Baccano! - Volume 1 - Chapter 1

DAY ONE

1930 November New York

The sky was the sort people call crystal-clear. The town was illuminated by the transparent light of the morning sun.

Buildings of red and yellow brick were packed together as though they were trying to cover the entire city in color. That said, the people who walked in their midst didn’t feel crowded by them.

In fact, the automobiles that had begun to make their presence felt in recent years pressed the pedestrians much harder.

The time was Prohibition. All sorts of social currents had converged, and the country had elected to become a “dry society.” Consequently, though, the appeal of liquor had actually increased, and even those who hadn’t previously indulged began frequenting illegal taverns. …In other words, ironically, the result had been the creation of more criminals.

A general store stocked grape juice on its shelves, accompanied by a written warning:

If you let this sit for a while, it will ferment and turn into wine. Drink it before that happens.

This grape juice practically flew off the shelves. It was that kind of era.

The Jazz Age had passed its peak, and the previous year, the Great Depression had gripped America. The redbrick buildings that filled the city seemed somehow faded.

Still, in the shadows of the city, there were “protagonists” who had the power to resist the Depression. In general, they were lumped together as “the Mafia,” and they had acquired vast power using the sale of bootleg liquor as a foothold.

In other words, the government’s Prohibition policy had become a perfect hotbed, helping them—the enemies of the law—to rapidly advance in society.

All sorts of legends, great and small, sprang up among them, with Al Capone and Lucky Luciano topping the list. That was what 1930 was like.

Their legends always began in the back alleys.

“Change? Spare any change?”

The emergency exit of a bank. Between tightly packed tenements. Where restaurants threw away their leftovers… Frankly, as long as there was a narrow, gloomy road, anywhere was fine. It didn’t matter whether it was crowded with people or nearly deserted. The season or the hour didn’t matter either, of course.

“You can save this miserable man with just the tiniest show of human feeling.”

A panhandler’s voice sounded behind the hat shop. This voice, echoing in the alley, might actually have been where it all started.

Every time someone passed through the alley, a middle-aged man in shabby clothes badgered them, persistently asking for change. When they stepped out onto the street, he’d give up and go back to where he’d started… A monotonous cycle.

“The good Lord sees what you do. It won’t be long before your actions call down his blessings upon…

“What I’m trying to say here is—”

Abruptly, the repetitive cycle was broken.

The man who’d spoken to the panhandler… It might still have been all right to call him a boy. He stopped suddenly, turning to face the bearded man attempting to cling to him.

“Why are you dropping God’s name all over the place like that?”

Neither his tone nor his attitude matched his age. At the unexpected question, the panhandler’s expression grew puzzled.

“What do you mean, mister?”

“Are you a devout Christian? Have you ever gone to Sunday worship, even once? Did you give to the Church before losing your job? Can you tell me the difference between Catholics and Protestants? If so, you shouldn’t be invoking God’s name and begging in a place like this. Either get yourself to a church and help the nuns with their volunteer work, or look a lot harder for a job, or else blame God for leading you to this state and become a Satanist.”

The panhandler was overwhelmed by the tone of the boy’s quiet harangue, but as soon as the lad paused, he howled an objection.

“But mister! What about donations to the Church, then?! They use God’s name, and they get thousands—no, millions—of times more money than a bum like me!”

“Except you were only thinking about your own pocket, and you know it. …It just means God turns his back on self-centered louts like you. The Great Depression probably landed you on the streets, but even so, the guys standing out on the avenue with signs saying, ‘Give me a job’ are taking life a lot more seriously than you.”

The panhandler tried to make some sort of retort, but he couldn’t think of anything clever. Even as he struggled for a comeback, the boy continued his own selfish lecture.

“And anyway, there’s an art to panhandling, too. Some who make a living at it stand out on street corners in tatters, even though they’ve got money. A few of them actually break their own arms or teeth, for effect. When they beg, it makes passersby tear up even more than the sight of someone truly infirm. Compared to them, you’re a total amateur.”

At this point, the boy glanced upward briefly, then pulled a leather wallet from his jacket.

“Huh?”

The panhandler had no idea what was happening. Based on the direction of the conversation, naturally he’d held out no hope of getting any change. …So why had the fellow before him withdrawn his wallet?

“—Ordinarily, I wouldn’t bother with an amateur like you, but…”

He produced a few coins. However, the panhandler’s eye had been caught by the thick stack of bills in the billfold. It wasn’t a sum that anyone, especially a boy like him, should have had in this Depression. Even an adult with an honest job would have been hard-pressed to get that much money. That was how fat the wallet was.

“Today’s a big day for me, see, and I’m in a real good mood. Go ahead and take these, and consider yourself lucky you spoke to me.”

After a few moments, the panhandler’s face crumpled with joy.

“Oh, ohhhhhh, thank you ever so kindly, mister! I’ll remember this good turn for the rest of my days!”

“Nah… I don’t care if you forget it, just hurry up and take the money.”

The boy urged the panhandler on, not quite sure what to do with the coins spread out on his palm.

“Ahhhh, the good Lord will surely bless your actions, too.”

“Look, I told you, quit pretending you’re religious when it’s convenient…”

“I know! Say, I’ve got some flowers I picked this morning. It’ll be proof of the kindness you did me. Go on, mister, take one.”

No sooner had he spoken than, without taking the money, the panhandler began rummaging through the dirty paper bag he was holding.

“They’re probably wilted by now, anyway.”

“No, no, I’m sure God will make ’em bloom again, nice ’n’ pretty.”

The panhandler peered into the paper bag, his face still warped with delight. And then…

“A big, bright, bright red flower…!”

The calamity struck in an instant.

A small, ferocious calamity that inflicted itself upon the poor paper bag.

A dully gleaming bowie knife sprang cruelly from its shredded belly.

“ !”

The bearded panhandler screamed something inarticulate, his face well and truly happy.

And almost before his weird, ecstatic cry had ended…

…it transformed into a shriek of shock and pain.

“ Gaaaaaaaaah! Gah! Gwaah… Ah!”

Just before the tip of the blade reached his gut, the boy slapped aside the hand wielding the knife, simultaneously twisting his body lightly. The blade sliced through air, skimming past the boy’s side. In the next instant, he’d grabbed his opponent’s outstretched arm, wrenching it up with ease.

These were the only moves made in the interval between exhilaration and excruciation.

“Hup.”

Little by little, as if leaning into his assailant’s back, the lad put more of his weight behind the hold.

He heard the knife strike the pavement but paid it no heed.

A definite creaking sound became audible from the vicinity of the joints in the man’s arm.

But that noise was drowned out by the man’s screams.

“Waugh… Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Ah! Kha! Augh! St-st-st-st-st-st-stop…!”

When he saw the panhandler’s will dominated by pain, the boy shoved him into the dark red brick wall. The man fell to his knees with a dull thud. Then, moaning, he slowly tipped over, rolling around on the ground.

Watching his attacker from the corner of his eye, the boy picked up the coins that had been scattered by the brief bout of violence.

Then, when he noticed the bum had stopped moving:

“C’mon. Get up.”

Taking the man’s arm with a certain wariness—his assailant was about twice his size—the boy pulled him to his feet. Then he leaned the panhandler’s back against the brick wall.

“Your mistake was flagging me down. I’m not a pious guy. Unfortunately for you, I’m not self-sacrificing enough to stand there and let you stab me.”

Breathing roughly, shoulders heaving, the man let the boy’s sarcasm slide. He glanced away quickly, moving only his eyes. Even under these circumstances, he seemed to be searching for some way out.

“Planning to make a break for it? Don’t be hasty.”

Spreading the coins he’d picked up across his palm, the lad held his hand under the man’s nose.

