Baccano! - Volume 4 - Chapter 6

PURCHASE

1931 Late December Somewhere in Chinatown

In a corner of Manhattan, a small building stood in an unobtrusive location.

A sign that seemed to have been tacked on as an afterthought held the name “Daily Days.”

The Daily Days, or “DD,” was a weak little newspaper that slipped through the gaps in the fierce circulation battle that was unfolding between the New York Times and the New York Tribune.

However, after all, newspaper publishing was merely its public front. Viewed as a whole, its shadow face—that of an information brokerage—brought in far more revenue.

Ordinarily, it would have been inconceivable for an information brokerage to base itself in a single location. Such business was far more suited to the environment presented in movies and books: that of notes stealthily passed in back alleys and the corners of bars. In the first place, once an information broker’s whereabouts were known, there was no telling when they’d be bumped off.

It was one thing for newspaper reporters and police officers to dabble in that line of work for pocket money, but this was a business—rare even in this industry—that used it as a main trade, like a detective agency.

This little building in a corner of Chinatown was the headquarters for the Daily Days, which included their editorial department. Most of the employees were Chinese, but there were people of a few other ethnicities as well, and their newspaper was published in three editions, each in a different language: Chinese, English, and Italian.

Crushing the old newspapers that lay in the road underfoot, several men entered the building.

At first glance, the inside of the building looked like some sort of government office. The atmosphere was noisy and chaotic, and people who seemed to be newspaper reporters and editorial staff were bustling around the room.

Initially, the only people they saw were Asian, and the men scowled openly. At that, one Caucasian individual approached them from the depths of the room.

Apparently, although they were very close to the border of another district, they hadn’t expected to see a white guy working in Chinatown. For a moment, the men looked taken aback as they watched the employee walk toward them in silence.

When there was a single desk between them, the white-skinned fellow stopped and spoke to the men, who still looked dazed.

“Welcome. What brings you here today?”

The words that came out of the man’s mouth were in perfectly ordinary English, albeit with a New York accent.

“Did you want to request a regular subscription? Ah, excuse me: My name is Nicholas. I’m the copy editor for the English edition.”

Nicholas introduced himself smoothly. In response, one of the men in coats arrogantly stated their business:

“We ain’t interested in your lousy rag. We’re here for information, that’s all.”

Nicholas looked just a little saddened by the man’s extremely rude speech.

“We flatter ourselves that it’s a pretty interesting paper… Well? What sort of information were you looking for?”

“You know that accident on Mulberry Street yesterday?”

Nicholas answered the question by giving a fluent outline of events:

“You mean the collision between a passenger car and a truck that occurred after one o’clock yesterday afternoon? Well, it would be more accurate to call that an ‘incident’ instead of an ‘accident.’ It was a completely unilateral hit-and-run on the part of the truck. There were two victims, Sam Buscetta and Anselmo Jonell; the assailant, a man with a distinctive scar on his neck, is still on the run—correct?”

At the wave of information he’d suddenly reeled off, the men looked at one another. What Nicholas had just told them was something only a handful of people—the police and the men directly involved—knew at this point.

As the men turned astonished eyes upon him, Nicholas kept speaking, briskly:

“The two victims are members of the Runorata Family, a mafia organization headquartered in Newark—in other words, your friends.”

At these words, spoken casually, all three men froze.

They hadn’t given their names yet; they hadn’t intended to do so at all. It was as if this pale man had seen through them, knew everything about who they really were…

However, they couldn’t afford to get flustered here. The man had probably guessed who they were from their appearance and the situation and had just happened to be right. If they acted upset now, they’d play right into his hands.

“I see. If you know all that, then I bet you know why we’re here.” He was bluffing, but his palms were already beginning to sweat. “We want to know where to find the guy with the scarred-up neck. Any info you’ve got, even little stuff—”

“Scottish immigrant. Aged twenty-two.” Nicholas spoke simply, interrupting the man.

“…What?”

“Anything more than that will cost you.”

The matter had been brought up so abruptly that the men hadn’t realized the “transaction” had already begun.

“The price of the information is five hundred dollars in cash. In addition, we’d like you to provide us with an item of information in return.”

“Eh? Information?”

“Well, you see, to put it bluntly—we want to know what got stolen. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. We got a proper report of everything, including the fact that a black leather bag was carried off.”

Still smiling breezily, Nicholas explained with terrifying ease.

“You seriously think we could tell you that?”

“In that case, the deal is off.”

“…Lemme ask you something. Say we did tell you, and then the police came to you and asked for that info. Would you give it to them?”

“Of course. We’re running a business here.”

The man’s veins, which had begun to twitch, swelled up so fast they seemed in danger of bursting.

“Don’t gimme that bullshit! You got a death wish or something?!”

As the men raged, every eye in the editorial department went to them in unison.

“Geh?!”

And as the vitriolic customers registered a certain fact, they quickly shifted to confusion:

All of the Asian journalists were expressionless, and every one of them held a pistol. The muzzle of every gun was trained on the group of men, and a semicircular net had formed around them in the blink of an eye. At first glance, it looked disorderly, but in fact, all the lines of fire neatly avoided Nicholas.

A closer look revealed that the many desks and documents were in perfect position to provide cover for the others, while the gangsters’ group had nothing to hide behind.

The resulting formation was like a small handful of soldiers surrounded by countless trenches and ramparts.

In an instant, the visitors’ blood ran cold. However, when Nicholas raised a hand, the guns all disappeared back into the reporters’ jackets.

“I’m sorry about that. This business tends to get rather dangerous, you see.”

With that comment, he ducked his head in casual apology, then resumed speaking as though nothing had happened.

“Well, just calm down and listen. Even if we did give that information to the police, it wouldn’t be proof. All you need to do is think about destroying the evidence at your leisure.”

Mixing in unreasonable logic, Nicholas slowly began to relate a portion of his information brokerage’s system.

“You may think your superiors will punish you, but there’s no need to worry about that. It’s our duty to keep information sources secret, and we’re very thorough about it… Although you’ll just have to trust me on that. Even if the Runorata Family were to sustain some sort of loss, you saw nothing, and you were never here. That’s all you’ll need to say.”

“The man’s name is Roy Maddock. His address is—”

After a little hesitation, the men had reluctantly agreed to the conditions.

After they’d heard the outline of the affair from the information broker, they provided information in return. However…

“The bag had money in it. Protection money from our customers.”

Feeling that there was no need to tell the truth over something this petty, the men had decided to tell a likely-sounding lie. They’d made up a harmless story, thinking that there was no way to see through it.

On hearing that, Nicholas gave a vaguely disappointed smile.

