Baccano! - Volume 4 - Chapter 2

GANDOR FAMILY

“I tell you, it’s a dangerous world these days.”

Contrary to the young man’s words, the New York sky was perfectly clear and tranquil.

The sun had just reached its zenith, and it shone down warmly into the alley, which was hemmed in by redbrick walls.

Although the alley was in Manhattan, it was a little ways away from the cluster of skyscrapers. In front of a used bookstore surrounded by faded tenements, the young man asked the proprietor another question:

“Don’t you think so? The recession shows no sign of improving, and the government’s response always seems about to change something, yet never does. We go around in circles, while business and public order continue to slump. I expect it makes it difficult for you to relax and ply your trade, doesn’t it?”

“No, sir. Thanks to you, my store’s managing to get by somehow.”

The proprietor of the bookstore spoke humbly, although the young man before him was about his son’s age. The shopkeeper’s gestures and tone were perfectly meek, but a complicated look simmered in his eyes.

“Really? You don’t seem to be getting many customers… If there’s anything we can do to help you, just say the word, anytime.”

“But, sir! I don’t even pay you for protection; I couldn’t put you to that sort of trouble…”

“We haven’t sunk so low we’d take protection money from used bookstores. If you’re ever in need, we’ll fix you up with enough for living expenses. We’re in your debt, after all.”

“I couldn’t possibly, sir! It’s thanks to you and the other Gandors that I’m able to relax and focus on my business. You don’t need to go that far for me!”

This was the answer the young man had expected. Not many people could meekly say, “Please do loan me some money” when they heard those words from him.

The Gandor Family was a small syndicate that controlled a very tiny portion of the streams of money and people that jostled each other in Manhattan. Their territory wasn’t large, but within it, their influence was absolute.

Years ago, the outfit had managed only half the territory it held now, but since the boss’s seat had been handed over to the three brothers—his sons—the territory they controlled had begun to expand vigorously. They simultaneously protected and terrified the residents, in the old-fashioned way, and they avoided interacting with other syndicates any more than was strictly necessary. Other than nonaggression pacts, they took no protection from larger organizations and refused to place themselves under their control. They simply and stubbornly stood their ground.

Naturally, in order to do that, they often had to get far rougher than any other organization their size would have been able to manage.

…And one of those bosses had just told the bookstore owner that the world had “gotten dangerous.” Was it some kind of joke? Keeping that question locked inside his heart, the proprietor smiled at Luck Gandor, the youngest of the brother dons.

At first glance, it seemed to be an amiable smile, but it didn’t go past his lips. On the other hand, the proprietor’s eyes weren’t smiling at all, and in the depths of his soul, he felt an indescribable terror.

The old bibliophile spoke rapidly, hoping to shake the feeling—

“Ha-ha-ha, well, you know how it is. I trust everything’s going smoothly for you and your family, Mr. Gandor?”

“No, no, even we have a worry or two.”

Shaking his head, the young boss began to expose just a little of his position. The subtle extent to which he did this was an important factor in determining whether his organization gained the trust of the regular citizens.

However, he couldn’t show true weakness. As the shadow king of the neighborhood, the syndicate’s struggles revealed in situations like these were often things that troubled the residents as well. As a matter of fact, for the most part, the syndicate guys made it sound as though they themselves were troubled, when in fact the only ones who were really in trouble were the residents they were talking to.

“You see, there are things we can’t even look you in the face over. The matter of those drugs, for example.”

“Drugs…? No, no… The youngsters are just bringing those in from somewhere on their own—that’s all!”

“Still, it’s a fact that they’re here.”

The Gandors didn’t deal in drugs at all. This was another reason the people in their territory trusted them, but the truth was that their organization simply wasn’t strong enough to handle the narcotics trade yet.

If they’d had that sort of power, they might have gotten involved, and then again, they might not have. This was a thought Luck had from time to time, but in the end, the fact that they didn’t have the strength for it didn’t change. Personally, Luck wanted to avoid losing the trust of the people who sheltered them by carelessly getting involved in something destructive. The Gandors were tied too deeply to the residents of their territory to sow the stress and chaos that drugs brought. However, these thoughts were pure calculation.

Berga probably hasn’t thought about the profit in drugs, and it’s likely that Keith genuinely detests them.

His mind drifted to thoughts of his middle brother, Berga, and their older brother, Keith.

If roles were assigned to the three brothers, Keith’s was protection, Berga’s was fear, and Luck’s was cunning. These were, quite simply, the impressions the three gave the people around them, particularly the upstanding citizens.

Keith’s protection of the residents seemed to stem from a sort of pride rather than from morals. For that reason, when it came to getting involved with people’s lives or deaths, there was a line he refused to cross. Working from that fact alone, there was scarce possibility that the Gandor Family would ever branch out into drugs.

