It was hopeless. How should she report this to Szilard, her master? She herself bore not the slightest responsibility for the situation, but even so, her heart was heavy. It wasn’t likely that Szilard himself would fly into a rage, but he would certainly look displeased. What hurt more than that, though, was the realization that the faces of the old men would doubtless appear several times more despairing than her own.
“…Miss. Miss.”
At the sensation of a hand on her shoulder, Ennis returned to herself with a jolt.
There was a boy standing in front of her. He seemed to be roughly her age, or maybe a little younger.
“Are you all right? Your face is very pale…”
His manner of speech was mature and didn’t match his appearance, but she could tell he seemed to be worried about her.
Had she really let her emotions show in her face so clearly? Hastily pulling herself together, she gave the boy a curt answer:
“Oh… No, it’s nothing. Thank you for your concern.”
With that, she turned on her heel and pushed her way back through the crowd, making for the outside of the ring of rubberneckers that had formed around the fire.
Barnes, at least, might have managed to escape. With that hope in mind, she quickly disappeared into one of the alleys, intending to search the surrounding streets.
It had been a very cold response, but that being the one given, there was no help for it.
When Firo had reached the fire, a large black passenger car had been parked beside it.
Initially, he’d been taken aback that the person who’d emerged from the driver’s seat was a young woman. The next thing about her—she looked to be a year or two older than he was, but they were probably about the same age—that caught his eye was her clothes. Even though she was a dame, she wore a black two-piece suit, and her boots were sturdy, the sort that soldiers or policemen might wear. It was an entirely unfeminine outfit, but maybe the cloth was very thin… Though it was a suit, it didn’t give the impression of being stiff. Even her hair, which was clipped short, could have been considered heresy for women of the day, but… In an odd way, it harmonized with her outfit and actually lent her a bewitching allure.
Firo had been drawn, very slightly, to her countercultural appearance.
Not only that, but, for some reason, the woman had looked more startled than was strictly necessary on seeing the fire, and she’d abruptly started elbowing her way through the crowd in an attempt to get closer.
Finally reaching a spot where she had a better view of the fire—in other words, in front of the other looky-loos—an air of despair, or rather, profound sadness, had seeped into her expression, and she’d seemed rooted to the spot.
Firo had found himself unable to just stand by and watch. He’d pushed his way through the crowd himself and spoken to her, but such had been her response to his efforts. He watched her go, feeling a little disappointed, but…
Huh? She’s not heading for the car…?
The automobile in which the woman had arrived had been surrounded by a wave of newcomers. However, she hadn’t even bothered to check on it. Instead, she made a beeline for an alley in a completely different direction.
There really must have been something going on. Firo was curious, and at the same time, he wanted to talk with her just a little more. Frankly, it was that “love at first sight” thing.
By the time the balance in Firo Prochainezo’s head, wavering between the fire and the girl, had tipped completely toward the latter, he’d already started swimming against the flow of the crowd.
“That’s weird… Maybe I should’ve taken a right at that last street…”
The streets of New York were laid out like the mesh of a net. They were regular, but because they were so vast, their geometric ranks turned the city into a labyrinth.
He thought he’d been following the girl, but at some point, he seemed to have fallen prey to the urban maze. He’d lived in this city for a long time, the roads home to the hideout, to speakeasies, to all sorts of destinations in his head. However, if the target was a moving person, it was hopeless.
Besides, if he wasn’t mistaken, this was Gandor Family turf.
The Gandor Family was one of New York’s many Mafia outfits, and their scale and the size of their territory weren’t much different from those of the Martillo Family. That said, the men who ran the syndicate, the three Gandor brothers, had a reputation for being merciless and aggressive, and on top of that, all of their members were notorious thugs ready to brawl at the drop of a hat.
“Man… I hope that broad hasn’t gotten herself kidnapped.”
It was a pretty ominous-sounding worry but by no means an empty figure of speech. It was a distinct possibility on this family’s turf.
The guys under the Gandors’ direct supervision are one thing, but since the punks-in-training don’t get bawled out directly by the brothers, it’s tough reining them in…
Pausing to take in his surroundings, Firo picked up on something reminiscent of men shouting. With nothing else to go on, he headed toward the voices.
Turning the corner of an alley, he saw several figures. Four young toughs had a single old man surrounded.
Edging closer, Firo could make out what they were saying. None appeared to have noticed him yet.
“…I said apologize, you old fart!”
“Enough of your bushwa…! It was you curs who tripped me!”
Responding to the old geezer’s lip, one of the thugs kicked him in the stomach.
A low groan escaped the old man, and he doubled over.
“Don’t mess with us, Gramps. We said, real polite-like, ‘That’s a heavy-looking box you got there. Want us to carry it for you?’ and do you remember what you said? Hmm?”
Another of the toughs, not the one who’d unleashed the kick, lightly smacked his elderly, writhing prey on the cheek.
“‘Get lost, you lowlife scum,’ you said. What a nice, friendly thing to say, huh?”
Another blow. This time he smacked the other cheek. It probably didn’t hurt, those slaps being intended to cause psychological pressure.
