Meanwhile, Ronny was still young, with distinctive, almond-shaped eyes that gave him a fox-like air.
Although the roots of the Camorra were in Italy, Molsa wasn’t particular about nationality. As a result, their membership included an assortment of races.
Firo, who stood directly in front of Molsa, responded with a tense voice:
“…Yes, capo masto. I’m here.”
“…Can you answer the questions I am about to ask you without falsehood or deceit?”
“I can.”
After a silence of several seconds, the “dialogue” began.
“Do you wish to become a camorrista?”
“Yes.”
“The Camorra is an organization that was born inside a jail in Italy, our distant homeland. If you cross this line, prison may someday rob you of your freedom. The flame of your life might also be snuffed out in a fight that seems unfair. Do you understand these things?”
“I do.”
“Your right foot is in prison. Your left foot is in your coffin. Even then, do you wish to keep your eyes fixed on your own path, and to at times grasp honor with your right hand?”
“I do.”
“If necessary, can you use your left hand to take your own life for our sake?”
“…Yes.”
“Firo Prochainezo. If your father killed one of our comrades, could you kill your father and avenge your comrade?”
That question demanded a brief silence.
Firo didn’t know his father’s face. He’d been born and raised in a slum in Hell’s Kitchen, where Italian immigrants tended to gather. His father had been Italian, and his mother had been American with English ancestors. Apparently, when his father had been in Naples, Italy, he’d been a member of the Camorra. There had been a war between organizations over there, and when his had lost the fight, they’d come to America.
Just about the time Firo came into the world, Firo’s father had died of tuberculosis.
He’d grown up not knowing his father, and before he reached his tenth birthday, his mother had died as well.
Again, it had been tuberculosis. His mother had been kept isolated from everyone around her, and her death had seemed to be a very lonely one.
For a few years after that, he’d done anything and everything to stay alive. He hadn’t had the leeway to distinguish between good deeds and bad ones. He’d been drifting around New York when he’d tried to steal a wallet from Yaguruma, the syndicates’s primo voto. The moment he’d tried to stick his hand into the elderly Asian’s jacket, Firo’s vision had somersaulted. He’d been thrown by Yaguruma hundreds of times since then, but that first time had been the most memorable.
That was when Firo had become involved with the Family. To him, the members who passed in and out of Alveare really were like family.
He’d never given much thought to where he belonged.
But Firo liked these guys.
That was all it was, but to him, it was enough.
“…Yes. If the one who was killed truly was our comrade, I would bury my blade in the heart of a relative.”
“I see. …Listen, Firo. The path you are about to start down is…a spiral… Yes, something like a huge spiral staircase.”
This wasn’t a question. He spoke slowly, in the sort of tone he would have used to give advice to his own child.
“Our world is like a spiral staircase: Once you take that first step, you’re in, and after that, the only way to go is down. Some go down cautiously, holding the railing, and others fall spectacularly down the center of the spiral. Some may descend through that hole elegantly, with a parachute, and be showered with praise, while others will have their parachute strings summarily cut. We’re petty beings who continue to descend that staircase, nothing more. What waits for us at the very bottom is the end of our lives. Either we fall from the staircase to be dashed to the ground and die; or we descend normally, walking until we’re exhausted and then die; or we die satisfied, as if we’re going to sleep. The fact that you die at the end is the same in every world, but most people die on mountaintops, or…well, someplace close to heaven, although I don’t know whether or not it exists. However, for us, there is no going up. Capone may look as if he’s going up, but even he’s only descending gracefully, in the midst of applause, just like one of the president’s parades… Yet still, in the end, he’s going down just the same.”
At this point, he paused. Drawing a deep breath, he said:
“When a guy shines as bright as Capone…people outside the spiral staircase, people living normal lives, can see him. However, most are never noticed. The only thing people think is that there’s something buzzing around on a staircase that goes down into the bowels of the earth.”
Molsa’s eyes opened wide, and he gazed intently into Firo’s.
“Firo Prochainezo. I’ll ask you one more time. It’s not too late for you to turn back. Even if you’ve done wrong before, if it’s nothing too serious, you’ll be able to head for the ‘up’ staircase. You may be shut up in the big house for several years, but you can make a fresh start from there. However, if you cross this line, there’s no turning back. Until now, others have used you, but when you become a camorrista, you’ll be someone who uses others. You’ll turn some of the gears—only a few, mind—of the underworld. Once that happens, you can’t go back. If you try to turn back, the fellas who are descending the staircase with you will drag you down and throw you into the well at its center. Frankly, I think you could do just fine on the straight and narrow, too. You’ve got the ability for it. Firo Prochainezo. Do you intend to step onto this staircase, even so?”
Molsa’s speech ended there. Once again, silence descended upon the room.
The lamp’s flame flickered wildly.
How much courage must it have taken Firo to utter his next words… To respond to Molsa?
“…Yes. I’m prepared.”
As he finished speaking, sweat ran down his back like a waterfall, and salty drops fell from his clenched fists.
“…I see… In that case, show us your resolve.”
Firo took a step forward.
He drew his own knife…and stuck it into the tabletop. There were a dozen or so scars around it, probably left over from former rituals.
