Baccano! - Volume 4 - Chapter 5

RUNORATA FAMILY

A mansion on the outskirts of Newark, the capital of New Jersey

“And?”

The man who spoke was standing beside an ostentatious desk. He was probably over fifty; his wrinkles were neither deep nor shallow, and he wore intellectual-looking glasses on his dignified face. While there was no emotion to be gleaned from his tone or expression, the men in suits who stood around him all visibly tensed en masse at this single word.

“You’re telling me that not only did someone steal all of the new drug, but you let the thief get away?”

As the middle-aged man continued, everyone in the room gulped.

Then, looking like death-row convicts who’d walked up those thirteen steps, they waited for him—Bartolo Runorata, the boss of their syndicate—to finish.

After a breath that seemed like an eternity, Bartolo slowly closed his eyes and spoke.

“And?”

The big man who came forward to answer the question broke out in a cold sweat. “Right, we’ll mobilize all the men we can spare and find that guy—”

“What I am asking you is…”

Bartolo cut the other man off and quietly went on. “Exactly what benefit is there for me, you, and by extension the entire Family in your reporting every trivial thing to me this way?”

Although his voice was calm, the sharpness in it seemed to seize the hearts of everyone who heard it.

“Gustavo. I told you I was leaving the Manhattan business in your hands, remember? That means the only thing you need to report to me is either good news or bad news… Or what? Are you telling me you’re incompetent enough to judge an insignificant little situation like this one as ‘bad news’?”

The man he’d called Gustavo wore an expression that made him look like a frog that had been impaled by a shrike. His big body was quivering.

“Boss, I’d never…”

“So you’re competent?”

At those words, Gustavo went completely silent.

“I have plans to see my grandchild today. Don’t sully my memories of this day with dull talk.”

On that note, without giving him a reprimand or advice, Bartolo left the room.

The people who remained seemed to be trying to gauge what the others were feeling. All of them wore expressions of mixed unease and relief.

“This ain’t no time to turn cretin, men.”

Gustavo lit a fire under his subordinates; his expression and attitude had changed completely from what they’d been when his boss was present.

“Watch that mugger spread the drugs around for peanuts. They’d laugh us out of town! If that happens, our job in Manhattan might turn into ‘bad news’! Do whatever you have to—just find that punk!”

As far as they were concerned, this had been an enormous blunder.

Some absolute nobody had made off with a bag crammed full of drugs. It hadn’t happened because they’d been particularly careless. The carriers who were driving the car simply hadn’t been able to predict the situation.

They’d never expected a truck to plow into their side at full speed.

The impact had thrown them out of the vehicle, and a young guy had gotten out of the truck and run off with the new product, which was worth six hundred thousand on the market.

The culprit must have taken a big hit from the impact as well, but he’d fled the scene as if he couldn’t feel pain. Naturally, they weren’t able to report the damages, and the incident had been dealt with as a simple hit-and-run.

The truck had been stolen, and they’d gotten word that from the looks of the perpetrator, he was probably a junkie.

However, that district was run by the Gandor Family, and they didn’t deal in drugs at all. The Runoratas knew nothing would turn up there even if they looked, so their investigation from that angle had been lax from the beginning.

Viewed objectively, it was a priceless joke. The ones distributing drugs in that area were the Runoratas themselves. They’d been attacked by a kid who was high on drugs they’d sold. For dealers, it was a huge, unprecedented screwup of the absolute rock-bottom lowest order, the sort of spectacular error that would probably never be seen again.

“Just take back the goods. As long as you do that, I don’t care if you murder him or what—”

“I…can’t…have…that.”

Behind him, Gustavo heard an eerie groan. When he hastily turned around, Begg was sitting in a corner; apparently, he’d gotten into the room at some point. Even though there were lots of empty chairs, he was sitting right on the floor.

“Begg, huh? Don’t spook me like that! …And whaddaya mean, you can’t have that?”

“I…want to…ask…him…what he…thought. If…someone…did something…that reckless…while…on my drugs, I…absolutely…want…to…hear his…story. I…may…use him…as a test…subject…for my…new…drugs. So…if…you can, take…him…alive.”

“Of all the moronic—”

Involuntarily, Gustavo began to yell at him, but he kept the rest of the words locked in his throat. He didn’t know much about Begg, but when he’d joined this organization, the guy had already been there. He had to be one of the oldest members, but Gustavo didn’t even know his real age. At a glance, he looked to be around thirty, but it had been eight years since Gustavo became part of the syndicate, and in that time, Begg didn’t seem to have aged at all.

It was likely that his body had gone strange places due to the effect of some drug. Instead of being jealous of his youth, the people around him treated him very cautiously and did their best not to talk about it.

“—Don’t ask for too much, all right? We gave you a terrific refinery, remember? Don’t pester us for more.”

“Hmm. You…got one…for me? You…only…took over…a cocaine factory…that…someone…else…had…been…running… Along…with…its…cover…business. His…name…was…Genoard, wasn’t…it? The…previous…owner.”

There was clear irony in the halting words.

“‘Took it over’? Hey, don’t say that. The company had lost its manager, and we just shored it up, that’s all. From both the front and from the back, see.”

“‘Lost,’ hmm? B-by…throwing…himself…into…N-Newark…Bay, car…and…all? What…violence. That’s…s-several…times…r-rougher…than…Bartolo’s…m-methods.”

“…You’re a member of this Family, too. Why don’t you watch your mouth a little?”

Behind his blank expression, Gustavo was clamping down rage. In response, Begg’s smile was clearly scornful. Before long, as if he’d tired of it, the smile disappeared, and Begg began to leave the room as though nothing had happened. As he left, he called attention to a certain treaty.

“List…en. I told…you…before: B-be…careful…not to…meddle…with the…Martillo Family. That’s…my condition…for…cooperating…with you, Gustavo.”

Once he’d said this, Begg disappeared beyond the door without a sound.

“Hunh. For a guy who’s useless for anything that ain’t drugs, he’s pretty full of himself… Bastard!”

Spitting out that parting shot, Gustavo turned back to the men who were still in the room.

“Listen up. We’re grabbing territory from the little outfits, starting with the Gandors. At the same time, we’re putting down roots for the drug business. That’s our job in Manhattan. Another job nobody asked for got piled on top of that, but it don’t change what we’ll be doing. Crush anyone who gets in our way. If they’re weak, crush ’em even if they’re not in the way. There’s no need to warn them or negotiate. That stuff’s for equals. We just have to flex our power in front of ’em, get me? Fast and thorough, so that by the time they see it, it’s too late—”

Talking as though he’d become the boss of a syndicate, Gustavo loudly declared their victory. It was as if the self he’d shown Bartolo mere moments ago had never existed in the first place.

“This age is ours, period. I won’t let that thieving punk and the puny playtime mafia exist in our world. Crush ’em, grind ’em down until there’s nothing left, erase them completely from the past, present, and future. That’s our duty.”