“Thanks to that, my leg just sort of stuck itself out there…and because you tripped on it, you got your dirty mites all over it. It’s so itchy I think I’m gonna die. What’re you gonna do about it?”
“What kind of claptrap are you…?”
“Nobody asked for your opinion.”
The one who seemed to be the leader kicked the old man’s shin hard with his toes.
Assailed by violent pain, their victim decided it would be best to just apologize and give them money.
He didn’t have time to bother with this filth. He had a mission to carry out.
“A-all right, I was wrong. If it’s money you w—”
One of the thugs curved his thumb and index finger as if he were holding a golf ball and jabbed them into the geezer’s throat. He couldn’t scream even if he’d wanted to. He couldn’t breathe, either.
“Nobody. Asked. How many times are you gonna make me say it?”
The pain was so intense that the old man nearly dropped the crate he was holding. However, grudging even the time it would take to catch his breath, he focused all his nerves on hanging on to the box.
“…What’s up, Gramps? Is that box that important?”
One of the men reached for the crate. At that, although there was no telling where the old man found the strength, he hugged the box to his chest as if protecting it from his attackers, and tried to run.
However, they tripped him again, and he toppled to the ground.
He’d fallen facedown, and they delivered a vicious kick to his ribs. The same foot was then used to flip him onto his back.
“We’ll take that box off your hands. …Not that that means we’re letting you off the hook.”
Keeping one foot planted on the elderly fellow’s stomach to hold him down, the leader bent over, reaching for the box.
Even then,
the old man tried to resist. When he attempted to say something, a man in lightweight clothes who’d been standing on the sidelines kicked him in the head.
Overcome by the sensation of his brain rattling in his skull, the old man passed out.
“All right… What’s this stuff? Liquor?”
Opening the box, the muggers found two deep-green bottles. A liquid that wasn’t water splashed inside the oddly shaped receptacles. It was the way the liquid moved that made them think it wasn’t water. When it swayed, there was a subtle density to it.
If this stuff was liquor, why had the old man risked life and limb for it? Could it be terribly expensive liquor? As the leader weighed the possibilities, he noticed a boy watching them from a short distance away.
“…What, punk? What’re you looking at?”
Finding himself called out, Firo hesitated, unsure what to do.
If events had unfolded as per the thugs’ account, he figured the old man had only gotten what he deserved, so there was no help for it. He did think they’d gone a bit overboard, but it wasn’t much different from what he’d done to the slasher just that morning. Of course, at root, there was a significant difference between slander and murderous intent, but Firo didn’t particularly concern himself with that.
“Nothing… Anyone would get angry if some old bastard they just met called them ‘lowlife scum.’ That’s only natural. I was just thinking: If you rob him after that, are you prepared to get marked by the cops? Or are you confident you can vanish the coot and wipe your tracks? …Stuff like that.”
The boy’s tone was oddly mature, and the men exchanged suspicious looks.
Their leader baited him, crossly.
“…Hey, punk, listen up. Didn’t your ma teach you to be polite to your elders? Or was she too busy standing on street corners at night to let you suck on her dugs?”
He tossed off a vulgar joke, but his eyes weren’t smiling.
It was the second time today someone had called Firo out on his manners. At that thought, he gave a small sigh, fed up. A cop was one thing, but getting etiquette lectures from these guys…
“…I may not be twenty yet, but what about you? The way you talk and act, you really don’t seem any older than me.”
The men went quiet. Seems he’d gotten their goat, but he didn’t care.
“…You’re not from around here, are you, loser.”
“I’m a New Yorker, same as you. Firo, a Martillo Family associate.”
He gave a casual self-introduction, paying them minimal courtesy.
“Martillo? Never heard of ’em… What about you guys?”
The boss’s cronies shook their heads, mocking smiles on their faces.
“…Huhn! Must be a pretty dinky group… Or, what, is it some schoolyard gang?”
“…I think we’re about the same size as the Gandors, the fellas you work under.”
He’d thought he was turning their taunt around on them, but even though it was true, it didn’t appear to have riled them up.
“Huh? Who’re we under, again?”
Weren’t they connected with the Gandors? If not, they were swaggering an awful lot… Processing this, Firo waited for them to make the next move.
“Don’t go lumping us in with those two-bit posers. We don’t answer to nobody. Teaming up the way you guys do just proves you’re weak, get it? Just look—even though we’ve been throwing our weight around here, the Gandors ain’t complained even once!”
Ah, so that was how it was. Firo had the gist now.
These guys really were just thugs, in the truest sense of the word. It wasn’t that they hadn’t joined an outfit. At their level, no one even paid attention to them.
“I see. Never mind, then. Get lost.”
At Firo’s tone, the toughs’ smirks vanished.
“……Say what?”
“I said you’re free to go. I had something I wanted to ask you, but it doesn’t look like you’ll tell me, in which case it’ll be a lot easier to look around on my own. Matter of fact, I’m pretty annoyed I wasted any time on you at all, but I’ll let you go without decking you, so beat it. Do I really have to spell it all out for you?”