However, an abnormality had unmistakably started to occur within the area they managed.

Lately, a new type of drug had begun circulating in their territory, slipping through the gaps in their control.

It hadn’t turned into a huge uproar yet, but rumors of the drug were spreading steadily. Finally, just the other day, the actual substance had been delivered to the Gandors.

Once they knew it really existed, they couldn’t ignore it.

No matter what, they’d have to pinpoint where it was coming from and settle the issue.

Luck’s vulpine eyes narrowed even further, and the dark smoldering inside him gradually grew fiercer.

“What’s this? A screenplay? That’s rather unusual.”

On seeing Luck pick up a worn booklet, the shopkeeper spoke, his smile widening…

“Yes, sir—if it strikes your fancy, go right ahead and take it!”

“I couldn’t do that.”

Shutting the matter of the drugs inside his heart for the moment, Luck drew a thick billfold out of his jacket.

For a moment, as he reached for the bills in the wallet, both his hands were occupied.

“Bweh-heh.”

Abruptly, Luck heard an odd groan behind him. Curious, he turned around.

But just as he did so, the blade of a knife swept through his throat.

“Ghk…”

A sharp heat, and the unpleasant pain of metal scraping against cut flesh. By the time Luck understood it, bright blood was already spurting out, dyeing his vision solid red.

“Yeeee?!”

On seeing Luck topple to the ground with a thud, the shopkeeper finally grasped the situation.

Beyond the spray of blood, a lone man stood in the sunlit road.

He was middle-aged; his quivering skin had a sickly sheen to it, and his clothes were ragged. He had a knife in his hand, and his eyes glared wildly.

“M-m-mur-mur-murdeeeeeeeraaaAAAAAAaah!”

The sudden catastrophe had left the shopkeeper inarticulate; he was petrified with fear, unable to move.

“You saw kill, me, kill—kill kill kill witness kill Luck killed, killed, saw it, saw, you saw, kill-kill-kill-kill, witne-kill-Luck-kill-bookstore-kill-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-kill, kill you, kill—kill—”

The man had completely lost his focus. The incoherence seemed rooted in his brain rather than his mouth.

“YeaAAaaaAAAaagh?!”

The attacker raised his large knife, brandishing it at the shopkeeper. It was the blade that had just slashed Luck’s throat, and Luck’s blood was nowhere to be seen.

“Kill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill, kill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ilΓΓΓΓΓΓΓΓΓΓΓΓΓΓ!”

With a moan like some demonic instrument, the man brought down the clean, gleaming knife.

Crunch. His arm stopped dead, just before the blade reached its second victim.

After a moment of confused silence, the shopkeeper gingerly opened his eyes.

His assailant was still standing there, the corner of a book jammed into his temple. The hardcover was in the hand of the guy who’d just gotten his throat cut.

“Are you all right?” Luck asked.

As the last word ended, the man with the knife tottered, then fell over, right in the shop’s entrance.

There wasn’t a scratch on the mobster’s throat. The blood one could have sworn had spattered across the books in the storefront had disappeared without leaving a single stain.

“Uh, wha…? Huh? Mr. Luck, Mr. Luck, you just… Huh? What just…?”

Ignoring the confused proprietor, Luck picked up a red magazine as though nothing had happened.

Then, tearing its cover to shreds, he spoke to the shopkeeper with a cold smile.

“Well, well. That was a close shave. If I hadn’t instinctively blocked with this magazine, I’d be dead.”

“Huh? But, um, no, there was…blood…”

“You saw the fragments of this cover scatter and misinterpreted it. It really was very sudden.”

“But—”

The shopkeeper hung on doggedly. In response, Luck sprinkled the fine bits of red cover around.

“Ah, I’ll need to compensate you for this book.”

No sooner had he spoken than he pressed a thick stack of bills into the shopkeeper’s hand. The sum was enough to keep the man well-fed for a month, let alone cover the cost of the book.

“N-no, I—uh! I can’t take all this!”

Ignoring the proprietor’s yelp, Luck folded his fingers around another stack of bills, repeating himself emphatically:

“What that idiot cut was this book. Understand?”

On hearing that, the shopkeeper couldn’t argue. He only nodded.

“Excellent. Intelligent people do very well in business. Give it your best, please.”

Luck had already turned his back on the shopkeeper, and he began to walk away, carrying the man with the dented temple over his shoulder. Their sizes were far too mismatched: He looked like an ant carrying a dead beetle.

In parting, he lifted his hand in a casual wave to the shopkeeper:

“It really is a dangerous world…isn’t it?”