited thirst for knowledge. That means some of ’em would eat their comrades just because they want to know precisely what they know.”

When they heard those words, although the newbies nodded gravely, one doubt seemed to have occurred to them. Donald noticed that they seemed hesitant to put it into words, so he spoke up in their place. “You look like you’re wondering whether our Assistant Director is that type.”

Bill picked up where he’d left off. “Uh… Well, can’t say as I’m surprised. The assistant director does seem pretty possessive.”

Victor clammed up, temples twitching.

The newbies looked away, trying not to meet his eyes.

“…Don’t worry, kids. You’ll just have to take my word for it: As a scholar by nature, I do have a thirst for knowledge. Unlike Szilard, though, there’s no knowledge I want so bad I’d eat some other guy’s brain to get it.” Managing to swallow his irritation, although it took some doing, Victor clicked his tongue. “I hate other people’s leftovers, see?” He returned his gaze to the documents. “Immortality? The ability to eat other people? You can get to the truth without that stuff.”

This didn’t seem much like a lecture for new recruits, but the agents who’d been recently assigned to this department were listening to him seriously. They’d probably already sensed the truth for themselves, somehow. Immortals weren’t a fairy tale, a delusion, or some sort of camouflage. They actually existed.

“Were those suits you’re wearing made by immortals? What about the shoes on your feet? The guns on your hips? Have you heard any rumors that the designer at Colt’s Manufacturing Company was an immortal?”

“Erm… Sorry to butt in, but Donald and I have Smith and Wessons,” Bill said.

“Don’t interrupt,” Victor shot back, a vein on his forehead threatening to burst. Then he took his gun from its holster and set it on the desk. “Listen up: You can’t kill an immortal with a gun, but you can stop ’em in their tracks. If you plug them in the head, they’ll be unconscious until they regenerate. However, enemies that ain’t immortal—mafia, terrorists, those fellas—will die if you put a bullet through their skulls. In exchange, assume they’re a whole lot more used to shoot-outs than we are.”

He stared at the handgun on the desk. His voice was clear throughout the room. “The greatest weapon we’ve got isn’t a gun. It’s the fact that we’re fighting for the country. America will endorse you in the pursuit of justice. If you do your jobs right, I will, too. Assume you’ll be able to support the country just as much as other agents. Before too long, you won’t have to buy your own guns; they’ll be issued to you.”

Adding irrelevant remarks as he went, Victor continued. “Well, we shouldn’t have any fellas here who’ve been corrupted by mafia bribes, but…I’ll be praying that you men stay on the side of justice.

“I won’t stop you from getting greedy and becoming immortals. Just be real careful not to become enemies of the state.”

Ten minutes later

After their “class” had ended, Victor and the rest of the group got to work summarizing the current situation.

Using chalk, he wrote on a blackboard, which had been nailed to the wall of the warehouse.

“All right. Lemme give you the lowdown on the garbage dump you’re gonna be watching.”

The first letters he wrote spelled out The Martillo Family.

“So first off, don’t take your eyes off these guys. They’re mafia—they call themselves Camorra, but a gang of criminals by any other name is just as rotten. They’re a small outfit whose turf covers parts of Little Italy and Chinatown. They’re not worth paying attention to.”

He snorted, but then his expression abruptly turned serious.

“…Except for the fact that some of their execs are immortals.”

He tacked several photos to a corkboard that hung beside the chalkboard, the first one being an elderly man.

“This guy’s the boss, Molsa Martillo. I hear he came over from Naples, but it doesn’t sound like he made any substantial contact with immortals while he was there. That said…”

Victor turned to the next photo he’d tacked up, which showed a bespectacled young man. Victor resettled his own glasses on his nose.

“This one’s Maiza Avaro. He’s also from Italy—specifically Lotto Valentino, which is over by Naples—and there’s a good possibility that’s why he and Molsa hit it off.”

Lotto Valentino.

Maiza Avaro.