He told them off, all in a breath.
As Firo turned to walk away, one of the men quickly slipped up behind him.
“You little punk! You think you’re some kinda big shot?!”
He grabbed Firo’s collar, hauling him in.
The boy heaved a small sigh. Then, as if that sigh had been a signal, he went on the offensive.
Swiftly, his left hand went for his assailant’s throat. The man had grabbed his collar with his right hand and was unable to react quickly enough to stop it.
Hand at the thug’s neck, Firo plunged his index and middle fingers into the base of his throat, just below his Adam’s apple.
“!!”
A mute scream went up. The tough released Firo’s collar and clapped both hands to his throat, collapsing to his knees.
“That’s what you just did to that old guy, remember?”
“You sonuva—!”
Another man came swinging at Firo from the side.
He dodged, twisting his upper body lightly, then trapped his opponent’s outstretched left arm. At that, the thug hastily tried hitting him with his free hand. However, his stance was unstable, and he couldn’t put much force into the blow. Firo grabbed that arm as well.
Both of his arms trapped, the would-be brawler struggled in an attempt to extricate himself from the situation, considered unleashing a kick…but it was too late.
In an instant, still holding the man’s arms, Firo had turned away from him. His arms were crossed at the elbows and stretched over Firo’s left shoulder.
Then, adjusting his center of gravity as he moved, Firo leaned forward, fast. He thought he heard the elbows crossed on his shoulder creak. Unable to stand the pain in his arms, the tough had forgotten to resist his opponent’s move in spite of himself.
Feet off the ground, his equilibrium somersaulted.
In the next instant, a shock ran through his back… Or rather, through his whole body. A numbness seemed to wash over him. The sensation gradually turned into a gnawing pain.
“Whoa… So that’s what happens. I’m kinda impressed.”
Firo—the one who’d done the throwing—looked more startled than his victim, who only writhed in pain. It was a move he’d learned from a Japanese man in his syndicate, and he’d never managed to throw anyone that well before.
“Gakh…aaah…”
Looking at their companions, who were emitting short groans, the two remaining thugs swallowed hard. They should have gone at him all at once, four on one, but they seemed to have underestimated the boy and found themselves idling by the old man.
This kid was bad news. The ringleader was just beginning to register the true skills of the boy in front of him.
Meanwhile, his buddy already had his knife out and was pointing the tip of its blade at Firo.
“…Aww… You drew? Seriously?”
His expression looked troubled, but inside, Firo was as composed as ever.
Moving casually, he closed the gap between himself and the two-bit muggers, raising both hands:
“C’mon, now. There’s no need to bring shivs into a fight like this, is there?”
“Shaddup! It’s way too late to go all diplomati—”
Midsentence, a shock ran through his knife hand. Firo had nailed it with an unerring toe kick. Involuntarily, the man dropped the knife. The metal bounced a bit when it struck the pavement, and Firo kicked it out of reach.
“Uh…”
By reflex, the attacker’s eyes followed the blade.
From the lower edge of his field of vision, something closed in on him.
By the time he realized that “something” was Firo’s fist, it was too late. He took a powerful blow below the nose, a kick to the stomach, and ended up rolling around on the ground.
“And? What’ll it be?
” Firo asked, turning to face the leader.
The man’s hand was still inside his jacket.
“From now on, save the kiddie games for school.”
Firo returned the insult he’d received a few moments earlier. But it was unclear whether or not the man left standing had been listening as he walked over to the crony who’d grabbed Firo’s shirt at the outset and been laid out. That man had since gotten up, but was still rubbing his throbbing throat. After exchanging two or three words, they each booked it to one of their fallen crew, lent them a shoulder, and hauled them to their feet.
With a final, hate-filled glare at Firo, the men took off running.
That left just Firo and the unconscious old coot.
“Hey, Gramps! Gramps! …You all right?”
At the sensation of a hand smacking his cheek, Barnes came to.
He sat up hastily. There was no pain. The internal bleeding and broken bones seemed to have fully “recovered.”
In front of him, he saw the face of a lad who looked younger than the earlier group. The youth seemed to be bending down, watching him. And Barnes still held the crate.
On confirming that fact, Barnes sighed in relief. Then he shot a suspicious glance at Firo.
Had this boy saved him? He couldn’t imagine that the young man had run that gang off all by himself, but at any rate, the crate was safe. Barnes was worried about its contents, but when he opened it a crack and looked, the bottles were fine as well, their contents safely inside.
“It’s more important than you? Whatever’s in that box?” Firo asked, sounding highly interested.
At that, Barnes immediately closed the lid and shouted, hugging the crate to him more tightly than before:
“S-silence! It’s nothing to do with scoundrels like you! Are you after this liquor as well?! If it’s money you want, I’ll give you as much as you ask for, so begone!”
“…Hey. That’s a fine thing to say to the guy who saved your life… I think I get how the other guys felt.”
He grimaced as he spoke, but he didn’t seem to be all that upset.
“By the way, Gramps. Did you see a lady wearing a lightweight black suit?”
The Rolling Bootlegs Page 6