“If you’re going to lie, make it slightly more entertaining, would you? Good lies have value as information all on their own, but what you just said really isn’t worth…”

The men began to protest, but Nicholas shook his head and kept talking.

“The Runorata territory isn’t down that road, and in any case, your collection day is at the beginning of the month. It’s nowhere near the time for protection money. Put a little thought into the fib before you tell it, all right?”

When he saw that the other men could no longer argue, Nicholas hit them with a rapid-fire volley of words.

“Put bluntly, it’s drugs, isn’t it? The new drugs that have been turning up on the Gandors’ turf lately. That’s what you were transporting, isn’t it? Give me a yes or a no in the next five seconds, four-three-two-one—”

Swept along by his momentum, one of the men nodded involuntarily.

That was enough. On seeing it, Nicholas made one brief comment, then returned to his desk.

“Thank you for your business.”

“Missy Eve, dis here’s da spot, the infahmation brohka where my childhood pal woiks.”

As she spoke, the woman began to take Eve into a certain building.

“It’s a newspaper?”

This was Eve’s first time in the big city, and she seemed nervous; she swallowed, and her expression was uneasy.

Led by Samantha, they’d arrived at a small newspaper in Chinatown. The building was a patchwork of concrete and brick, and it was beginning to look a little rickety in places. Its sign held the shabby words Daily Days.

They’d reached the family’s second residence in New York, but when it came to the question of how to find Dallas, Eve and the others were stumped from the very beginning.

After all, when it came right down to it, no one in the family had known anything about her brother’s personal connections or how he earned money.

Just when Eve had nearly lost heart, Samantha had suddenly let out an exclamation, then said:

“Missy Eve! When thar’s somethin’ ya dunno, you’d best git yerself to an information broker. Let’s try one a’ them!”

“Who would go to such a disreputable… An information broker? Do you intend to bring the young mistress into contact with those ruffians?!”

“Well, land sakes, Benjahmin. If’n you talk smack ’bout mah ol’ buddy, you’ll get my dander up, right and proper.”

“Oh, hush. As if we could trust information from a fellow like your old friend, someone we may very well not be able to understand! And my name is pronounced ‘Ben-yah -min’! How many times must I say it before it sinks in?! When you speak my name, don’t inflict the English pronunciation on it!”

Her butler, Benjamin, was, as stated, very much against the idea.

However, in the end, they’d had nothing else to rely on, and so they’d come here…

“What, it’s a newspaper, is it? Hmm. In that case, miss, we may be able to trust them to a certain degree.”

Her butler, who’d completely regained his composure, respectfully opened the door for his mistress.

Eve went through the door first. Then the butler let go of the door, intending to pass through himself—only to be shoved by Samantha and topple over in grand style.

“T-treat me as a vaudeville performer, would you!” Grumbling, he went through the door last and found himself in the midst of a disorderly scene, his ears struck by a din woven from unfamiliar words. To Eve, who’d never had any contact with ordinary work sites, the kaleidoscopic view was more than enough to give her culture shock.

“Oh, my…”

“Miss?”

When her butler spoke, Eve came back to herself with a jolt.

“Oh… They look terribly busy. They can’t possibly have time to spend on us, can they?”

Speaking with more politeness than was necessary, Eve looked around uneasily.

As if to reassure her, Samantha laid a plump palm on her shoulder.

“There ain’t nada to fret yoself ’bout. I jes’ jawed on th’ameche wid Elean a tick ago.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The butler, not understanding Samantha’s words, was confused. Eve whispered in his ear:

“‘There’s no need to worry. I talked with Elean on the telephone a little while ago’…she says.”

Embarrassed at having made his own mistress interpret for his benefit, the butler grabbed a man who looked as if he might understand English and began explaining the situation to him.

On hearing their circumstances, the man—who introduced himself as Nicholas—went up a flight of stairs to the second floor.

After a short while he returned, accompanied by an eccentric-looking man. Like Samantha, the man was black, but his clothes were clearly Chinese formal wear, a coal-black men’s outfit.

This new man occasionally spoke with the Asians he passed, and when he did, it was in extremely fluent Chinese. He also wore sunglasses with a sharp design, which made him look even sketchier.

When the man saw Samantha, he struck a dramatic welcoming pose, greeting his old friend in the local dialect.

“Saaaamantha! It’s been forever, really forever! Just how many years has it been since we last saw each other?! Marvelous! Today is bound to be a marvelous day! I find myself compelled to pray that the day proves marvelous for me, for you, and for every soul in this city!”

Maintaining an energy level that was two or three notches higher than that of the average person, he hugged his old friend tightly. However, the length of his arms was such that, even stretching them as far as they’d go, he just barely managed to touch his fingertips together behind Samantha’s back. As they held this unbalanced embrace, the pair basked in the delight of their reunion.

“Well now, come, come, we have a lot to catch up on, but we’ll save that for later. For now, let’s hear your mistress’s request, shall we? Technically, I’m supposed to take five hundred dollars and more information in return, but since she’s your mistress, Samantha, it’s on the house this time, with my compliments!”

The trio was shown into what appeared to be a reception room. Eve and Samantha sat on the sofa, but the butler stayed standing by the door, neatly, his posture betraying neither dignity nor subservience.

Watching the butler as if the sight of him was entertaining, the Chinese black guy—Elean Duga—began talking to Eve.

“All right, let’s see, hmm. Miss Eve Genoard, if I recall correctly, you wanted us to look for a Mr. Dallas Genoard, who’s been missing for a year. I have my people checking through the information right now. Once they’ve got it together, they have orders to bring it here, so somebody should show up aaaany minute. No, I mean it. It’ll be soon, I tell you, soon! By the way, you said this was your big brother? I’m sure we’ll find him safe and sound! Don’t worry; there’s nothing in this town we don’t know. We just might uncover your brother’s current whereabouts lickety-split, and—”

Elean’s monologue was interrupted by a knock that echoed in the reception room.

“Ah, it looks like they’re here.”

Swiftly, the butler opened the door, and an Asian entered with a bundle of documents.

The fact that the new man’s face was expressionless worried Eve, but Elean was glancing through the documents, and she decided to wait for his reaction.

At first, Elean hummed as he skimmed the documents, but then, abruptly, he shot up from his chair and walked over to the window, waving his arms in an exaggerated fashion.

The sun was beginning to set, deepening the colors of the beautiful redbrick buildings.

As he gazed out at the view, Elean slowly began to speak.