“Remember what I said? Consider yourself lucky…”

He balled his hand into a tight fist, squeezing the coins hard.

“…Be grateful and take ’em.”

It didn’t look as though he’d taken much of a swing. However, the punch the boy paid out had enough force behind it to break the hobo’s front teeth.

“—!”

The impact of the blow slammed the back of the panhandler’s head into the brick wall. This, in combination with the pain from his front teeth, elicited a wordless scream, and then he slid, slowly…scraping his back down the wall…finally crumpling messily to the ground.

Unlike before, he’d completely lost consciousness, so he didn’t roll around on the pavement this time.

Slowly, the boy relaxed his clenched fist. One after another, coins dropped from it. They rained down onto the man’s face, which was smeared with blood from his nose and mouth. His mouth hung open, sloppily, and a few of the coins fell in. The dry, metallic sound of the ones that hit the pavement was drawn into the decaying air of the alley.

“…Hmm?”

Glancing over, the knife from earlier lay on the ground, a little ways away. Its shape was common, and it wasn’t worth much.

I guess I’ll toss it in the river…

The lad turned back for a moment. The panhandler was definitely out cold. Still, just to be on the safe side, the boy decided to take the weapon.

Just as he reached for the cheap, dully gleaming thing, a voice called his name.

“Firo Prochainezo. Hold it right there.”

Quietly withdrawing the hand that had almost touched the knife, the boy—Firo—cast a look toward the voice…toward the mouth of the alley…the light of the street.

He saw the figure of a young man standing with that light behind him. The newcomer was probably in his midtwenties. Over a brown suit, he wore a black coat that covered him down to his knees.

“None of that. Hands off the evidence.”

Turning unpleasant eyes on Firo, the young man slowly picked up the knife with white-gloved hands.

“Edward… What’s going on here?”

“That’s ‘Mr. Edward’ to you. Address your betters politely…kid. Or you can call me ‘Assistant Inspector Edward,’ if you’d prefer.”

With an arrogant smile, the man in the black coat—Assistant Inspector Edward Noah—quietly raised his right hand.

At that, several men appeared behind him…and began collecting the torn paper bag, the scattered coins, and the unconscious idiot, one after another. None of them paid any attention to Firo. They were each a head taller than he was, rendering him, quite literally, out of sight.

“Hey, men, be careful. Don’t step on the brat and squash him.”

Letting their boss’s lame joke pass without comment, the men continued working silently.

“…Huhn. Unsociable lot.”

“Explain this, Ed—…Mr. Edward. You’re making me look like a fool.”

Firo, who’d kept mum up to this point, spoke quietly.

The goods had been mostly taken away, and the men who’d been working diligently were nowhere to be seen. The only trace of the recent incident was a small bloodstain left by the panhandler.

Edward answered Firo’s question without turning, or even looking over.

“True, you’re not a fool. A scumbag, yes, and an urban tick, but not a fool.”

“Don’t dodge the question.”

An edge of irritation was creeping into Firo’s voice. With a sneer at that irritation, Edward leaned back against the brick wall and lit a cigar.

“Come on, dial back the menace. The scum you just laid out… We’ve had an eye on him for a while. He’s a suspect.”

“Suspected of what?”

“Murder. We think he used the same method he tried on you. He’d pretend to be a panhandler in some back alley, check the clothes—or the wallets—of softhearted ladies and gents, and if they looked like they had enough money to make it worth the risk, he’d run ’em through with a knife hidden in a paper bag… Like that. Although we only just found out about the paper bag.”

“Why’d you leave a guy like that on the loose?”

“We had eyewitness testimony, but no real clincher. We were planning to step things up by using an officer as a decoy and catching him red-handed.” Edward took a big puff of his cigar.

“…And then I showed up?”

“That’s about the size of it. Frankly, if it hadn’t been one of you people, we would have sent someone through casual-like and made sure you stayed safe, but…”

“…So you had your eye on that from the beginning. That’s a nice little hobby you’ve got. Were you watching an altercation where somebody might have gotten killed like it was a boxing match or something? …I bet you ate your way through most of your popcorn, didn’t you?”

“And because we agree, we’re overlooking your excessive use of force for you.”

“I’m so obliged I can’t stop crying.”

“You know, personally, I wouldn’t have minded a bit if you’d gotten yourself shivved and died, but… That was a very impressive dodge.”

“When somebody’s panhandling in a deserted spot like that, you keep your guard up. Then there was that obviously suspicious paper bag. …I’m lucky he didn’t have a gun in there.”

“Oho? Then why didn’t you just ignore him?”

He posed a very natural question.

“I didn’t feel like it today. If he had been just a panhandler, I was going to give him some money… Hey, why are you trying to pick a fight with me, anyway?”

“Remember what I said? The culprit only went for people with fat wallets. He only tried for scores that were worth the risk of stabbing somebody in broad daylight and making a run for it. See, I couldn’t believe a brat who’s not even twenty yet would have a fortune like that…”

This was sarcasm: Edward clearly knew he had it.

“…So, what? You’re going to take me in for theft or tax evasion?”

A sharp light had come into Firo’s eyes.

“Ha! Is that a joke? Who’d need to beat around the bush like that for a two-bit punk like you? Even if you were at the top of your ‘syndicate,’ a weak little outfit like that is nothing but bait for everybody else! The only reason it’s still around is because it’s so unappetizing no one even looks at it!”

“—One more word, and I’ll take it as an insult.” Firo spoke briefly and flatly.

Just as the boy was wondering how to get rid of this guy, someone called his name again. This voice was kind and calm, the exact opposite of Edward’s.

“There you are, Firo.”

A tall, mild-looking man with glasses stood at the border of the broad street, where Edward had appeared a short while earlier. In the light that flooded in from the avenue, his pale, brown hair shone like gold. At first glance, he could have been taken for someone Edward’s age, but the vague atmosphere the man wore made it difficult to discern how old he was.

“We were going to meet at this hat shop, weren’t we? You didn’t come. I was worried, and then I heard your voice out here…”

Although there was no telling what he was so happy about, he beamed a startlingly bright smile.

However, as if in exchange, at the sight of that effusive expression, Edward’s conceited smirk disappeared completely.

“You’re…”

“Maiza! Oh… I’m sorry. I got pulled into some trouble…”

Firo’s attitude was the polar opposite of what he’d shown Edward, the assistant inspector. He hastily straightened his collar and stood tall, correcting the slight slump his shoulders had settled into.

On the other hand, Edward glowered and stubbed out his cigar on the brick wall.

“Maiza Avaro. Well, well. Fancy meeting the Martillo Family contaiuolo in a place like this…”

There was tension in Edward’s voice. In contrast, Maiza returned his greeting with a disarming grin.

“Erm…… Ah. If it isn’t Assistant Inspector Edward. You seem to be in exceptionally good humor today.”

It was a pretty ironic way to greet someone who was clearly in a foul mood, but possibly because the man was beaming, Edward didn’t really feel as if he’d been the target of sarcasm.

“…Huhn… Should’ve known. Unlike the brat, you at least know how to greet people properly.”

“No, no. I won’t be able to call you ‘Assistant Inspector’ for much longer, you see.”

“……?”

“I hear you’ll be ‘Agent’ Edward, starting next week.”

At that, the assistant inspector’s eyes went wide, and his mouth flapped several times before he responded:

“What…are you talking about…?”

“Oh, was I wrong? There’s a little rumor going around town.”

Edward’s eyes flared with hatred. It was true that, next week, he’d begin his training period with the Bureau of Investigation (which would, five years later, be renamed the Federal Bureau of Investigation…the FBI). He hadn’t even told his sweetheart or his colleagues, so why were the sort of people who really shouldn’t have been in the loop in the know?