When those two names came up, a ripple of tension ran through the newbies. They’d seen both of them mentioned here and there in the materials they’d been given ahead of time, often enough to leave an impression. Once the new agents actually read through the materials in detail, they came to the conclusion Maiza Avaro and Lotto Valentino were the origin point of everything they had to deal with.

At this point, Lotto Valentino was a simple tourist spot, but it had once been a city of research that had attracted alchemists from all over Europe. Maiza had apparently been the oldest son of one of the town’s noblemen, but he’d studied alchemy and had left the area. No one knew how it had happened. Along with many other alchemists who’d assembled in Lotto Valentino, he’d boarded a ship bound for America, the Advena Avis.

Huey Laforet, who would go on to become a terrorist, and Victor Talbot, who would join the Bureau of Investigation, had both been on that ship. They’d been members of the group that had formed around Maiza.

In that sense, the man with whom Victor had the most fateful connection was Maiza.

“We don’t have a complete handle on whether or not Maiza spread the knowledge of immortality around. However, even if we don’t know all the details, it’s a fact that he got his hands on Szilard Quates’s elixir of immortality. And Szilard, the guy who’d made the elixir…”

At that point, Victor tacked up a new photo.

It showed a baby-faced young man in a pale green suit. He appeared to be somewhere in his mid to late teens.

“He got eaten by this fella, one Firo Prochainezo.”

“How did that kid end up immortal? Did Maiza give him that stuff to drink?”

It was a perfectly natural question, and Victor shrugged, shaking his head. “No clue. Even I dunno the details there. I don’t even know how many other members of the Martillos drank it. What’s important ain’t how he got that liquor. It’s what he’s planning to do now… Well, we did get him to work for us once, but that doesn’t mean we can slack off on watching him.”

The next photo he pinned to the board showed a woman with rather short brown hair who was wearing a man’s suit. “So this doll here is Firo’s servant. She was originally an actual doll—a homunculus—created by old Szilard, but there’s a note about that in your materials, so I’ll skip the explanation. The important thing is that she’s got knowledge of all sorts of martial arts stored in that brain of hers. If you assume she’s a frail woman, she’ll break your neck for you, so watch it.”

That could have been either a joke or a serious warning. Victor tacked up photos of the executives one after another, elaborating as he went. He pinned materials—including photos taken without the subjects’ knowledge—to the corkboard, covering everything from major executives like Ronny Schiatto and Kanshichirou Yaguruma to Pezzo and Randy, who were relatively low-ranking members.

He was clearly proud that there was nothing the Division of Investigation couldn’t find out.

However, a voice echoed through the warehouse, easily destroying that mood.

“I see. Very well researched.”

The voice seemed to have come from the upper reaches of the warehouse. Every agent in the room looked up, but all they saw was a perfectly ordinary ceiling. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it. Bewildered, the agents let their eyes return to the front of the room, and that’s when they saw him.

“Granted, it’s all superficial, but you’ve done a meticulous job here. Quite admirable,” the man commented quietly.

He was standing in front of the corkboard, scrutinizing the materials that were tacked to it.

“Waourwagh?!”

The strange yelp had come from Victor, who was closest to the man.

Up until just a moment ago, no one had been nearby, and yet an unfamiliar man had abruptly appeared right in front of him. You really couldn’t blame Victor for his less-than-cool reaction.

“Wh-why, you…!”

“Relax. I’m unarmed. If you’re foolish enough to start a gunfight here, you’ll only gun each other down. I’d hate to be the cause of that, but… Well, never mind.”

Seeing several of the men reach for the roscoes at their hips, the man spoke calmly.

At that point, the agents realized something.

They’d seen this man’s face a few minutes earlier, in a photograph on the corkboard.

“Ronny…Schiatto.” Victor’s voice was a strangled groan.

Removing his hat, Ronny spoke dispassionately. “Hmm. I thought I’d leave you to it, but I have one correction to make. Look at the twelfth line on page three of our caposocietà’s personal history. You have his name as ‘Malsa Martillo.’ You should watch your spelling. If there were an actual person named Malsa Martillo, you’d have the makings of a false charge here.”