“Right. It’s always like that. People have told me I tend to get carried away for many, many years. I told myself that being called thoughtless was a sort of compliment; I’ve fooled myself that way all this time. But, you see, if you reword that a bit, it just means a fellow who can’t read the atmosphere, doesn’t it? I always thought, I’m not going to live like this anymore, but in the end, I haven’t been able to change. Manic states are a bit like drugs, you know. Once you’ve had a taste, you just want to stay that way forever and ever.”

At first it was impossible to tell what he was talking about, but he seemed to be trying to change the subject.

“U-um, please, tell me! My brother—where is Dallas?!”

Growing excited, Eve stood up in spite of herself, but even the butler didn’t reproach her for it.

In sharp contrast to Eve and the others, who’d gotten worked up, the information broker’s mood grew more and more listless.

“Oh, I’m sorry, really. I’m sorry. What was that business about ‘praying that the day proves to be marvelous,’ anyway…? As things stand, I might as well be the harbinger of misfortune, an utter bastard who feasts on others’ misery and rejoices all by himself. No practical information broker should ever have told you—and so easily—that we were sure to find him safe and sound. I’m terribly sorry to have given you false hope, only to push you off the edge like this; ah, ah, how I rue my helplessness, I—”

“Wouldja quit dinkin’ around and use ya woids?!”

When Samantha shook Elean and bellowed at him, he finally told them the bottom line.

“I think it’s criminal to put this sort of thing in a roundabout way. Therefore, I’ll just say it straight out.”

Elean had completely slipped into depression, and his lips delivered the bad news:

“Your brother, Dallas Genoard. He’s on the bottom of the river. Under the deep, dark, cold waters of the Hudson, in a drum can, in the company of two of his friends.”

At that plainspoken answer, Eve’s heart had frozen instantly.

She was struck by the illusion that time had stopped. The only thing in the world that still made noise was the ferocious beating of her heart.

As Eve kept her emotions from crumbling, she desperately squeezed air from the depths of her lungs:

“Is… Is that true?”

“Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be any doubt about it. We know who did it, too. They’re a small outfit. The Gandor Family…”

She didn’t really remember what happened after that.

The next thing she knew, Eve was gripping a knife and fork.

She hadn’t registered anything since that moment, and apparently, while her mind was elsewhere, they’d returned to the second residence. At a corner of the vast table, Samantha had already finished eating. Benjamin was simply standing quietly at Eve’s side. It was likely that he hadn’t eaten yet.

For a short while, Eve stayed that way, looking down. Before long, though, she spoke, as if she’d made up her mind.

“Benjamin…Samantha. I’m truly sorry about that.”

At those words, her servants simultaneously stared at her.

“Miss! Miss, there isn’t the slightest reason for you to apologize to the likes of us! Never mind that, is something wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”

“Yeah, y’need to eat up an’ make yahself nice an’ strong.”

“Thank…you.”

She gave a weak smile. On seeing this, Samantha hollered, attempting to cheer her up:

“Don’t you pay it no mind, honey! Even infermaytion brokuhs git handed bum intel a’times.”

“She’s absolutely right! You mustn’t let anything said by such dubious individuals lead you astray, miss!”

The two of them tried desperately to encourage her, but Eve only smiled sadly.

“Thank you. I’m a little tired today, so if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go to bed early.”

Murmuring words far too familiar to say to one’s servants, Eve quietly left the dining room, still smiling faintly.

The meal she hadn’t touched sat on the table, waiting to grow stone cold.

To be honest, she’d already known. She’d thought that might be the case.

Almost no one who disappeared in Manhattan ended up returning home safe and sound.

She’d known that. And yet. What on earth had she been expecting?

She’d held a faint hope that another miracle might occur.

Even though she’d already used up her one life-changing wish on that earlier occasion.

Oh, what a foolish thing she’d done.

There hadn’t been any need to hope for a miracle.

If she’d had just a little more courage, couldn’t she have stopped Dallas easily?

She’d only prayed in an attempt to run from the effort and the fear.

Oh… When Father and Jeffrey died…that’s when I really wanted a miracle. Of course I know the dead can’t be revived. That’s why, at least—at the very least—if Dallas was still all right…

But no miracle had occurred.

If there was such a thing as a wish of a lifetime, and if it was something that really existed…then she’d already used up hers.

That meant she should have known this would happen. She’d thought she’d steeled herself for it. And yet.

Why was she so terribly sad?

I didn’t even like Dallas. He was rough, a coward; he didn’t have a shred of moral sense. People always, always, always hated him, and he always, always, always hated them, too.

Still, all she could think of was her memory of the last time she’d seen him.

How kind his face had been when he’d taught her billiards, the day after God’s burglar-messengers had come.

Oh why, why was he nice only to me? If he’d just hated me the way he hated everyone else…

Quite abruptly, Eve was afraid of herself. She noticed her own selfishness, was completely appalled by it, and grew hopelessly mortified and sad.

Immediately, tears welled up and overflowed, and she sobbed quietly as her pillow grew damp.

Is it all right to do nothing but cry? Will that be enough to let you forget someday? You’ve been confronted with the deaths of your father and two older brothers, and all you can do is cry? The best you can do is cling to something and keep praying, the way you did a year ago?

If there was the faintest possibility, then she mustn’t give up.

This just wouldn’t do. What she needed to do now…was make amends to her brother.

As Eve and the others left the Daily Days newspaper offices, a man entered, as if taking their place.

There was a perennially entertained smile on his face. In contrast to Nicholas, who came off as bracing, this man’s smile was unpleasant, as if it were appraising something about the other person.

When the man opened the door to the editorial department, the sight of Nicholas lending Elean his shoulder jumped out at him.

“Ah, Henry, are you back? Elean got a little depressed again. It’s time for me to clock out, so you take over here.”

“Well, well. Thank you ever so much for your diligent service.” With an attitude that was superficially polite but actually quite rude, the man called Henry watched the two of them go. “Rest assured, you may leave everything to me. I believe it might be best if the two of you shared a leisurely drink.”

“…I don’t feel good about letting you field customers, but both the president and the vice president are out. Dammit.”

Nicholas, sounding troubled, shook his head as he left. Elean departed with him.

Henry cheerfully watched them go and gave a little chuckle.

“Now, then. I haven’t dealt with customers in quite some time. I do hope someone I’ll be able to enjoy will stop by.”

As it turned out, his wish was granted immediately.

A man whose face was blatantly hidden by a cap, a muffler, and dark glasses came in, with a glaringly suspicious attitude.

The Asian employees in the editorial department stopped working for a moment, their hands reaching for their desk drawers or jacket pockets.

At that, with no hesitation whatsoever, the customer spoke to them. He addressed the man at the reception desk in Chinese that, while not quite fluent, had seen significant use: “I have a complicated matter to discuss. Does anyone here speak English?”