Resolving to track down the source of the information leak, the young assistant inspector turned his gaze back to Firo out of sheer embarrassment with himself.

“…Anyway, Firo, listen up. It doesn’t matter who you give handouts to. Nobody’s gonna see you as anything but a phony. Quit doing useless nonsense and either get yourself out of town already or get ready to do time.”

The conversation had shifted back to him abruptly, and for a moment, Firo was bewildered. Before long, though, he answered as though it was a pain in the neck.

“Like I care? Even if I’m posing or doing it to make myself feel good, it’s all the same to whoever gets the dough. Who exactly am I bothering with this so-called phoniness, huh? Where are they?”

“Don’t think everyone will be happy to get that dirty money you bring in.”

“…That makes donating to community chests and organized charities a real nice system, doesn’t it? There’s no way to tell which money came from where.” Firo didn’t deny the part about dirty money. “Not that I make a habit of giving handouts.”

“That again… What is today to you, anyway?”

Just as Edward asked his question, Maiza broke in:

“Firo, we should be going. …That’s all right, isn’t it, Assistant Inspector?”

“…Uh, yeah…”

“Oh… I’m sorry, Maiza. I did keep you waiting, didn’t I?”

The two of them prepared to leave. Watching them go, the young assistant inspector mulled.

A skilled up-and-comer in a syndicate and one of its senior executives. A special day.

Something occurred to the detective, and he called at the boy’s back.

“Firo, don’t tell me you’re…”

The lad stopped. His back remained turned as he faced the broad street.

“…Don’t tell me… An executive? …Are they promoting you? You? One of the associates?”

He frowned as he asked the question, as if doubting his own words.

Edward had lived in this city a long time, too. He admitted that Firo was a capable foot soldier in his syndicate, but he was too young to be promoted to executive. The “boy” wouldn’t be twenty for another year and a half, and he looked three or four years younger than that. The idea of this kid being made an executive of even a small underworld organization—no, of any organization at all, even a daylight one—was inconceivable.

Still, he’d heard there was a special ritual that accompanied promotions. Firo had said he was meeting a senior executive—one who, as a rule, would never allow an audience—at a hat shop… He knew that on “special days” a central figure of Firo’s syndicate always visited a milliner or tailor. Just knowing this wouldn’t get Edward anywhere, but it was a good way to gauge who the players were.

“Hey… Is that really it?”

The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t deny it, either. Without a word, he started walking again.

Edward took that attitude as affirmation. With an appalled smile, the sort he would have worn on hearing a tall tale down at the bar, he kept right on talking, aggressively.

“Seriously? They’re actually making you an exec? You? A little brat like you? You’re puttin’ me on, right? C’mon, now… Hurry up and tell me I’m wrong. I’m about to bust a gut over here. So, what, is your outfit really that short on people?”

The pair ignored him and set off. It didn’t bother Edward. He went on, laughing. “Or, you know, I always thought you had a kind of girly face… How many executives do you gotta lay to skip to the top like that, huh?”

Silently, the two men stopped.

Firo wondered if a threat was in order. His thoughts went to the knife at his hip.

“Assistant Inspector.”

However, it was Maiza who turned first.

Still wearing that benign smile, he faced the assistant inspector and said, simply:

“Go any further, and we’ll take it as an insult.”

Edward’s expression froze. His sneer died in his throat.

Maiza’s smile was simple and honest, and his tone was no different from what it had been a moment before.

However, the poor assistant inspector had realized something.

I’m going to die.

The instant he said a single word about “the syndicate” or Firo, the man in front of him would probably kill him. The cold emotion resonating deep in that voice had him convinced.

The eyes were what drove the thought home. They elicited in the inspector an unnamed fear, as if something unknowable was stealing into them from their depths…

As Edward closed his mouth, realizing he’d broken out in a cold sweat, Maiza laid a hand on Firo’s shoulder and continued:

“…True, our syndicate may exist only to be eaten…”

He paused for a moment.

“…but be careful not to let the poison do you in.”

That bastard. So he was eavesdropping.

Edward thought this but was unable to actually verbalize it. The sensation of cold sweat had reached his back.

Firo was still glaring at the assistant inspector. Patting his companion’s shoulder twice, Maiza stepped out onto the thoroughfare as though nothing had happened. As if drawn by the motion, Firo’s feet also turned toward the avenue.

“…Reme… Remember this… Even if you kill me, I’ll never accept Mafia scum like you… Someday…I’ll wipe you out…! I swear it!”

Behind them, the pair heard the assistant inspector’s strangled voice.

“Ah. We aren’t Mafia.”

Waving a hand lightly, Maiza answered without even turning around.

Firo followed him, and they disappeared into the crowd.

“We’re—Camorra.”

In the alley, after they’d gone, the assistant inspector’s fists trembled.

“Uh… Assistant Inspector, we should head back to the station.”

Just then, one of the officers who’d been confiscating the evidence a minute ago returned.

“…And where were you?”

“Erm…well… We were all waiting in the car, but you didn’t come, so…”

“Don’t give me that! You just couldn’t bring yourself to turn up until now because you were scared of that contaiuolo!”

“S-sir, that isn’t…”

The officer’s face went pale, signaling to the assistant inspector he’d guessed right.

“You scumbags call yourselves policemen?! What is our job, huh?! To protect the laws of the United States and the safety of its citizens, that’s what! Their kind threatens both! What good are we if we’re afraid of them, too?!”

He kicked at the redbrick wall repeatedly with his nearly new leather shoes.

His accusation went for himself as well. The idea irritated him even more.

“Maiza Avaro…Firo Prochainezo… I didn’t like them before, and I swear I’ll take them down someday with my own two hands!”

In an attempt to calm the enraged assistant inspector, the foolish police officer added an ill-considered joke:

“That sounds like a line from some mafioso in a novel.”

Edward’s aggrieved leather shoe landed a vicious kick on his subordinate’s shin.

“Apparently we’re going to get wiped out.”

“Ah, scary. People like that are truly tenacious. …Although, with police officers, the tenacious ones are the ones you can trust.”

Firo and Maiza looked at each other and chuckled.

“What would we be doing trusting cops?”

After leaving the alley, the two of them walked between Little Italy and Chinatown, heading toward the Manhattan Bridge. They’d met at the shop in order to buy a hat, but since that particular haberdashery had proven “unlucky,” they’d decided to go elsewhere.

“If we’re going this way in any case, I know of a good shop.”

As a result of Maiza’s suggestion, they ended up walking for nearly an hour.

“Musicals are wonderful, aren’t they…? What do you suppose the Good Witch from The Wizard of Oz does for a living the rest of the time?”

The man called Maiza really didn’t seem like a camorrista.

He didn’t brawl, he didn’t yell, he smiled constantly, and he was polite to absolutely everybody. In general, he didn’t seem to have any of the traits of a denizen of the underworld. Had he behaved this way only in town, it would have been possible to assume that he was hiding his true colors from the world, but he remained unchanged even at syndicate meetings or when doling out orders to his subordinates.

When the Camorra and the Mafia were compared, the Camorra was often said to be the more violent of the two. However, not a glimpse of that desolate reputation was discernible in Maiza.

People said he’d been appointed contaiuolo because he was the best in the organization at reading, writing, and sums, but it was weird that a guy like him was in the organization at all, let alone an executive. That was how it felt to Firo, at least.

Some of the lowest associates even looked down on Maiza, calling him a “coward” and “gutless wimp.” Firo thought the guy was all right, so he stood up for him whenever he could, but unfortunately, if the man in question was speculating about The Wizard of Oz, nothing Firo could say was at all convincing.

“Ah, there it is. I’m a bit of a regular at this shop.”

The old haberdashery stood on a wide street with a view of Manhattan Bridge.

