Baccano! - Volume 3 - Chapter Pr

TERMINAL

WHAT CAME AFTER

1932January Somewhere in New York

“Welcome to our information brokerage. We sincerely appreciate your visit.”

In a room lit by the dim glow of candlelight, a man dressed like a bank clerk spoke, smiling.

Although those words and that smile seemed ordinary at first glance, something about them felt terribly out of place.

The building was a small one, in an unobtrusive location in a corner of Manhattan. Officially, it was the office of a newspaper, and in fact, it did publish one. It was a small paper, with less than one one-thousandth the circulation of the New York Times, but even so, there was no need for the company to abandon its office.

The newspaper publishing business was conducted only for the sake of convenience: The revenue brought in by the organization’s side business—selling information—was far greater.

Ordinarily, no information brokerage would have based itself in one location. In this business, the atmosphere you see in movies and novels—of people being slipped notes in back alleys and the corners of bars—felt much more appropriate. In the first place, once people knew where an information brokerage was, it could be wiped off the map at any time.

Even so, in addition to being a newspaper, this office displayed an information brokerage sign as well. It had a proper storefront, which, in a way, made it an embarrassment to its trade.

The fact that it didn’t get wiped off the map meant there was reason enough not to do so, but the current visitor didn’t pay the least bit of attention to that. They simply began to talk about the information they were looking for.

The man at the desk nodded slightly in response to the visitor’s words, then showed them to a private room in the basement.

“All right. You’ve requested information regarding the ‘incident’ that occurred the other day… How much do you yourself know of what took place on that train?”

Speaking with what seemed like excessive politeness, the man from the reception desk began to discuss the visitor’s request.

“It began in the dining car of the transcontinental limited express, the Flying Pussyfoot. While the train was in transit, bound for New York, three gangs of robbers found themselves on it together. One was a terrorist group dressed in black, commonly known as the Lemures. Their objective was to take the train’s passengers hostage and demand the release of their leader, Huey Laforet.”

Lightly raising his fingers into empty space, the man began to describe the situation glibly.

“Then there was a group of failed mafiosi in white. Their leader was Ladd Russo, a relative of Placido Russo—boss of the Russo Family, one of Chicago’s many mafia organizations—and a skilled hitman. Their objective was a reckless massacre, conducted for money and pleasure.”

The man from the reception desk kept talking, sounding quite entertained. It wasn’t clear whether he was paying attention to his visitor or not.

“The final group was… Officially, they were simply called ‘passengers,’ but we hear that the presence of a gang of young people who’d planned a freight robbery has been confirmed as well. As an aside, they don’t seem to have touched any of the regular cargo. In any event, these three groups came into conflict with one another…and ultimately, victory went to the gang of young robbers. Are you with me so far?”

The answer to the receptionist’s matter-of-fact tone was a quiet nod from the visitor.

“Well, well. That’s very good indeed. It wouldn’t be at all odd for someone who had been involved to be cognizant of the situation up to this point. In that case, if you’ll permit me to ask, what sort of additional information might you want?”

Responding to the courteous man, the visitor slowly related what it was they were seeking. On hearing this, the man from the reception desk nodded, looking satisfied. It was as if these were the words he’d expected to hear all along.

“I see, I see, yes, I understand. What occurred behind the scenes of that incident: That is the information you seek, correct?”

Getting up from his chair, the receptionist walked slowly toward the visitor.

“It’s true that, ordinarily, someone who was only marginally involved in that incident would want to forget it, but…if you were rather deeply entangled, I expect you wouldn’t feel satisfied until you knew everything.”

Even as the receptionist nodded cheerfully, there was a tinge of sadness in his eyes.

“Well, well. I do pity our president. I really do. The president is the one who most wants to relate the information you’ve requested, but wouldn’t you know it, he’s away just now. Ha-ha. These things never do go as one would like. I only thank God for the fact that I am able to tell you in his place.”

The receptionist quirked a single eyebrow and smiled.

“All right. In that case, let me tell you exactly what it was that happened in the shadows of the incident that night.”

Abruptly turning serious, the man got down to business with his client.

“Now, then: While you are here, you must not, under any circumstances, take notes on the information I am about to relate to you. It isn’t permitted, so you mustn’t do so. We will not let you get away with a single letter. We request that you keep this information in your memory, and nowhere else. Once I have told you everything, you may write down what you remember. At that point, you see, it will have mingled with your subjective view and will have ceased to be accurate information. Just think of it as a ritual that allows us to stay in business. Even if only in the eyes of the public, original information must remain the exclusive possession of information brokers and providers.”

Having spoken that far without pausing, the man from the reception desk narrowed his eyes and looked straight into the eyes of his visitor.

“What I am about to say next is not simply a formality: I recommend that you refrain from investigating our information providers. —You will die.”

Seeing his visitor gulp, then nod, the man smiled brightly and returned to his chair.

“The thugs aboard that train were truly suited to the epithet ‘evildoers.’ Of course, there were ordinary passengers on board as well, but the ratio was far to one side. However, the three groups of which I spoke earlier weren’t the only threatening elements on the Flying Pussyfoot. Among them were individuals too far removed from the realm of human common sense to be called thugs. One was a contract killer nicknamed ‘Vino,’ a monster who has been conflated with a type of urban legend: Claire Stanfield. Another is—”

At this point, the man broke off, then spoke to his visitor as if testing them:

“Are you aware of the existence of beings known as immortals?”

With his lips still warped as if he was enjoying himself, the receptionist resumed his detailed explanation without waiting for an answer.

“Alchemists who strayed from their path and attained immortality… Technically, calling them undying isn’t quite correct. To be accurate, there is one way for them to die, or in other words, one way to kill them. One simply has to put their right hand on another’s head and think, firmly, ‘I want to eat.’ That’s all. Just by performing that simple ritual, one is able to steal all there is of the other immortal: their life, their body, their experiences, their knowledge, and sometimes even their emotions. They are able to take everything into themselves equally, through their right hand… In other words, to ‘eat’ it! —Well, whether you believe it or not is entirely up to you, but…it is the truth.”

Having confirmed that the visitor wasn’t arguing or scoffing, the man from the reception desk warped the corners of his mouth even further.

“And the name of the individual aboard that train was—”