Just then, having finished preparing for work, Henry appeared.

Warping his disagreeable smile even further, he spoke, sounding terribly cheerful and amused.

“If I’ll suffice, I can listen to your story.”

Alveare—“the Beehive”—was a speakeasy run by the Martillo Family.

Here, in the space in the back of a honey shop, Nicholas and Elean were drinking liquor sweetened with honey. The décor in the spacious establishment was elegant, and the atmosphere made it feel more like an upscale restaurant than a bar.

“Think Henry’s going to be okay?” Nicholas wondered, swirling his drink.

“At the very least, he’ll be much better than I am,” Elean lamented energetically. “Ahh, I’m worthless. Worthless, worthless, worthless, worthless. What’s worthless, you ask? Everything is worthless.”

“Yeah, you’re definitely worthless,” Nicholas concurred lackadaisically. “But don’t let it get to you. You just couldn’t keep quiet about it and got her hopes up for nothing. So, look, next time, just keep your emotions reined in tighter. And I’ve said that a million times already.”

As he ate the food the girl in the cheongsam had brought over, Elean nodded silently.

Then, as if he’d remembered something, he looked up.

“Listen, though. There is something that’s been bothering me.”

“What?” Nicholas asked.

“It’s about that Dallas fellow. Apparently, there’s some information about him that’s being kept top secret.”

“Top secret?”

Even among the Daily Days newspaper staff, only the president and vice president were allowed access to information deemed to be top secret. It was possible that no such documents existed in the first place. There were rumors that all of it was kept exclusively inside the minds of the president and vice president, but no one knew for sure.

“Dallas was just a thug, wasn’t he? Top secret, for him…? Oh, though—hang on a tick.” At this, Nicholas broke off for a moment to drain the contents of his glass. “They say it was the Gandors who scratched Dallas, right? In that case, it’s probably that. Something to do with immortals.”

“Oh…I see. Yes, you’re right.”

Immortals. Elean accepted this unrealistic word, which had appeared out of the blue, with no questions whatsoever.

To these two, immortals were humans whose existence was solid fact. They’d actually met them in person.

Including, for example, the waitress who’d just brought them their food.

However, they had only fragmentary information on the subject.

Their knowledge that two hundred years ago, a group of alchemists had become immortal on a ship bound for this continent was a fact. They were aware of restrictions on that immortality and that immortals couldn’t use false names with each other. Immortals weren’t able to use false names in public situations, either. They knew immortals could “eat” each other through their right hands.

…And the fact that, in a certain incident one year ago, several people who lived in this town had become immortal. The Martillo Family executives, the waitress, the proprietress of the honey shop…and the three brothers who acted as the Gandor triumvirate.

Some versions of the story said there were a few others as well. However, Nicholas and Elean didn’t even know their names, although it was likely that the president’s group had some sort of information on them.

“Well, if we hadn’t heard it straight from the president, we wouldn’t have believed it either.”

“You got that right.”

Their conversation ran out there, and they went on quietly scarfing down their food.

At that point, a new guest came in.

It was a woman, about twenty years old, and she was holding a big black leather bag.

The pair from the information brokerage recognized her immediately.

“Speak of the devil. That girl’s a waitress at the Gandors’ speakeasy, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Wasn’t her name Edith or something?”

There was one other thing that concerned Nicholas. He hadn’t mentioned it to the Runorata men who’d come in that afternoon, but if he recalled correctly, she was Roy Maddock’s—the drug snatcher’s—sweetheart.

And that leather bag she was holding…

Feeling something approaching certainty, Nicholas decided to watch what she did.

“Oh, welcome! Edith, you haven’t been to this place in ages!”

“Hi, Lia. You’re looking as chipper as ever.”

Edith exchanged greetings with her cheongsam-clad friend, but her expression seemed a little strained.

Noticing this, Lia Lin-Shan came over to speak to her, looking worried. There weren’t many customers in the speakeasy yet, and she appeared to have time on her hands.

“What’s wrong? You look sort of funny.”

“No, uh… Listen, um, actually, I have a favor to ask…”

Mumbling guiltily, Edith held out the black bag.

“It’s about this bag. Could you hold on to it for me for a little while?”

Turn the clock back to that evening.

“And I am asking you, exactly why would you bring a thing like that to my place?!”

In the rented apartment where Edith lived, an uproar had broken out over a certain bag.

“Anyway, even if you were high, why in the world would you do a half-witted thing like that?!”

“Uh, how should I put this…? Look, it’s like, you know how you can’t get time back once it’s gone? There’s nothing to do about stuff once it’s done. See? You forget time once it’s past, and I think we should probably forget about how stuff happened and just focus on the results. For now, see, this thing happened, and we need to do something about it.”

There was no telling what had happened to the spirit he’d had yesterday. Roy had completely reverted to a timid young fellow, and he kept on making hesitant excuses to Edith, who was glaring at him.

“Honestly! What’s wrong with you, anyway?! When you’re on drugs, you get carried away and say embarrassing things like ‘I was one with the world’ without any trouble at all, but now…!”

“See, I mess with drugs because I want to change that part of me. Once people experience pleasure like that, it’s hard for them to swear it off, especially if they’re weak, like me…”

“If you’re able to analyze yourself calmly, then don’t mess with drugs in the first place! Idiot!”

After that, Edith harangued Roy for close to an hour. During that hour, the word idiot was mentioned more than three hundred times.

Running out of insults and steam, Edith heaved a great sigh.

“Still, it looks like you haven’t touched the contents of this bag. That’s a relief.”

“Honestly…I wanted to shoot up so bad I couldn’t stand it. It was just, if I took any of that, the stuff the Runorata goons would do to me… I-I was scared. Scared of what they’d do. I know how the Runorata fellas work…”

“In other words, you stopped yourself because you were afraid. I thought it was probably something like that… Still, even though you’re scared of coming down, you always shoot up without stressing about it, so I’m proud of you for holding back this time. Does this mean you’re scared of dying, Roy? …Even though drugs are all you do?”

Edith asked the question as if she was mystified. As Roy answered her, his shoulders were trembling.

“Yeah, I’m scared. From what I hear, their methods are dirty—especially that Gustavo guy. He doesn’t issue warnings or nothing; he just goes around killing anyone who’s even remotely involved, whether they’re part of the underworld or not. If I’m the one dying, I don’t mind. But, but—”

Roy was timid, and he wasn’t able to get the rest of the sentence out.

As if she’d realized what he actually meant, Edith’s face suddenly grew calm, and she hugged Roy’s quaking shoulders.

“I’m sorry. Thank you.”