When they entered, the elderly shopkeeper shot them a glance but offered no welcome of any sort. He was a very unfriendly proprietor for a store on a major street, but when you considered the sheer range of merchandise on display, that didn’t matter at all. The shop specialized in hats and belts, and its stock was so vast that Firo gave a small murmur of admiration.

“This’s incredible…”

Hats hung on every wall. Or rather, the hats completely hid the walls, to the point where you had to wonder whether there were really walls behind them at all. It wasn’t just the walls, of course: Scores of hats were arrayed on the shelves lining the shop as well, and the area around the register was hung so thickly with belts that they looked like wallpaper.

“It really is amazing, every time I see it… I’m supposed to pick the hat that looks best on you out of all of this, you see. …I’m sorry, but it may take a while.”

“Absolutely. Don’t worry about it. Take as long as you need. I’ll wait.”

Ducking his head in a deferential nod, Firo began gazing at the mountain of hats, too.

Among the Camorra, as a rule, when a member was promoted to camorrista—executive—he wasn’t told about it until the night of the promotion ritual. However, their family had a custom that differed from other Camorra groups. The member in question was notified the day before, and on the morning of the ritual, he visited a hat shop with a specific executive. There, the executive picked out a hat for the member who would join their ranks that night, choosing the one that suited him best.

There was no special meaning to it. The custom began when Molsa Martillo, the current head of the syndicate, had run up his family’s flag in New York and given each of the first members a hat. That was all.

Even so, to Firo—on the brink of becoming an executive—choosing a hat was part of the important ritual, and he’d gone into it both elated and with a mild case of nerves.

While contemplating headwear with Maiza, the recent incident and the spiteful assistant inspector completely vanished from Firo’s mind. All it held now was a mixture of anticipation and trepidation regarding the ceremony that would take place that night.

“This one might do. What do you think?”

A hat settled onto Firo’s head.

A pearl-green fedora. In the reflected light from the door, the pale green seemed to shine faintly. It went well with the boy’s light skin; he looked as if he’d stepped out of a picture. When he moved into the shadows and the green lost its tinge, it abruptly adopted a dark color… The contrast with his white face grew clear, and it made him look sharp.

“This is… Maiza, this is great! It really is perfect for me!”

He wasn’t just being considerate toward the contaiuolo; he was genuinely delighted. He looked at himself in the shop’s big mirror, feeling as if he’d become a different person. He thought he’d like to get a coat in a matching color. It would probably make him stand out a little… No, a lot, but he didn’t care.

As the boy gazed into the mirror, his smile was truly happy. Based on that expression, it was impossible to imagine him as he’d been a short while ago, sarcastically needling the panhandling mugger or ruthlessly punching him in the face.

It was the first time Firo’d shown a face like that since the boss had given him permission to join the family.

While they bought the fedora, the shopkeeper was as silent as ever. Wordlessly, he put the merchandise in a bag, and money changed hands according to the price tag. Even when Maiza gave him a casual, seasonally appropriate greeting, the old man only shot him a cold, silent look.

Still, the two didn’t let it bother them, and they left the shop, chatting about what the menu might be for the party to be held after the ritual, and about picking up some liquor at a speakeasy on their way back.

Exiting the establishment, they passed a couple on their way in.

The man was even taller than Maiza, and he nearly bumped his head on the door’s lintel. The woman was a little shorter than Firo, and she wore jeweled bracelets on both arms and shining silver rings on several fingers.

Both were dressed in very swanky outfits. The man sported a tuxedo with black leather gloves and no tie. The woman wore a black dress with bright red belts wrapped around her waist and arms. It was a rather unusual costume for a woman of the time, and it made her seem like a witch from a musical.

In short, the couple stood out from the rest of the world like a pair of sore thumbs.

“Whoops! Excuse me.”

They’d bumped shoulders, and Maiza apologized immediately.

“Hey now, be careful.”

“Be careful!”

The woman echoed the man’s words immediately after he’d said them.

Nothing else happened just then, but sizing up the couple, who looked like Broadway escapees, Firo thought:

They both look like they’re twenty or so, but… In tough times like these? Are they some rich guy’s kids?

Speculating in a fashion that completely ignored the contents of his own wallet, he left the shop.

In the haberdashery, after Firo and Maiza had gone… The man in the tuxedo—Isaac Dian—spoke to the woman—Miria Harvent—who stood next to him.

“Listen, Miria. One more time, just to make sure: No matter what, don’t do anything eye-catching.”

“I know. I just have to be really, really mousy and quiet, right?”

“That’s the ticket. As long as you know.”

After this exchange—which, thanks to their outfits, was fairly unconvincing—the pair looked around at the chapeau-laden walls. The man held a large travel bag in his right hand, but he certainly didn’t seem dressed for travel.

“Egad, they’ve got everything here.”

“It’s all-you-can-buy!”

“I bet we could conquer the world with hats.”

After producing that incomprehensible metaphor, the man picked up a random topper and began spinning it on his finger.

“What sort of hats are we going to get?” Miria asked.

“Well, something normal would be good to start with. …Or, no, something eccentric might make for a better distraction…”

The farther they ventured into the depths of the store, the wider the variety of choices became.

At the end, there were rows of straw hats, even though it was winter, and Indian feather headdresses, and even the tall, round black hats that the guards of the English royal family wore, all on display.

“…Is it all right to sell things like this?”

Isaac was holding a helmet that was part of the gear worn by New York’s uniformed policemen. Meanwhile, Miria had put on a U.S. soldier’s helmet, and her appearance, which had already been eccentric, leveled up to the point where it could be described as downright weird.

“Wow, this is nifty.”

A strikingly brilliant piece of merchandise sat on an upper shelf. The hat was made of metal. Something like stiff cloth adorned its edges, and gold thread had been used in places. And on the forehead, there was a shining golden…

“What’s that? Is it a boomerang?”

“Maybe you’re supposed to head-butt people with it? I bet that would hurt.”

Two objects like oddly shaped knives were affixed to it in a V shape.

Below the strange helmet was a card with the word Japan written on it.

“Aha… Maybe it’s a Japanese crown.”

“I bet it is. It’s sort of shiny, even!”

The shelves below the crown held masks from some civilization or other, silk derby hats for phantom thieves, and other articles that were far beyond questionable.

“……Is this a bit too peculiar?”

Smiling brightly, Miria let something fearsome slip as if it was nothing. “It might not be good for robbing people in!”

“Well, never mind, let’s just buy them all.”

In the end, without paying any particular attention to what Miria had said, Isaac took a black fedora and a woman’s lace hat, plus the Japanese crown and a peculiar wooden mask, up to the register. Quite a lot of paraphernalia was deposited in front of the old shopkeeper.

Even then, the haberdasher was silent. He only glanced at the items, then smoothly wrote down the prices of each and the total on a receipt.

The paper showed a sum equal to two months of a bank clerk’s salary. Casually, the man called Isaac withdrew a bundle of bills from his bag, counted them carelessly, then held them out to the shopkeeper.

He’d given him too much, and a minute later, a dozen or so bills and a few coins were returned to his hand as change.

Then the pair added something entirely unnecessary.

“Listen up, Gramps. You’d better forget the fact that we visited this shop entirely.”

“Better forget it.”

In some cases, doing and saying things like that—compounded by the conspicuous outfits they wore—would have been enough to get these two reported on the spot. Apparently, true to their appearance, they weren’t quite all there.

“If you report us to the police…we’ll, uh… What will we do?”

Even as he admitted to being a criminal, her beau in a tuxedo openly asked Miria for help.

“Umm, why not just say we’ll hit him? If you don’t have anything specific in mind…”

“I see. Well then, Gramps! If you report us…we’ll hit you!”