A handgun sat a short ways in front of the upright knife. Firo picked it up and aimed it at Molsa. Then he turned the muzzle toward his own heart.
When he’d finished this sequence of actions, Firo walked around the edge of the table, gun in hand. He passed half the men as he did so, and all of them kept intense eyes fixed on him.
When he reached Molsa’s side, Firo knelt reverentially. Carefully, he changed his grip on the weapon, quietly holding it out to his leader.
The caposocietà took it wordlessly. Then he raised a hand and signaled Ronny, the secretary.
Ronny nodded silently, then crossed to a shelf in a corner of the room. He brought two bottles and a single glass over to Firo.
One bottle was filled with wine, and a liquid poison swirled in the other.
Molsa poured wine into the glass until it was half full, then filled it the rest of the way with poison.
Without a word, he held the poisoned glass out to Firo.
Firo took it without hesitation and slowly brought it to his lips.
When they touched the rim of the faintly shining glass—
—Molsa snatched the drink from Firo’s hand and dashed it to the floor. Red liquid and glass shards splashed at their feet.
This process had demonstrated Firo’s loyalty and courage. In leaving his knife, he’d shown a courage that didn’t depend on weapons alone. In turning the gun from Molsa to himself, he’d shown a willingness to choose his own death over shooting his caposocietà. In bringing poison to his lips, he’d shown devotion, agreeing to accept even death if that was what his leader ordered. The content and significance of these Camorra promotion rituals differed from group to group. In the Martillo Family, after this sequence of
actions, the final “ritual” was conducted.
“Capo… Please test my duty,” Firo said.
Molsa nodded quietly, and then:
“Yaguruma, you stand witness. Maiza, you test Firo’s duty.”
He gave his two subordinates their orders.
Behind the round table, there was a relatively large, open space. When Firo and the two executives moved to it, Ronny brought over three knives. One was the knife Firo had stabbed into the round table a little while earlier, and it was handed to him just as it was.
The remaining two knives were gripped in the hands of the executives, one each.
The two of them, Firo and Maiza, were about to fight a duel, right there.
One of the differences between the Camorra and the Mafia was that, while the Mafia preferred guns, the Camorra used knife skills as a way to measure their honor. The more skilled with a knife someone was, the more respect his comrades had for him.
Conversely, for the Camorra, you could say that being able to use a knife was a duty.
As a result, a test of knife skills was incorporated as one of the rituals, and although it wasn’t clear whether it meant the same thing among them, many other Camorra groups—both in Naples and in New York—included such a duel in their rituals.
The duel was said to be over when one of the combatants wounded his opponent’s arm. If Firo lost to Maiza, he’d fight again, going up against one of the other executives. If he lost against three opponents in a row, he’d hone his skills with a knife, and the ritual duel would be conducted again at a later date. Of course, until that time, he couldn’t be promoted to executive.
“…I trust there’s no ill feeling between you two? If one of you stabs his opponent in the chest, I’ll kill the one who did it then and there. Is that clear?”
Yaguruma spoke dispassionately. Although he’d emigrated from Japan, he’d lived in this country for over thirty years, so there was nothing odd about the way he spoke.
Firo and Maiza shrugged out of their jackets and hung them over the backs of nearby chairs. The two of them were in shirtsleeves, and in the dark room, the two patches of white stood out sharply.
“Not going to take your shirts off? …Well, I know it’s cold, but not only will they get cut, they’ll get bloody. …You don’t care? All right. In that case… Begin.”
Yaguruma took a step back, and Maiza and Firo faced each other.
Firo wasn’t sure how to start. Come to think of it, this was the first time he’d seen Maiza with a knife. People called him a coward behind his back, but since he was an exec, he had to have at least some skills with a knife, right?
Even so, Firo was sure he wouldn’t lose. If his opponent had been Yaguruma, he would have been far less confident, but he was positive he could win against Maiza, no question.
That naïve thought was shattered in an instant.
Leaning forward slightly, the tall man in front of him began to advance. His steps were slow.
Abruptly, Maiza’s arm stretched out. It really did look as if his arm had gotten longer.
“………!”
Firo jumped back immediately, only to have Maiza claim the spot where he’d been standing a moment before.
Fast…!
Directly after Maiza had stepped forward slowly, he’d then sped up drastically. That was what had given Firo the illusion that Maiza’s body had stretched.
Maiza gave a slightly disappointed smile. Then he closed the distance again, unleashing a series of attacks with his knife.
The way it moved changed from attack to attack. Just when Firo had seen several arcing attacks in a row, in the next instant, a sharp, direct thrust would bear down on him. Firo also struck, undaunted, but every strike was deflected by beautifully spare motions. Then another attack would be launched in the opening he’d left.
He was tough. The way Maiza handled his blade showed his skills to be first-rate among the people Firo knew. If he’d been watching from the sidelines, he probably would have involuntarily marveled at it, but he didn’t have the time right now to be impressed.
However, Firo also had the best knife skills of the associates, and he continued to evade Maiza’s serial attacks by a hair.