After murmuring those few short words, Edith took the bag and stood up.

“It took time, but you did keep that promise. In that case, it’s my turn to promise. I promise I won’t let you die. I’ll protect you, both from the Gandors and from the Runorata men.”

With that, she flung open the door to the room, heavy bag in hand.

“Wh-where are you going?”

“For now, I think this bag could be our trump card. If we keep it with us, though, they’ll be able to take it back easily, and if they catch us with it, we’re finished. For the moment, I think I’ll leave it with a friend I can trust.”

“What?! You can’t! You’ll be pulling them into this, too!”

“It’s fine. The territories the Runoratas are messing with all belong to small outfits, but there’s one where they haven’t been spreading their drugs around. Just one. I’m going to ask a friend in that one.”

“…And that’s why… I do feel bad about this, but… I’m sorry!”

“If you’re just going to apologize, you probably shouldn’t ask in the first place.”

In a corner of Alveare, Edith and Lia were talking in whispers.

“You’re right,” Edith fretted. “I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t…”

“But okay. I’ll hang on to it for you.”

“Huh?”

Lia had agreed so easily that Edith’s eyes went round.

“You really like Roy, don’t you, Edith?”

Lia spoke as if she were teasing her. In contrast, Edith’s voice was uneasy—

“Y-you’re sure? Um, if possible, I don’t want the Martillos to find out about it, either. It sounds as though everyone here is good friends with Mr. Keith and Mr. Luck.”

“We aren’t that chummy when I’m working, so I think it’ll be okay. It’s fine. Only, my room doesn’t have a lock, so I’ll give this to somebody I trust.”

At those words, she felt a little bewildered, but in matters like these, it was probably safer to have double or triple layers.

“All right,” Edith said, pumping herself up. “If you trust this person, Lia, I’ll trust them, too. Okay, then: Thank you so much!”

As they watched Edith go, Nicholas and Elean, who’d been listening the whole time, drew deep breaths.

The conversation had been held at a volume that wouldn’t have been possible to pick up ordinarily, but these two were used to the din of the editorial department, and they’d just barely managed to make it out.

“Well, now. We’ve just gotten our hands on some pretty sensitive information. What should we do with it?”

As he answered the English copy editor’s question, the Chinese copy editor’s eyes sparkled.

“First off, we’ll just have to report it to the president tomorrow, won’t we? If this fascinating information proves useful, we’ll have done good for the world and for mankind, and we won’t be utterly worthless anymore!”

“What’s this ‘we’ business? Are you calling me utterly worthless, too?”

Feeling mildly disgusted by Elean’s abrupt recovery from his depression, Nicholas gazed into space and knocked back the contents of his glass.

“Mind you, I’m not terribly fond of being directly involved with sensitive information…”

“Yes, I see. I understand what you’re driving at.”

At the same time, in the newspaper offices, Roy and Henry were facing each other.

“In other words, what you’ve just said may be summarized as follows: You want to know the Runoratas’ weakness. Correct?”

“Yeah, th-that’s right. I was wondering if they had some sort of weak point big enough to keep them from taking shots at me or my friend after we hand over the drugs.”

As his palms grew slick with sweat, Roy related the details of the incident.

In response, Henry maintained his amused smile and his hypocritically courteous attitude.

“Well, a confession directly from you is valuable information in and of itself, so that will do nicely. The problem is the fee. For information as important as this, we’ll require five thousand dollars at the very least.”

“F-five thousand dollars?!”

Roy, who’d just blown all his money on drugs, had absolutely no hope of squeezing out a sum like that. Add the recession on top of it, and there weren’t many people who could pay such an enormous amount at a moment’s notice, even if they weren’t Roy.

“However.”

Henry’s smile grew even more entertained, and he proposed a compromise.

“There is a way. This isn’t a formal transaction, and as a company, we are unable to guarantee this information, but—”

Rising from his chair in the reception room, Henry put his face right up close to Roy’s.

“Why don’t we say that I’m speaking not as a company employee, but as an individual—to myself, and that you merely overheard?”

“I-is that okay?”

Looking at Roy, whose eyes were shining, Henry nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“Have you heard of an affluent gentleman named Genoard?”

Roy shook his head.

“He was a New Jersey businessman who was active in the textiles industry, but that was merely his public face. In the shadows, he managed a factory at which he refined and commercialized cocaine and cannabis, from which he then profited by delivering it to the Runorata Family. In other words, over generations—although, really, this was only the second generation—the Genoard family had established themselves in underworld society as drug lords.”

At the abrupt introduction of this topic, in spite of himself, Roy’s eyes went wide. After all, it wasn’t as if this had nothing to do with him: Up until a short while ago, he’d been a patron, not of the current unregulated new drugs, but of these existing products.

“That said, the first-generation administrator died, and his son and one of his grandsons took over the business. A little while after that, their relationship with the Runoratas, and particularly with Gustavo, seems to have soured. I expect there was some sort of unpleasantness regarding finances.

“—And then they sent the head of the family and his oldest son to join the choir invisible, making it look like an accident, and all the factories that were formerly managed by the Genoards are now managed by Runorata members. They seem to have bought up or threatened the directors of the public business and absorbed it as well.”

Once he’d heard the whole story, Roy spoke up, sounding excited.

“Th-then, if I use that information—!”

“Don’t be hasty, please. As things stand, you have no proof. Almost all the individuals who could serve as witnesses are in the hands of your opponents.”

“Then it’s pointless!”

“That said, there is one person who may be a possibility. Not only that, but they are currently here, in Manhattan.”

“Ah?”

“Whether this person actually knows anything is of no consequence. The important thing is that, if the mere possibility exists, they can be used as a trump card against the Runorata… Provided you secure the individual, that is.”

Henry’s smile was completely warped, as if he were a devil sneering at human misfortune.

“I suggest you use that person as a shield, leave town with your loved one, and then open your negotiations… In order to prevent them from making an attempt on your companion, you see. Depending on the situation, you may end up with an even greater return. Afterward, once the storm has blown over, you need only release the individual, and that will be the end of the matter. One person will have been held captive, but there will be no casualties. A fine idea, don’t you think?”

Charmed by that smile, Roy gazed back at Henry with eyes full of determination.

Slowly, lips that had a wicked smile plastered across them spoke the individual’s name…

“She’s the grandchild of the first head of the Genoards, the family’s youngest daughter: Eve Genoard.”

At the same time The Gandor Family office

In an alley a short distance from Mulberry Street, there was a small jazz hall. The basement of that jazz hall included an area that was just as spacious as the aboveground floors. This was the office of the Gandor Family syndicate, and it served its purpose as the center of the organization with dignity.