“Hit you!”

By all indications, the two of them were even worse than they looked. In more ways than one.

Whether or not he’d been listening to their dubious lines, the shopkeeper fixed the pair with a cold scowl, all but his eyes utterly motionless.

Immediately, the man and woman fell silent. Then they hurried out of the shop, hugging to their chests the items they’d set down at the register.

The shopkeeper turned his eyes to his newspaper and forgot all about the customers who’d just visited.

“Haah, haah, haah… Th… Th-th-th-that was scary.”

“Really scary…”

Running as if fleeing the hat shop, the notable pair reached a nearby alley.

“Blast it… That old man must be a real tough guy. Just one glare, and he had me… Uh… Well, no, I wasn’t afraid, but…um… He made me run… No… Ran me off…???”

“Made you withdraw.”

“Yes, that’s it… To think he made me withdraw with just one glare… Of course, you know—if we’d fought, I could have beaten him, but you see, well, he was strong, too, and I thought it would be terrible if you’d happened to get hurt, Miria.”

“Really?” Miria asked, sounding happy.

“Yes, really! In the year since we began our tour of larceny, we’ve robbed eighty-seven places, from San Francisco to New Jersey, and in all that time, have I ever put you in danger?”

“About eighty-seven times.”

“…………”

“…………”

“There, you see?! It’s not even a hundred yet!”

“You’re right! That’s amazing!”

Her cry sounded as if she was moved from the bottom of her heart. If they were like this, it was likely there’d been many times when they hadn’t even recognized the danger they were in.

“That’s right! We’ll do our last big job here in New York, and then we’ll retire to Miami and take life easy. Once that happens, the word danger will have nothing to do with us!”

“Nothing at all!”

“Let’s buy a big house. We’ll put in a pool, and we’ll spend all day swimming in it, from morning to night.”

“It’ll be cold at night.”

“Not to worry. If we install about ten stoves, the pool will warm up.”

“Ten of them! Amazing, amazing—even the king of the Arabs doesn’t use that many!”

True, desert nights do get chilly, but… There was a marked stupidity about that comment.

“Then we’ll run a railway through the garden, and we’ll take the train from the house to the gate every day.”

“Wow! …But we’ll spend a fortune on tickets that way.”

“This is true. All right, then let’s not have a railway.”

“Still, that’s amazing. Are we really going to be that rich?”

“Absolutely. If I’m with you, Miria, I could even become president! That’s the king of America—the king. Yes, I could become the king, the queen, or even the joker!”

“Queen” would have been physically impossible.

“I don’t really get it, but that’s amazing!”

Before they knew it, the pair had been overcome with emotion, and they began to hum jazz music. The alley was their stage, and they took each other’s hands, beginning to dance. The two lovers were lost in a dream 

—and then they got hit by a car.

“—Are they dead?”

An old man’s voice came from the backseat of the car.

“No… We weren’t going fast. Oh, they’re moving. They probably just lost their balance and fell.”

The voice that returned from the driver’s seat belonged to a young woman.

“In that case, hurry up and go.”

“Yes, sir.”

The car sped up and drove away as if nothing had happened. Finally, once it had exited the alley and turned onto the broad street, the passenger picked up the conversation again:

“…Be careful. Why did you hit them?”

“I’m very sorry, sir. I meant to avoid them, but they suddenly started dancing right in the middle of the road… I didn’t brake in time.”

The man was silent for a little while. Then he remembered that the woman driving had never told a senseless lie before.

“…They started dancing?”

“Yes. The man was wearing a tuxedo, and the woman wore a black dress, so… I think they were probably rehearsing for a play.”

“Broadway’s rather far from here.”

“Also… The man was holding hats and…a Japanese helmet in his right hand.”

As one might expect, the man’s eyebrows furrowed.

“…I don’t understand young people these days…”

There was no response from the driver’s seat.

“Hmph… That said, I haven’t been able to comprehend what young people are thinking for a very long time.”

He slowly closed his eyes, continuing to talk to himself.

“Yes… Not for two hundred years or so… Not since that stripling lost his mind. That’s when I stopped trusting anyone younger than myself.”

“…Compared to you, Master Szilard, everyone in the world is younger.”

The voice from the driver’s seat reached his ears. It had interrupted his monologue, but he responded without sounding particularly annoyed.

“Of course. And so I trust no one.”

Those words were the last. Silence enveloped the interior of the car.

The large black automobile the woman was driving stopped in front of a building to the south of Grand Central Station.

A glance around the area revealed the Empire State Building, which was scheduled for completion the following year. Even now, still under construction, it looked down over the city with an air of august dignity.

The female chauffeur got out of the car first, then opened the door to the backseat. The car was a rarity for the time: There was plenty of room in the back.

Szilard Quates got out crossly, then screwed up his already wrinkled face even further. The late autumn sun, which was visible through the canyons between the buildings, clearly illuminated his face.

“…It’s bright.”

The female chauffeur immediately opened a parasol. They covered the paltry five yards from the car to the building’s entrance in their patch of improvised shade.

When they reached the door, the chauffeur used her free hand to insert a key. While they waited in silence for the door to open, Szilard didn’t look at his chauffeur even once.

Inside the building, there was nothing. The rooms had been partitioned, but that was all. The building didn’t seem the slightest bit lived-in. However, you couldn’t simply call it abandoned, either. There wasn’t a single piece of rubbish on the floor, and the walls and electric lightbulbs seemed new, as if the interior construction work had been completed just the day before.

Szilard crossed to an area beside an ascending staircase, then struck the floor several times with his heel.

After a few seconds, the lightbulb that hung on the staircase lit up. When he saw it, he kicked the floor with his heel again, adding one more kick this time.

A short distance in front of him, the floor rose up, and an elderly man’s head peeked out.

“Well, if it isn’t Master Quates! It’s been a very long time, sir!”

“Only twenty years. That’s not so long.”

“Ha-ha-ha… The passage of time is far too different for you than it is for us.”

“Time is a constant. I will admit that we feel it differently.”

As they conversed, the two old men and the woman descended a staircase.

The way he walked didn’t betray his advanced age. Then there they were, in front of him:

“Oh, Master Quates.”

“You’re looking very well, sir.”

“You haven’t changed a bit…”

“You truly are a marvelous being…”

On seeing Quates, who hadn’t changed at all in twenty years, about a dozen men let cries of admiration escape them.

The men were of all different ages, but even the very youngest appeared to be around forty. As for the oldest… There were three elderly individuals who seemed as if they might be ninety.

The old man who’d been surrounded looked around at the codgers who’d done the surrounding and spoke with an air of boredom.

“I don’t see Barnes or Stagen.”

The old men glanced at one another, then looked down. The butleresque fellow who’d escorted Szilard delivered the news with a sorrowful mien.

“Master Barnes is currently at the ‘distillery.’ Master Stagen Heim…passed away last year.”

“I see.”

Quates didn’t appear particularly moved by the news.

“There’s nothing to be done about death from old age. If he’d lasted another year, he would have seen this day.”

No one raised an objection to his declaration that the cause of death had been old age.

They understood. They knew they wouldn’t die from accidents or illness.

“With failed liquor, I was unable to make your souls eternal… Precisely because sudden death ceased to exist for you, your fear of aging must have been extraordinary. However, even that ends today.”

A small cheer echoed through the underground hall.

“…Although there seems to have been a problem of some sort.”

Instantly, the cheers were replaced by silence.

“Is it true that the blender died?”

In response to Szilard’s query, the butler replied hastily:

“Y-yes, sir… It appears he was stabbed to death by a robber yesterday…”

“What happened to the criminal?”

At that, a man of about forty stepped forward and took over the butler’s report.