What the man said sounded like a joke, but for some reason, no one felt like disobeying him. In spite of themselves, the trainees turned to the relevant page and promptly found the spelling error there. The fact that a man who had just appeared had pointed this out meant the materials had been leaked, and the tension in the warehouse ratcheted up a notch.

What should they do with this guy?

Taking positions that would let them draw their weapons at any moment, the agents focused their attention on their on-site commander.

The commander—Victor—held up a hand. “Calm down, men. Unless he makes a move, don’t touch your guns.” Then, giving the other man an appraising look, he quickly grimaced. “I remember now… You’re the magician who threatened me last year, huh.”

About two months ago, after he’d made Firo Prochainezo his pawn and sent him to Alcatraz, Victor had paid the Martillo Family a visit. Things had gotten ugly, and after Kanshichirou Yaguruma had tossed him across the room, this strange man had shown him something peculiar. Victor had explained it away as sleight of hand, but even if the guy was a fellow resident of New York City, he couldn’t explain away the fact that he’d turned up right here, right now, as a conjuring trick.

Even as he held back his subordinates, Victor gave the man an openly hostile glare.

Ronny’s expression clouded over slightly, and he sighed. “You even had a photo, and you didn’t realize it until just now…? Is my face that forgettable?”

Ronny was genuinely concerned, but to Victor, the remark sounded like a taunt. Even so, he responded with sarcasm, not anger. “Yeah, well, you were the hardest one to find dirt on. There’s all sorts of stuff about you in connection to the Martillos, but your past is a total blank. You know what? Enough of this. I’ll get it out of you at my leisure, after I arrest you for unlawful entry.”

“That would be a problem. Telling you about my past in depth would take several years at the least. If you’ll compensate my company for the damages my absence will cause them, I could take it under consideration, but…”

Victor knew Ronny had said company because, at present, the Martillo Family was publicly posing as a company that operated restaurants. They’d probably managed to break into the business, even in the middle of the recession, by making skillful use of connections from their speakeasy days.

“You think you’ve got the right to refuse?”

Victor’s response was only natural. Ronny put a hand to his chin, thinking. “When exactly did I enter illegally?”

“Huh? What kind of bull…?” Just as he was about to say bullshit, it happened.

Out of nowhere, wind blew inside the warehouse, scattering the materials stacked on the desk into the air.

The paper acted as a smoke screen, blocking the agents’ view, but only for a moment.

In the next instant, their vision cleared, and they saw Ronny Schiatto standing outside the window, in the street that ran behind the warehouse.

“…Huh?” Victor sputtered.

Bill and Donald had stayed calm, but Edward’s eyes were wide with surprise, and the newbies couldn’t even seem to get their questions straight in their minds.

At some point, Ronny had relocated to a spot outside the window.

That was plenty strange enough all on its own, but there was something else.

“Um… I, uh… Was there always a window there?”

Bill’s question froze all the newbies’ spines at once.

However, the incomprehensible situation actually calmed Victor down. He fired a question through the window, his eyes sharp. “What the hell did you do?”

“Why don’t we agree to call it…magic?” Ronny’s face was expressionless as he made this proposal, and Victor found himself at a loss for words.

Without waiting for his answer, the man who was the Martillo Family’s chiamatore, or secretary, spoke to the new agents. “Well, never mind. Rookies, this is the world you’ve stepped into.”

Strangely, although Ronny was speaking from the other side of a closed window, his voice echoed clearly all throughout the warehouse.

It was almost as if he was speaking directly into their minds.

“I’m not sure whether I should welcome you to this side of things, or deal with you here… Well, never mind.”

Two minutes later

After Ronny Schiatto made himself scarce, the investigation headquarters recovered from its confusion.

They’d covered the window with a spare corkboard, and all the scattered documents had been collected.

Part of the reason they’d managed to calm down a mere hundred and twenty seconds after seeing something that bizarre was the fact that they were outstanding agents. The rest was probably because they had already spent so much time recognizing that they were dealing with immortality, something beyond the bounds of common sense.