“So? What happened to the idiot?”

In a small reception room, separated by a wall from the hall where their men were gathered, the three bosses were taking it easy.

“I left him to the torture fiend, Tick… Although it’s anyone’s guess whether he has the nerves to feel pain anymore.”

The question had come from Berga, the big man and middle brother; Luck, the youngest, gave the unsettling answer in an indifferent voice.

“……”

As usual, Keith, the oldest, was silent. He was fiddling with a deck of cards, all by himself.

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and a lazy voice rang out:

“’Scuuuse me. It’s Tick.”

“Ah, Tick. Come in.”

In response to that voice, the door opened, and a young man poked his head in. He was an agreeable-looking fellow who had the air of a florist about him.

Except for one thing: the pairs of scissors he held, one in each hand.

Although they weren’t liquid and dripping, a large quantity of red stains clung to them, from the blades all the way to the handles.

“No, it’s no good, absolutely no good at aaall. He’s fried himself with dope, and he doesn’t have a shred of sense left.”

Eyes beaming, he fluttered his hands about to illustrate the concept.

Luck had anticipated this, and his only reaction was a light sigh.

“If it’s okay to take another month, once we get the drugs out of his system, I could try agaaain.”

“No, don’t bother. There’s no need to get rid of him; just drop him in front of a police station tonight, if you would.”

“Yesss, sir.”

With an ingenuous, childlike smile, the man called Tick left, snipping the air with his scissors as he went.

“You sure?” Berga asked. “That’s the guy who carved your throat for you.”

Luck shook his head. His expression was tired.

“It doesn’t matter. I assume someone put him up to it, but it’s likely that they just sent a junkie who’d gotten to be too much for them to handle. I expect they told him, ‘Kill that man and we’ll give you drugs,’ or something of the sort.”

As he spoke, Luck had a thought:

Ah, there it is again.

Lately, he got the feeling he’d become really apathetic. Even he could tell: Compared with before—more than a year ago—his sensibilities had grown ridiculously lax. There was absolutely no doubt that his former self would have sent that junkie to the afterlife. Or rather, even before that, that he would have been dead himself.

However, at this point, it didn’t seem necessary. This was partly because one dope addict going on a rampage wouldn’t affect the syndicate’s reputation in the least, but more than anything, he just didn’t feel that angry.

It was obvious what had made him this way: the incident that had occurred in this city a year ago, the one that had revolved around the liquor of immortality. He’d gotten pulled into it and had ended up with an indestructible body.

“Kill or be killed.” That was an unwritten law in the underworld, but at this point, he could no longer be killed. To hell with unwritten laws.

Do humans really lose this much drive when death is no longer an issue for them? Even if that’s the case, neither Keith nor Berga seems any different from before.

Berga’s only awareness of his immortality seemed to be that he’d gotten tougher. Berga aside, it was likely that Keith considered it trivial in comparison to the responsibility he felt toward his work.

Compared with them, how pathetic was he?

“But listen, ordinarily, you woulda been dead.”

“…Only, as you can see, I’m alive. We don’t die… That fact is everything.”

Maybe he’d noticed that his younger brother was worrying over something; Berga didn’t press the issue further.

“Is that so?” he said instead. “Well, if you say it’s fine, then it’s fine.”

“What was more of a shock was the idea that Firo was in a similar situation last year, but he beat his attacker easily,” Luck continued. “Whereas I got my throat slit without putting up any sort of fight. I feel like such a blockhead, I could cry.”

Firo Prochainezo: the Gandor brothers’ old friend and a young executive in the Martillo Family, whose territory abutted theirs. About a year ago, he’d been attacked by a drug addict, just as Luck had, and had coldcocked the guy without getting so much as a scratch.

“It feels as though my instincts have dulled since we became immortal.”

“Nah, that ain’t so. You never were good in a fight, that’s all. What’s the point of a weak guy stressing about being weak?”

“I can’t imagine it’s wise not to stress about it.”

“……”

Keith had been watching their exchange in silence, but he abruptly glanced at his watch, then stood and began pulling on his coat.

“Oh. Is it time to go home, Keith?” Berga asked.

“How’s Kate doing, by the way? She good?” Luck added.

Hearing the name of the woman he was married to, Keith nodded, putting on his hat. Although he had only nodded, it was rare for him to respond to words at all.

“Hey, Luck,” Berga teased. “Looks like fun, don’t it? You hurry up and find yourself a partner, too.”

“I will take it under active consideration.”

“Well, it’s probably gonna be tough with that bad-guy mug of yours.”

That’s not something I want to hear from you, Berga, he grumbled, though he managed to swallow it down. After all, Berga had already taken a wife, too.

“What about you, Berga?” Luck sniped back. “Have you made up with Kalia yet?”

“…Eh. Once you get hitched, you’ll understand. All sorts of stuff.”

Saying something that might have been profound and could just as easily have been an evasion, Berga also began getting ready to leave.

Not feeling particularly sad about being single, Luck prepared to see both of his brothers off as usual. However, the atmosphere suddenly changed.

They began to hear some sort of uproar, and the door to the room was kicked open.

“Boss! Boss! Trouble!”

“What the hell happened?!”

As Berga yelled at one of the members, a bloody man came in after him.

It was one of their executives, a man who ran a nearby betting parlor.

It was clear that he’d sustained an uncommonly severe injury, but in front of his bosses, the man stood tall, and he delivered his report without showing any emotion.

“My apologies, boss. We let the enemy take us by surprise. We ran most of ’em off, but we only managed to take one alive. The fault’s all mine.”

Behind the man who was dispassionately giving his report, in the center of a space that was filled with rows of billiard tables and the like, lay an unconscious man they didn’t recognize.

“Damages?”

A solemn voice echoed that word throughout the room. Opening the mouth he almost never used, Keith had asked his subordinate for further information.

“All the races were over, so no ordinary customers were harmed. My men are fielding the cops. The parlor and me got a little busted up, but that’s it; there’s no problem.”

Blood was flowing from what seemed to be a gunshot wound, but as he finished speaking, the man even grinned.

Keith’s response was extremely simple.

“Good work.”

The man, who’d taken this as the highest possible praise, bowed respectfully, then left the room.

It was a daunting sight, but most of the people in the office looked on calmly, and some of them helped the injured man stop bleeding. The guy who’d panicked and burst into the office was an underling who’d just joined up, and he’d gone dead white at the smell of blood.

Passing by the new hire, another member bowed to the three brothers.

“Boss… A report just came in. There were three more incidents. They hit a gambling den, a speakeasy, and a motel. It sounds like they got driven away quickly at all locations, and our people only sustained a few grazes.”