“Master Szilard. The culprit was just arrested in a sting operation by police inspectors. Apparently, he committed his crimes while disguised as a panhandler… He seems to have been a thug with an inclination toward drug addiction, and he was unaffiliated with any syndicate.”

“A coincidence, hmm? If that’s how things are, I should have added—I don’t know his name, but—that blender to our number. Failed product or not, if he’d only had a sip of that, a robber wouldn’t have been enough to kill him.”

Possibly having something on his mind, Szilard clicked his tongue softly.

“A word, Master Szilard… The man was a dull one, incapable of anything save blending and alchemy. Making him our comrade would have been rather…”

The butler suggested, timidly.

“I see… You’re right.”

Although you don’t seem much different to me. Inwardly, Quates sneered at the old men surrounding him, but aloud, he agreed with them.

“We can simply find another blender. The problem is the finished product. I assume Barnes is keeping it secure?”

“Yes, we’re told there are about three dozen bottles left.”

“Is he all right on his own?”

“On paper, that place is a wheat storehouse, so there’s no worry of invasion by anyone besides rats. In any case, if we assigned someone who was not a member to act as his bodyguard and that individual found out about the liquor, it would be troublesome…”

Then, do it yourselves. You just don’t want to take responsibility if something goes wrong. Even as Szilard privately despised them, he agreed with the butler’s assessment. He addressed the woman behind him:

“Ennis. Take the car and go pick up Barnes and the liquor.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ennis, the female chauffeur, bowed respectfully to Szilard and the old men, then began climbing the stairs, key in hand. Szilard barked one more order at her back.

“Also, if Barnes has touched even a drop of it… Don’t hesitate. Just kill him. If he’s failed to preserve the liquor properly and spoiled it, kill him then, too.”

“…Understood.”

Cold sweat ran down the backs of the old men.

They wouldn’t die from injuries or illness. As long as they didn’t age, they could rely on regenerating even if they fell into boiling lava.

However… The exception was that they could be killed with ease.

The two before them were creatures capable of eliminating them.

Conversely, they had no hope of killing those two.

An absolute terror from which there was no escape.

They would be able to conquer their fear of old age with the “finished product” that had just been completed. However, the terror in front of them would remain.

Unless willing to confront the blade of death those two wielded, their only alternative was to pledge loyalty.

Loyalty for as long as they lived. In other words, for eternity.

A terror from which only death could free them.

It was a spiral that was somehow contradictory.

“Look, like I said, you take the oil, and you smear it on a leather glove, like so. Then you light it with a match, and…”

In an East Village alley, pale flames enveloped a gaunt man’s right hand.

“Hey, quit it! You’ll burn your hand off!”

In contrast, his roly-poly companion was scared to death.

“I told you, it’s fine. See, if you press your hand against the wall, like so…”

The gaunt fellow pressed his hand against the wall. Starved of oxygen, the flames vanished instantly.

“See?”

“Whoa… That’s really somethin’.”

These two, “Ghost” Randy and “Meatball” Pezzo, members of the Martillo Family, were scrambling to prepare for the celebratory banquet that would be held that night.

They’d bought too much fuel oil, so they’d opened a can and were entertaining themselves with a dangerous game.

“Huh, there’s still lots left. I guess maybe we shouldn’t’ve gone and opened it.”

“Say, what were we supposed to buy after this?”

“Let’s see… It’d be nice to have some fruit for dessert.”

Where was the nearest greengrocer’s? As Randy considered, Pezzo opened another can of oil.

“Hey, Pezzo, what’re you doing?”

“I wanted to try that hand-burning-thingy you just did. You know. We could maybe use it as a party trick.”

“You mook! Why’d you open a new one?! I just told you, there’s lots left in this one!”

“What’s the problem? We’ve got a ton of the stuff.”

The paper bag Pezzo held was packed with a dozen or so cans of oil. They weren’t sure whether it had been a store promotion or what, but there were a dozen can openers in there, too.

“Yeesh. Forget about the oil, what’re we supposed to do with all these can openers? …It’s your fault, Randy. You bought too much.”

“What else could I do? The discount got better the more we bought. This recession’s murder, so we’ve gotta stock up while we can.”

“Yeah, sure, but… If I hadn’t stopped you, all our dough woulda turned into oil.”

As Pezzo said this, laughing, he poured oil onto his glove.

“Randy, light this for me, wouldja? I can’t do it right when I’m holding this bag.”

“No help for that…”

Randy lit a match. Since there might yet have been oil on his glove, he whisked his hands apart quickly as soon as he struck the match.

“Here.”

As he brought the flame closer to his pal’s glove, Randy abruptly realized something.

Hey, his is cloth…

But it was too late. The spark had jumped to Pezzo’s big glove, and it blazed up so furiously one could practically hear the roar.

“Whoa! Ain’t this too much fire?!”

Startled by flames that were larger than he’d expected, Pezzo hastily shoved his hand against the wall.

However, although his palm was extinguished, the areas that weren’t touching the wall still blazed blue, as merrily as ever.

“Hey! It ain’t goin’ ouuuut!”

“Aaaaah! You idiot! You got oil all the way ’round the back of your hand!”

When Pezzo withdrew his hand from the wall, the flames reclaimed the areas that had been briefly extinguished.

Panicking, he waved his hand, but the fire showed no sign of abating. Quite a lot of oil had soaked into the cloth’s fibers, and Pezzo’s right hand looked like the wick of a giant candle. He flung the paper bag aside, and the contents of the opened cans splattered over the white wooden walls.

“Dammit! It’s getting hot!”

“Calm down! Just take the glove off!”

At Randy’s urging, he hastily withdrew the glove, then hurled it away, flailing his hand around like a lunatic.

Aside from some mild blistering on the back, nothing seemed to be seriously wrong with it.

“Ahh… I thought I was a goner…”

“Jiminy Christmas… I really don’t want to eat a whole roasted you.”

“You got that right.”

“Ha-ha…”

Breathing sighs of relief, the two began picking up the cans they’d scattered everywhere…

…and froze.

The discarded glove had landed right smack on top of the spilled oil…and the flames had migrated not just to the oil but to the wooden building itself. If there was a difference, it was that the color of the flames had changed from blue to red.

Randy quickly scoped out the area, making sure there weren’t any witnesses.

Pezzo picked up the paper bag, which fortunately hadn’t been burned, and snatched up the oil cans.

Having completed this brilliant combo play, the pair silently exchanged looks, and 

—giving forceful, simultaneous nods, they cheesed it like the wind from the scene of the crime.

At last, at last, the time has come for my long-cherished wish to be fulfilled.

Life eternal. When I heard tell of it in legends and fables, I snorted at the notion, calling it a hackneyed pipe dream. However, now that I think about it, that ridicule may have been superficial, intended to force myself to understand that my own yearning…could never be reality.

Now, with this “reality” right before my eyes, I can imagine even that ridicule as the material from which my delight in this moment was formed.

A white rat struggles on the desk. This is the reality I sought.

Even this rat is a variety born from Master Szilard’s alchemy. In exchange for extraordinary powers of propagation, this short-lived species has a soul that lasts a mere seven days.

However, the specimen before me has already survived fifteen days, and, conversely, has demonstrated no growth whatsoever since the administration of the “liquor” on the third day. With the failed product, growth occurred, indicating that we were unable to halt the phenomenon of aging. On those grounds, we may consider this liquor to be a truly finished product.

I bring the hammer down. There is an unpleasant noise, and a red substance spatters across the desk.

Silently, I watch the small animal, now transformed into something appalling. No matter how many times I see it, the moment before the miracle feels long. When one is certain a miracle is imminent, one becomes all the more impatient for it.

In reality, the silence lasts a mere several dozen seconds, but to me, it feels like hours… No, like the decades I have spent waiting for this day.