Victor was impressed, but he wasn’t about to show it. “You’ve still got a ways to go. Kids, you gotta learn how to calm down in five seconds. When you get to my level, a magic trick like that won’t even shake you up in the first place.”

Once he was finished bluffing, he resumed his lecture. The first photo he posted showed a small child.

“Czeslaw Meyer. He’s an immortal who came over to America on the ship with me. God knows why, but he’s staying with the Martillo Family, too. He’s also suspicious, in various ways.”

He took Czes’s photo over to the blackboard and stuck it up with cellophane tape. Cellophane tape had been invented only five years ago, but the radical discovery had spread around the world, radiating a sense of prosperity in the midst of the Great Depression.

“Right, right. Even this cellophane tape wasn’t the work of an immortal. Humans made this. You don’t need to be afraid of magicians like our recent trespasser, or of this Czeslaw kid, either, obviously.”

When Victor, a former alchemist, had first seen cellophane tape, he’d said, “Why didn’t I come up with this stuff?” He’d been thoroughly frustrated, but as if to say he’d already forgotten about that, he put the tape to work.

Although the incident a little while earlier had made the rookie agents freeze up, this positive side of his was gradually helping them relax.

That is, until they saw the two photos Victor stuck to the board next; their hearts skipped again.

“Prior to a few years ago, this kid apparently had a connection to this guy. It wasn’t direct, but we know he made contact with a group who had the guy’s personal support for a few things.”

One of the photos showed an old, bespectacled man: Bartolo Runorata. No one needed to be told he was the head of the Runorata Family, one of the five biggest syndicates on the east coast.

“And then, behind the scenes, Bartolo here is linked to this guy… Although it may have nothing to do with the immortals.”

The other photo showed a late-middle-aged man with a distinctive mild smile: Cal Muybridge. He was also famous enough that he needed no introduction. He was a giant who was the founder and current chairman of Nebula, a Chicago conglomerate.

“On top of that, when we checked into the connection between Bartolo and Nebula specifically with regard to the immortals, one other name came up.”

He smacked another photo onto the board, exasperated. Its subject was Manfred Beriam. He was a senator, and the fact that a photo of him had turned up here sent a new current of tension through the rookies.

Nodding in apparent satisfaction at their response, Victor tapped the photo of Czes on the blackboard.

“Check that out: All we did was poke this one immortal who looks like a little kid, and look how big it’s gotten. Now do you see just what kind of battlefield this department is standing in the middle of?”

The newbies’ silence was as good as agreement.

Victor went on.

“There’s no telling what the hell this innocent-looking kid might be plotting at this very moment.”

Meanwhile New York, somewhere in Little Italy The restaurant Alveare

“So what are you cooking up this time, Czes?”

“Let us in on it.”

In the bar, an abnormally thin man and a fat man were talking to a boy.

The boy, Czeslaw Meyer—who only appeared to be around ten years old—grinned at them.

“Um, next, I’m thinking of hiding Firo’s clothes while he’s in the shower. Then, while he’s trying to find them, I’ll have Ennis take him another set.”

Czes’s scheme made the men in the place cackle loudly.

“That’s rich! He’ll turn red as beet, fling the window open, and jump right out!”

“Nah, he won’t be thinkin’ that hard. He’ll dive straight through the glass, count on it.”

The boy was planning a dumb prank on his naïve companion, and the executives of a criminal organization were getting in on the action.

In the middle of this extremely peaceful scene, a man poked his head in through the restaurant’s door.

“Huh? Hello, Mr. Ronny. Where did you go?” Czes immediately switched his attitude from mischievous to well-mannered.

As Ronny answered, his face stayed expressionless. “Mm… There was an error in some paperwork. I corrected it.”

“It’s pretty rare for you to make a mistake, Mr. Ronny.”

“No, the mistake wasn’t mine… Well, never mind. Everyone errs sometimes.” Sitting down at the counter beside the table where Czes and the others were, Ronny muttered to himself. “I’d like to go without another error for a little while, at least.”

“What are you talking about?” Czes cocked his head, perplexed.

Gently dropping his left hand onto the kid’s head, Ronny smiled faintly. Then he said something that, to Czes, sounded like nothing more than a joke.