At that report, Keith took off the coat he’d just put on, and Berga, clearly enraged, struck his right palm with his balled left fist. On the surface, Luck appeared calm, but he narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to put the current situation in order.

“Simultaneous attacks…? We’ve signed nonaggression pacts with the neighboring syndicates, and I don’t recall seeing any threatening movements.”

“Who cares who they are?! I’m going to knock ’em flying, knock ’em down, knock ’em straight to hell!”

“……”

Just then, the man who’d been asleep in the center of the room woke up. He’d been knocked out by the betting parlor manager during the attack and had been carried off.

“Yeee…”

Registering the situation he was in, without thinking, the man gave a pathetic scream.

“Hey, hold it! ‘Yeee’? Did you say ‘Yeee’?”

Berga promptly ran up and drove a heavy kick into the man’s solar plexus. His toes sank in without a sound, sending an instantaneous impact through the man’s guts.

“What’s this ‘Yeee’ crap?! You didn’t see this coming or something?! You weren’t prepared for us to surround and murder you, and you came here anyway? Were you picking a fight with us? Huh?!”

While Berga was landing a series of kicks on the man, Luck slowly came up beside him.

“…Well. Now we may finally learn who ordered my throat cut.”

When he saw the fox-eyed man who stood next to him, the poor captive screamed, spitting up blood:

“That’s nuts!! They slashed your throat—”

“Bingo, hmm? In other words, you ran off without even attempting to retrieve your comrade after it happened. Well, I expect you probably meant to send a junkie on a rampage and lower the reputation of our turf at the same time, but still.”

Speaking as if it bored him, Luck turned toward a door in the depths of the hall and called loudly:

“Tick! Tick!”

“Yesss? What is it, hmm?”

Tick poked his head out from behind the door. The scissors he’d had a short while ago were still in his hands.

“Here’s another one for you. Take care of him, if you would.”

When he saw the objects in the hands of the man who was approaching him, the captive broke out in full-body goose bumps and cold sweat.

When Tick reached the man, he looked genuinely sad.

“Listen, before we get started, let me apologize. I’m really sorry.”

At first, he thought he was apologizing for being about to torture him. Either way, the guy was a loony, but when the prisoner heard the words that came next, he wanted to cry from the bottom of his heart.

“I haven’t cleaned off the blood and grease from the earlier fellow yet. I don’t have any spare scissors right now, either. So, you see, they won’t cut very well, and—”

He snipped the scissors he held in both hands. They made light snicking noises, but at the same time, there was another, viscous sound, as if some sort of fat were being pulled into strings.

“—I think it’s probably going to hurt, quite a lot. At least twice as much as the man before you.”

“W-w-wait! I’ll talk! I’ll tell you anything!”

“Now, now, don’t say that. It took nerve to attack the Gandors’ businesses; show us that spirit.”

With those words, Tick brought the scissors closer to the man. For a moment, Luck thought about stopping him, but…

“By the way, Nicola, who was it that shot you?”

He directed the question to the bloodied man who’d made the report a moment ago. As the man he’d called Nicola bandaged himself, he answered with perfect composure: “Him. That’s why I brought him along. I’ll accept the punishment for bringing my personal feelings into the matter.”

Refraining from mentioning the bit about “personal feelings,” Luck turned to the captive and, smiling, handed down his sentence.

“You heard Nicola. Since you’re here, we might as well proceed.”

It was still there. I’m so glad I still had anger in me somewhere. Look at the strength of this hatred for the man who hurt Nicola and my comrades.

In their line of work, anyone could die at any time, either because they’d made an enemy or simply for a handful of change.

He knew this, and yet being able to stay quiet while his companions got hurt was an entirely different matter.

Feeling faintly relieved, Luck listened attentively to the screams he’d begun to hear.

Come to think of it, I wonder if they’re screaming like this right about now… No, I suppose they couldn’t, not underwater. The scum who killed four of our comrades a year ago. Those lowlife delinquents with their imperfect immortality, who are paying for their sins on the dark riverbed. What was the leader’s name again…?

Dallas Ge… Ju…? What was it? …Even remembering is irritating.

As he rifled through old memories, Luck worried his lip slightly…

…So that he would never again lose sight of the anger inside himself.

The same day Late at night The Daily Days newspaper

Standing in front of the newspaper offices, Keith slowly opened the door.

Even though it was the middle of the night, several men were busy working. On seeing Keith, one of them used an internal telephone line to contact a room somewhere.

After a brief conversation, the Asian man opened a door that led to the second floor, turned to Keith, and put his fists together in greeting.

Without a word, Keith went up to the second floor, then walked down the corridor to the door at the very back.

Telephone bells rang ferociously behind each of the doors along the corridor. The men in each room seemed to be fielding them constantly, but even then, the sound of the bells didn’t stop. Every person who came up to this floor had the same question: Just how many lines do they have?

At the very back was a plate that had DIRECTOR/PRESIDENT’S OFFICE written on it. A chorus of telephone bells could be heard behind it as well.

“I’m glad you’re here, Keith. I thought you might be stopping by soon.”

No sooner had he opened the door than those words reached him.

There was a voice, but no one was visible. The voice, which sounded neither young nor old, came from behind the mountain of documents just in front of him. Keith tried to go around it, but half the room was buried in massive quantities of bundled paper.

“Impressive, isn’t it? It’s like a silent-era comedy film. There’s simply no space to tidy up, you see. I can’t get to the chair from there, so lately I’ve been coming and going through the window, by ladder. I had a police officer point a gun at me once.”

The telephone bells were still ringing, but the voice reached Keith’s ears quite clearly.

“Now then, how much of the information do you have already? From the reports that a poor wretch was dragged into your hideout, I expect you’ve learned who you’re dealing with and what they’re after, correct?”

Provided they happened in a place where people were around, this information broker was able to learn about most incidents before anyone else. The brokerage had modest contracts with all sorts of individuals within its system; it received a wide variety of information by telephone and through hearsay, and in exchange, it made regular payments. Its informants were the residents on the top floors of each tenement building, florists on street corners, policemen on patrol, and even members of the mafia themselves.

Keith had come here with a perfect understanding of all this, so he showed no particular reaction to the voice behind the documents. He simply listened, his expression quiet.

“Your enemy is a Runorata Family executive, Gustavo Bagetta. He’s the man who’s been put in charge of creating a foothold for their advance into Manhattan. True, the Runoratas are one of the largest organizations in New York, but there’s one area in which they have no territory: Manhattan Island. Five big syndicates vie for space in Manhattan, and all of them have pipelines to major outfits in Chicago and San Francisco, or in their home countries. In other words, it isn’t worth it to fight them just to create a foothold. As a result, they’re planning to drive a wedge into gaps like your organization, then gradually expand their territory from there. Are you with me so far?”