The separate drops of blood that had spattered onto the desk begin to wriggle, as though each has a will of its own. Even the blood that has soaked into the wood fibers crawls up to the surface, like an adder drawn to the light of the sun. What else could one call this but a miracle?

Before long, the march of blood arrives at its destination: the place where I brought the hammer down. The white rat that has been transformed into a grotesque lump of meat.

It feels as though I am watching time roll back on itself. No, on this desk, at least in regard to the phenomenon of the rat’s death, time is indeed flowing backward.

If the flow of time changes, it is a miracle, nothing less than an act possible only for God or a devil. The day has come when I, too, will be added to the system of that miracle.

Yes… The exalted personage who summoned me to this miracle was himself incorporated into it more than two hundred years ago.

Twenty years ago, Master Szilard added me—then a mere Realtor—to the “members.” At the time, I had risen in the world of real estate and grown conceited, but looking back, it was a paltry appellation. That mundane title was no more than a tool to be utilized to obtain this gift.

A congressman of my acquaintance (who was also a member, naturally) introduced me to Master Szilard, and at first, I was incapable of giving him credence. …Until Master Szilard severed his own finger, that is.

When I witnessed its regeneration, the childish desire for eternity rose again within me.

Then one day, at last, I obtained the liquor. It was what Master Szilard termed the failed product, but through it, I acquired an indestructible body. However, the single exception was death from old age. In comparison to the finished product, which conquered even that, I see, yes, it truly was flawed.

Having drunk that failed liquor, I was honored with the role of employing and managing a blender who would create the finished product. I had very little expert knowledge, and I wondered why I had been chosen, but Master Szilard said, “I can’t trust anyone who knows too much about alchemy.” I didn’t understand the reason, but if Master Szilard says it, it cannot possibly be wrong.

In the twenty year interim, I issued orders to the blender and administered the finished product to white rats. The concoction included strong poisons, so there was no fear that the blender would drink it. In fact, white rats that were given liquor other than the finished product died instantly. Either that, or, as with the failed product, they met their deaths through old age.

The heaviest blow came from the Prohibition Act. It struck me as a law created by incompetents, and consequently, considerable obstacles were placed in our path. As the nickname liquor suggests, the elixir utilized alcohol as a catalyst, which meant we were rendered unable to own a large factory or procure raw materials in bulk.

However, at this point, even that hardship is a pleasant memory. As I suspected, changing blenders at reasonable intervals does seem to have been the correct course of action. Of course, blenders for whom I had no more use met with fatal accidents.

Thinking that we could continue using him for the coming mass production and that Master Szilard might require him, I made an exception for the most recent blender—the one whose brew had succeeded—and paid him a reward.

However, it may have been that he let the large sum go to his head: I hear he encountered a brigand who robbed him of both his money and his life.

Well, in the end, that was all he was worth.

The miracle is already in our hands. All that remains is to show these results to Master Szilard.

The white rat, which has regained its former shape, begins struggling against the pain of the nails driven through its feet. What a fortunate rodent. To think it has obtained eternity a step ahead of me.

Growing slightly jealous, I bring the hammer down again.

On the heels of the unpleasant noise, I hear a rapping on the ceiling of the cellar… In other words, on the floor of the room above. Ah, that’s a signal from the members. Immediately, I flip the switch. That will have illuminated the lightbulb on the first floor.

There is a short interval, and then I hear the commotion again.

Has Master Szilard come at last? What will the great man say on seeing the three dozen bottles of finished product in this cellar? Then, after that, the time for my liberation from the terror of aging will finally be at hand.

Heart leaping with anticipation, I climb the stairs and open the ceiling.

As my face emerges from the cellar, it is struck by a gust of hot, choking wind.

What is this?

On discovering the source of the rapping, I am aghast.

The shelves on the walls are aflame, and the falling debris has collided with the floor, one piece after another.

One side of the room is colored a fiery red.

Why? Why did this have to happen now? Why a conflagration, now of all times?!

There was nothing here that was flammable!

The liquor… I must haul out the liquor… Hastily, I descend the staircase, go to the crate of finished product and lift… I can’t! It’s heavy, and I am completely incapable of lifting the entire thing!

Even with an indestructible body, then, is my strength unchanged?

Only a little longer… Just a little longer and I will evolve into an exceptional being, and yet… Before that evolution, I remain only a stunted creature…a creature unable to lift a mere thirty-six bottles of liquor?!

Ah Someone Someone come to me Anyone !

“Hey… Maiza, c’mere a second!”

Hearing Firo calling from the street, Maiza poked his head out of the greengrocer’s.

“What is it? …Oh!”

Billows of gray smoke rose over the roof of the shop across the way. It wasn’t that far, probably about two streets over.

“I’m gonna go take a look.”

“Wait, don’t rubberneck. If the police come…”

Firo was carrying the bootleg liquor they’d just bought at a speakeasy. Granted, it was hidden in a crate labeled for another product, but the day the police—particularly Edward—found it, something horrendous would happen.

“It’s fine. I’d never be that clumsy.”

Firo didn’t look particularly worried. With a little wave for Maiza, he ran off.

“Ah… I hope he learns to curb that side of himself after the ritual…”

With a small, wry smile, Maiza also began heading toward the scene, though at a walk.

“No…”

Having exited the car, Ennis gazed at the rising smoke, wondering if she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere. Or rather, she wished she had.

However, as she stood there, dazed, the small sign on the second floor of the burning building—the one that said BARNES CO. GRANARY—vividly spelled out the sad reality. The cool expression she’d worn in front of the old men had vanished completely. The situation was simply that abnormal.

“What in the world could have…? Where is Barnes…?”

The young female chauffeur pushed her way through the crowd to stand at the front of the ranks of spectators. Every person she shoved aside regarded her crossly, but the fire soon recaptured their attention, and no one complained enough to impede her progress.

She saw the building’s interior beginning to crumble. Even from a distance, she could see that several holes had opened in the street-level flooring. If the finished product had been stored in the cellar, even if she dashed inside now… It would probably be impossible to retrieve.

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?”

Barnes was momentarily confused by the abrupt and incomprehensible question. A woman in a suit! All that came to mind was some theater somewhere… But when his imagination had taken him that far, he realized it did remind him of someone.

Master Szilard’s chauffeur…

Barnes had spoken with Ennis several times, in order to contact their employer. She was the only being beside Szilard who could kill him.

“No… No idea.”

“I see… Never mind, then. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

After those few words, Firo hurried on, all interest in the old man forgotten.

As Barnes watched him go, he wondered: Why was the young man looking for Master Szilard’s chauffeur? The thought distracted him, and that distraction kept him from noticing something important: Why hadn’t Firo been all that upset by the way he’d spoken to him?

If Barnes had only caught on, the destinies of Firo and the others might have changed dramatically (his own not withstanding).

Unfortunately, Barnes never did catch on.

Quietly, the tracks of destiny began to spiral.

And now, Barnes was walking through the alleys alone.

If he’d kept to the main streets, he would have attracted fewer troublemakers, but he didn’t have time to take the long way around. He had to make his way to the building where the great man waited as quickly as possible. Once eternity was his, he’d promptly have that group of ruffians meet with a lethal accident.

Or rather, will I obtain eternity, in the end? While it was an accident, I was only able to protect two bottles of the finished product. As punishment, I may be killed by Master Szilard. No, in all probability, I will be killed. There’s no help for that, though. After all, I was unable to fulfill the mission his exalted personage entrusted to me.

However, just perhaps 

That desperate hope was all that kept Barnes’s feet moving.

He didn’t have to think about anything anymore. He simply had to reach his goal.

But heartless destiny had taken the form of a human hand, and it was closing in on Barnes’s back.