Firo’s strength lay in his sharp eyes and the breadth of their vision. The knife’s pathway wasn’t the only thing his eyes picked up on: He had a detailed grasp of the movement of Maiza’s shoulders, his gaze, and his footwork, which he used to make split-second decisions about what his own moves should be.
The job he did for the syndicate involved being on the alert for cheating at a gambling den, and it would have trained his kinetic vision and broadened his visual field whether he wanted it to or not. In addition, when he had free days, he’d studied martial arts with Yaguruma and knife handling with Ronny and Molsa, so he was skilled at making snap decisions in combat.
Even so, Maiza was driving him to the wall.
Firo’s eyes picked up the state of the room behind Maiza. Given the position of the walls beyond him, it was clear that Firo would be forced into a corner very soon. If his back hit the wall even once, Maiza would probably get him. In which case—
Firo took a gamble. He voluntarily leaped backward, slamming his back into the wall. Maiza closed in. Firo swiftly went into a crouch…then kicked off the wall, charging at Maiza. For an instant, the other man looked confused—Or Firo thought he had, but he couldn’t afford to double-check things like that. He took aim and thrust his knife at his opponent.
If he aimed for the arm, his own arm would likely have been sliced first. And so—
Maiza’s arm suddenly stopped.
The tip of Firo’s blade jammed into the guard of Maiza’s knife. The two weapons overlapped each other perfectly. But the blade of Firo’s knife seemed to be just a bit longer: Maiza’s blade hadn’t reached Firo’s guard.
A cross-counter with knives. The strange sight didn’t even last a second.
Maiza hastily withdrew his knife, but as if synchronizing his movements to Maiza’s, Firo shoved his own knife farther in.
The unexpected force threw Maiza off-balance.
This time, aiming for that instant, Firo yanked his knife back. Soundlessly, the blade slipped free of Maiza’s guard. Then, as Maiza staggered, it slashed his left arm.
The close combat, which had lasted several minutes, came to a truly abrupt end.
The sleeve of Maiza’s shirt split, and red blood seeped from the tear.
“…That’s the match, gentlemen.”
Maiza beamed, holding his red-stained arm high.
After a moment’s silence, the basement room erupted with cheers.
Up until then, the executives had observed the ritual with wooden expressions, but from the way they looked now, you would have thought their favorite ball player had hit a homer. Everyone was praising Firo, all at once.
“Yahoo! That was incredible, Firo!”
One of the executives put an arm around Firo’s shoulders.
“I can’t believe you managed to land one on Maiza!”
Apparently all the executives had known about Maiza’s skills. Come to think of it, he’d never heard the executives say anything nasty about Maiza behind his back. Now that Firo had recovered enough composure to be able to calmly consider such nuance, sweat began trickling down his face.
“No…I was…startled, too.”
“Congratulations, Firo.”
All the strength seemed to have drained from Firo, and Maiza hugged him, as if to keep him on his feet. Then, as though they were following his lead, the other executives embraced Firo, one after another.
As he slapped Firo on the back, Yaguruma sent him a rare compliment.
“You sure have grown. I’ve served as witness for many years, and you’re the first exec candidate who’s ever beaten Maiza!”
Finally, Molsa hugged Firo, thumping him on the back.
“I won’t say another word. You’re a fine camorrista, Firo.”
Then Molsa
picked up the gun that had been used in the earlier ritual:
“I now fire a salute, to celebrate the birth of our new executive!”
Aiming at the ceiling, he pulled the trigger. The bullet punched through the wooden ceiling, heading upstairs. These shots were probably always fired at the same place: There were several old bullet scars in that area.
With that, the entire ritual was over, and a new camorrista had been born.
Possibly from happiness, the camorrista in question kept looking around at everything.
“…Huh?”
Then he noticed.
The red stain that had been on Maiza’s arm had vanished completely.
Just as he was wondering what that meant—
There was a heavy thud, as if something had fallen over on the other side of the ceiling. Then a woman’s scream rang out.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek! Isaac’s been killed!”
A little while earlier.
Isaac and Miria were walking along, looking just as they had before, when the streetlamps began to light up.
“Well. I wonder if Ennis got those four turned in to the police.”
“I hope she managed to make a clean getaway afterward!”
She’d called herself a criminal, so apparently they were worried she might have been caught by the police.
“Say, what do you suppose Ennis even did?”
“She probably ran away from home, don’t you think?!”
They had no way of knowing she’d thought they were runaways.
“Hmm… Yes, that could be it. Still… She was seriously tough!”
“Really tough!”
“I wonder if that was the rumored ‘Oriental Baritsu.’”
“What’s Baritsu?”
“Heh-heh-heh! It’s an Eastern martial art used by Holmes, the hero of those popular British novels. I hear it’s actually an abbreviation of ‘Barton-style jujitsu’!”
“Wow, Isaac, you know everything!”
“Heh-heh-heh, had you observed instead of merely seen, you would have known the meaning of Baritsu, my dear Miria.”
Apparently he was a fan of detective novels. That said, it’s doubtful that even observing would have clarified the meaning of Baritsu. For one thing, there hadn’t been anything to see.
The Rolling Bootlegs Page 11