Keith waited silently for the man to continue. The president seemed to take this as assent, and in the spaces between the sound of the bells, he began to speak again.

“To these newcomers, an outfit like yours, which doesn’t deal with any of the major syndicates, must have looked terribly appetizing. The Martillos’ circumstances are similar; however, their boss and Bartolo, the Runorata boss, are from the same town. Although their organizations aren’t linked, Gustavo probably considered the impression it would make on his boss and chose you instead.”

The momentum of the words showed no signs of slowing, and they entered Keith’s ears with the force of a flowing river.

“Gustavo is partial to rough methods, you see. He’s spreading drugs around your territory before he steals it. In doing so, he may be attempting to increase the burden on you, but unfortunately, there’s nothing about his intentions in the information. He doesn’t negotiate, give warnings, or even declare war. He simply destroys, unilaterally, over and over. He rose to the rank of executive through his abilities, but he seems to have hit the ceiling. Bartolo isn’t all that determined regarding Manhattan. The idea of a big syndicate like the Runoratas cutting into the town at this point is ridiculous in the first place. In other words, Gustavo’s been demoted…although the man himself doesn’t seem to have caught on yet.”

Lowering his voice slightly, he began to speak about the opposing organization’s internal situation.

“Gustavo’s one thing, but I’d advise you never to underestimate the Runorata boss. After all, he managed to survive the Night of the Sicilian Vespers.”

The Night of the Sicilian Vespers was a purge that had been carried out all across America in September of that year by Lucky Luciano’s men. In order to build a new system for the mafia, they’d killed more than thirty mafia bosses with old-fashioned mind-sets. Then, they created “the Commission,” an organization with a new system, one of meetings and a seven-member committee.

“Runorata was one of the so-called Mustache Pete bosses, an old-school boss, but not only did he make it through that wave, he’s taken a step back from the Commission and kept his syndicate together. In other words, he’s just that powerful. You’d better assume Gustavo has a man like that behind him. However, as I said earlier, he’s only there. He isn’t directly cooperating with Gustavo. As long as you understand that, it should be enough.”

When he’d spoken that far, abruptly, the telephone stopped ringing.

“I cut the circuit temporarily. I want to be able to hear you clearly.”

Behind the mountain of documents, the voice of the information brokerage president was quiet, but it clearly held something like curiosity.

“All right, Keith. You may already have known everything I’ve said here. What sort of additional information would you like, and for what purpose? Of course I’ll be asking for information and a reasonable sum of money in compensation, but words you speak are valuable all by themselves. It’s been three years since I heard you speak more than five syllables. That was when you and the Martillos were on the verge of a conflict, if I recall. I was surprised at how well things cooled down, and I couldn’t be more pleased that the information proved useful to you.”

The voice from behind the documents stopped dead, and for a moment, silence flowed through the room.

Then Keith opened his mouth…

After putting his subordinates’ reports in order, Gustavo abruptly pounded the desk with his fist.

“Dammit! What the hell is going on?! One of their bosses is dead. It’s gotta be chaos over there; we poured in all that manpower, and we couldn’t take one single hair off their ass?! And on top of that, they actually snatched one of our idiots!”

Since he thought Luck had been killed, the other organization’s levelheaded response had taken him completely by surprise.

In thinking of the Gandors as a tiny, two-bit outfit, had they taken them too lightly when they’d struck? To make matters worse, although they’d found out where the guy who’d stolen the drugs lived, by the time they’d gone in, all they found was the sour smell of vomit. If things went on like this, Gustavo would be in serious trouble. Forget delivering good news to his boss; he might end up having to sweat and strain over a letter detailing even worse news.

In a room of the Wall Street hotel that they were using as their temporary hideout, Gustavo tried desperately to think of a way to break through the situation. However, he was a man who’d climbed to the top through brute force. There was no way he could come up with other methods easily at this late date.

He would have liked to use bombs and blow them and their businesses to kingdom come, but he didn’t have the explosives. If he asked Bartolo, he’d probably arrange for some right away, but how in the world was he supposed to explain this failure?

“For Chrissakes, did we really just not have enough people? Next time I’ll get a heavy concentration of men together, and—”

“Are you…all…right? You…look…ra…ther…pale.”

Gustavo flinched at the abrupt voice from behind.

“B-Begg! What are you doing here?! You startled me, dammit!”

“I…told…you…I’d be…coming…today. I…wanted…to…see…the effects…of…my…drugs…with…my own…eyes.”

“Tch! I’m busy right now. Do it later.”

“I…can’t…do…that. I…have…to…pick up…some…cargo…at…the…station…at the end…of…the…month. It’s…big…cargo, so…I…want you…to…loan…me…a…few…people.”

“Screw that! You think we’ve got that kinda… Wait, cargo? Drug materials?”

If that was it, they couldn’t treat it carelessly. However, Begg’s next words weren’t even close to what Gustavo had expected.

“More…delicate…than…that.It’s…something…my…friend…made. High…performance…explosives.”

Chewing the meaning of those words over in his mind, Gustavo slowly—and absolutely—understood them.

Firepower.

“Tell me more about that. Gimme details.”

“That’s how things stand, so if you would… Yes, although we still can’t predict which way the situation will go.”

In the office in the jazz hall basement, Luck was in the middle of a phone call. The people around him were watching him with tense expressions, but to whom he was speaking wasn’t clear.

“That’s right. In that case, we’ll be waiting for you at the end of the month. No, we’re the ones who’ll be looking forward to it.”

As he hung up, Luck turned to his brothers, who were next to him, and raised both hands.

“He said it’s okay. He’s coming in on a train at the end of this month.”

In spite of himself, Berga whistled, and—unusually—the corners of Keith’s mouth softened.

“All right, gentlemen. For a little while, until you have orders, I want every one of you to avoid all independent action. We’ll suspend business at the gambling dens and speakeasies for a time, too, on the pretext of remodeling. Until you receive orders, go deep underground to ensure you don’t become a target. Is that clear?”

At that order, confusion ran through all the nonexecutive members.

“Um…”

As if representing the rest, Tick spoke up, sounding mystified.

“Who’s coming, exactly?”

“Oh, that’s right. I can’t expect you to understand if I don’t tell you that. My apologies.”

With a smile that was genuinely happy, unlike his usual smile, Luck quietly said the name:

“The living legend, the world’s most egotistical hitman, Vino…Claire Stanfield.”