“Even I can’t rewind time, you see. I’m just hoping no one dies.”

Meanwhile Somewhere in New York Victor’s investigation headquarters

After a glance at the silent rookies, Victor got back to the main topic again.

He stuck another photo below Bartolo’s.

There was a handwritten name on the photo: Begg Garrott.

“This guy’s Begg. He’s an immortal and Bartolo’s protégé of sorts, but at this point, he’s just a petty thug who pushes dope. Sure, he’s an enemy of the state, but he ain’t the type to come up with massive plans… That said, don’t get careless around him.”

As he listened, Edward thought, The one who seems most likely to get careless is Victor, but he didn’t say it. Compensating for their boss’s flaws was one of their jobs. He focused on the information that was accumulating on the boards.

The posted intel outlined a “current situation” that was split across several groups.

1) Huey Laforet

He was the core of the meeting’s topic and the root cause of the whole affair.

Huey Laforet was an immortal who used a variety of terrorist units—the Lemures, Larva, Rhythm, Time, Sham, Hilton—as his pawns for acts of terror all over the country.

Until just the other day, he’d been in Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary, locked away in a special cell not shown on any map. However, he’d successfully broken out through Hilton’s special power and his unique characteristics as an immortal, and his whereabouts were currently unknown. After one last reported sighting in Chicago, he’d managed to completely disappear.

Huey possessed special information networks known as Sham and Hilton. Based on what the division had heard from Firo, who’d infiltrated Alcatraz for them, Victor and his associates had determined that it would be extraordinarily difficult to shut those networks down. That meant they’d need to accept that a certain amount of their intel would be leaked to their opponent and find a way to outfox them.

2) The Martillo Family

The group’s importance had been explained in detail earlier.

There had been a change in the last few minutes, though; Ronny Schiatto’s photo had acquired the word Dangerous, inked on in bold letters.

3) The Gandor Family

This New York mafia outfit, which interacted with the Martillo Family, was rumored to have been involved in several immortal-related incidents. More than anything, the underworld rumor that the Gandor bosses were immortal was being treated as important information the division couldn’t afford to ignore.

Three brothers—Keith, Berga, and Luck—ran the organization as its top executives. They were an odd group. Their turf was small, but they stayed independent, and they hadn’t put themselves under the protection of one of the big syndicates.

There had also been sightings of a saloon girl wielding two Japanese swords and of a guy who constantly walked around with scissors. There was definitely something about them that set them apart from ordinary mafia groups.

4) The Runorata Family

In addition to their connections with Czeslaw and Begg, they’d caused trouble with the Gandor Family in the past, and the DOI was looking into them from a variety of angles. There was a rumor the Runoratas were keeping an enormous bear on their property, too. The outfit was a hotbed of potential trouble.

In terms of violence alone, they were one of the strongest organizations linked to the immortals, and the division would probably have to cooperate with other departments in order to gather information on them.

Nonetheless, Victor’s policy was that, if their course of action overlapped with that of another department, their own department should prioritize actions related to the immortals.

5) The Nebula conglomerate

Founded by Cal Muybridge, Nebula had initially been a small company that planned events and manufactured equipment for amusement parks. However, it had grown into a global corporation with a truly diversified administration. It was involved in everything from grocery sales and chemical engineering to ironworking and insurance, and lately it had branched out into publishing and weapons development.

Earlier in the year, an incident involving the immortals had occurred at Mist Wall in New York—and although Victor’s group had had a hard time believing it, it appeared as though more than a thousand employees had been turned into incomplete immortals: people who would regenerate from injuries but continue to age.

In addition, the corporation was connected to the Lemures’ 1931 occupation of the Flying Pussyfoot; Nebula had owned the train on which the incident occurred.

On top of that, they were believed to have been deeply involved in the Chicago affair two months ago, and a focused investigation that targeted them was currently underway.

6) Senator Manfred Beriam

As one of the most influential members of the Senate, he had both financial clout and political might, plus hand-trained private soldiers. Victor had received information that Beriam had employed a man named Spike, who had originally been one of Huey Laforet’s subordinates, and he might have had connections to Huey.

If that information was true, it would mean that Beriam had picked up one of the terrorists who’d once taken his wife and daughter hostage, which meant he was more than worth keeping an eye on.

Due to Beriam’s position, the division had to move carefully.

He was on friendly terms with Nebula, and he’d made use of his political position to hush up the Flying Pussyfoot incident.

7) A gang of delinquents in New York

There was a group of juvenile delinquents who were led by a young man named Jacuzzi Splot.

At a glance, they didn’t seem to have any connection to the immortals. However, they’d been spotted during the incident in Chicago that had been discussed earlier, the Mist Wall incident, and also the 1931 incident on the Flying Pussyfoot, which meant they were definitely people of interest. For reasons unknown, they’d become caretakers of the Genoard family’s second residence on Millionaires’ Row and were using it as their base.

Their relationship with the affluent Genoard family was currently under investigation.

8) The Russo Family

A syndicate in Chicago believed to have had ties to Nebula.

Their boss, Placido Russo, was missing, and the syndicate was effectively wiped out.

Placido’s son and daughter-in-law were already dead, and his grandchild Ricardo Russo was missing as well. Apparently, all the young thugs he’d trained had vanished from Chicago.

There was one other concerned party whose family name was Russo.

“Does this Ladd Russo goon want to take over the syndicate?” Victor asked.

Bill scratched his temple. “Hmm… I really couldn’t tell you. It’s true he’s a pretty dangerous character, but…”

Ladd Russo was Placido’s nephew and allegedly a hitman employed by the Russo Family. The division hadn’t been able to prosecute him for murder due to lack of evidence, but he’d been sent to Alcatraz for his assault on the Flying Pussyfoot in 1931.

That said, since that entire incident had been covered up, the fact of the matter was that they’d scraped together other crimes and somehow managed to put him away.

Since they hadn’t been able to get any proof of murders committed by Ladd himself, he’d gotten off with a lighter sentence of only a few years.

The next bit had caught the attention of Victor’s group, though.

This Ladd Russo guy seemed to have an obsession with Huey Laforet, and he’d apparently let slip to other prisoners that he was going to kill him.

“Uh… If I remember right, Huey Laforet was on Ladd’s mind back when we picked him up by the rails, too.”

“What’s this hitman’s beef with Huey? It doesn’t look like they’ve ever met… Is it because the Lemures kneecapped his train robbery, so now he hates their boss? Heard some of his pals died, after all,” Victor mused, then stuck a note that said Watch this guy on Ladd’s photo. “Anyway. Tomorrow he gets out of jail.”

At that bombshell, the agents exchanged looks.

“He may try to make contact with Huey, or maybe Huey will get interested in the guy who’s trying to kill him. Tomorrow, I want several of you on duty watching this fella.” Victor paused as something else came to his mind. “Huh. All else aside, the guy’s a hitman. Even if it’s got nothing to do with the immortals, keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t try anything. Keep your identities under wraps as well as you can, though.”

Victor was about to wrap up his talk there, but Donald interrupted from the sidelines.

“’Scuse me, Assistant Director. There’s one more bit of information to add to the materials.”

“What is it?”

“Tomorrow, one other related party is being released from the same prison.”

“…? Whozzat?” Victor asked grumpily. He didn’t have any idea.

He probably didn’t like the fact that there was information he didn’t know, but Donald chose not to believe his boss was that petty in favor of the optimistic interpretation that he was enthusiastic about gathering intel. He filled Victor in matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, it’s a coincidence that he’s getting out on the same day as Ladd Russo, but…”

After a few minutes, Victor thought for a little while on this new information. He was wondering whether this other person who was being released had any connection to Huey’s upcoming experiment.

Of course, he couldn’t rule out any possibilities. Unfortunately, the number of agents he had was limited.

In the end, Victor decided to disregard the man.

“…I really doubt Huey would mess with that guy anymore. However, just for the first three days, watch him.

“You’re gonna be guarding him, too.”