It grabbed his collar from behind, yanking him backward.

He was spun around roughly, and a voice loaded with anger sounded in front of his face.

“You alone, old fart?”

Standing there was the group of four he’d intended to have meet with a fatal accident.

“You must really want us to drink that liquor for you.”

With both arms and legs broken, unconscious from the pain, Barnes was thrown away in a garbage dump.

When Ennis found him, his bones still hadn’t completely regenerated.

Not far from that garbage dump, there was a jazz hall. Its basement held an office that could be considered the headquarters of the Gandor Family, who ran this territory.

Jazz from the establishment upstairs filtered through the ceiling. With this as their background music, a dozen raucous men drank liquor, laughed, and raged.

The participants were obviously not upstanding citizens, and they were doing whatever they pleased across the cramped space.

However, there was one solitary spot where discipline reigned.

Four men sat at a round, central table while ten men stood around the perimeter, watching the action on the table. They seemed to be playing poker.

Of the game’s seated men, three looked as if they were peacefully enjoying the mood, but the fourth wore an oddly tense expression.

Trembling slightly, the man spoke.

“Uh…um… This, uh, this is rare, Boss… All three of you playing poker, together…”

Jorgi, who was responsible for managing some of the syndicate’s money, had spoken as if gauging the mood of the three brothers who sat at the table with him.

“………”

Across from him to the left, Keith Gandor—the oldest of the three Gandor brothers, the syndicate’s bosses—said nothing. Jorgi had been part of the outfit for five years, but he’d never seen this man open his mouth.

“Shaddup, Jorgi! When you’re playing poker, you yak silently!”

The one sitting directly across from him and saying impossible things was the second oldest, Berga Gandor. Although he was the middle brother, he had the sturdiest build of the three, and he was twice as big as his older brother, Keith. He also had a short fuse that was lit often.

“Calm down, Berga… They say yelling chases your luck away. I’m sorry about that, Jorgi.”

The calm fellow on his right was Luck Gandor, the youngest. Although he was only twenty or so, he handled a number of important duties due to his natural foresight and social skills.

For this country, Luck was a strange man: He always wore a faint smile, and he spoke politely to anyone who was older than he was, even if they were his subordinate. However, Jorgi knew: The only part of his face that was really smiling was his lips, and there was always a hard-boiled light in his eyes.

“Uh… No… Thank you…”

Frog in his throat, Jorgi silently arranged his cards.

He was afraid something terrible might happen later if he was foolish enough to win in company like this. Pragmatically, he decided to keep playing with a garbage hand.

“Oh, hey! I just thought of something good!”

When all the players had finished adjusting their hands, Berga, who’d said to yak silently, yelled.

“Why don’t we have the guy who ends up last do this, on top of paying the money?!”

He casually pulled out a black lump and tossed it onto the table.

It was a revolver.

His older and younger brothers just gazed at their own hands silently.

“Uh…um…Mr. Berga?”

“You know! Russian Roulette!”

Jorgi felt his vision darken slightly.

“Um… You, uh… You’re kidding, right? …Somebody’s gonna die…”

“No worries! You won’t die if you don’t get lucky!”

“That’s crazy…”

He looked at Luck, hoping for help, but Luck was still gazing at his cards. He didn’t respond.

“All right… We’re all gonna show our cards at once.”

The intensity of Jorgi’s trembling doubled. If he showed his cards now, there was no doubt that he’d end up putting that muzzle to his temple.

He’d have to switch a few out. Jorgi was pretty confident in his cheating abilities. He had a few cards up his sleeve, just in case. If he used those, at the very least he’d manage three of a kind.

He was uncomfortable cheating his own family’s bosses, but it was far better than being forced into a game of Russian Roulette.

Jorgi looked up, intending to watch his opponents for openings…and instantly froze.

Eyes.

A dozen or so pairs of eyes were focused coldly on Jorgi’s hand.

Keith, Berga, Luck, the onlookers who stood around the table, even the guys who hadn’t been anywhere near the poker table until that point: Everyone had stopped what they were doing and turned to look at Jorgi.

Since absolutely everyone had frozen, silence very nearly ruled the basement. The only thing that opposed it was the faint jazz music that came through the ceiling. However, its lukewarm volume only heightened Jorgi’s fear.

His terror was so great he couldn’t even tremble. The passage of time seemed to have gone whacky, too. Somehow managing to hang on to his will through what felt like impending insanity, he squeezed the words out.

“……Wha…? Ah… No… Wh… Wh-wha…wha…wh-what’s the matter with…all of you…? Is there s-s-s-s-something st-st-st-st-stuck to m-m-m-m-my h-h-h-h-h-hand?”

It was as if the repressed physical trembling was being released from his body through his voice. Watching this absurd version of Jorgi, Berga answered—unusually—in a calm tone:

“…Hmm? Nah… They’re just watching to make sure you don’t cheat. Don’t worry about it.”

Jorgi’s heart very nearly stopped.

It couldn’t be—They couldn’t possibly—Did they know? No, they couldn’t, it couldn’t be that.

Desperately, he tried to look calm. If he panicked now, they might suspect even the things they hadn’t noticed yet.

“Ha…ha-ha… C’mon, Mr. Berga… Me, cheat? I’d never… Right, Mr. Luck?”

“Oh, if it was just cheating, I think you’d manage quite easily.”

Luck’s lips curved as he spoke. As usual, his eyes weren’t smiling.

“You’ve been embezzling the syndicate’s money for two years now, after all.”

This time, Jorgi found himself completely unable to move.

They knew. They knew. They knew-knew-knew it-knew it-k-k-k-kill, they’ll kill me, they’ll kill 

He tried to say something, but his jaw only flapped up and down, and he couldn’t even breathe the way he wanted to. Only the amount of sweat down his back accurately showed his terror.

“Did you think we had knotholes for eyes? Well, no, we didn’t notice for two whole years, so that may be an accurate assessment…”

As he looked down at Jorgi, whose lips were quivering violently, Luck spoke dispassionately.

“…We heard that a drug addict had been wandering around this area recently, you see… We were concerned that someone from our family might be involved, so we looked into it a bit.”

If small outfits like the Gandor or Martillo Families got into the drug trade, it could turn the surrounding syndicates against them unnecessarily. Of course, the fact that they didn’t deal in drugs also helped project a clean image to the people who paid them protection money.

“…However, in the process, we noticed something completely unrelated. Jorgi… Your books… The flow of money is too regular. It’s unnatural. So you see, we took those books and asked around a bit, and… You know the rest, don’t you, Jorgi? You’re a smart guy…”

Jorgi wasn’t listening anymore. His hollow gaze wandered through space.

“…As it turns out, that addict was caught by the police this morning, and we learned he had nothing to do with our territory, but… Are you listening, Jorgi?”

Jorgi’s ears couldn’t hear a thing. The sweat that poured off him showed his state of mind, just as it was.

Deciding that saying more would be a waste of time, Luck laid his cards on the table.

“Aces, five of a kind.”

Then Berga slapped his cards down.

“Arrrgh! I lost, I lose! Five kings!”

Finally, Keith quietly showed his cards.

“…………………”

Five jokers, all in a row.

“You take everything, huh, Keith?”

“I’m no match for you, Keith.”

In response to this supremely bald-faced cheating, the men around the table cackled with laughter. The only one not laughing was Jorgi.

There were seven jokers on the table. Jorgi felt as if the Deaths drawn on them were watching him and smirking.

Then, when the men’s laughter had died down, Luck spoke quietly.

“Hurry and show us yours, Jorgi.”

As if prompted by Luck’s words, Jorgi’s cards slipped from his motionless hand, fluttering to the table. Two landed facedown; Luck turned them over. …Once all five were visible, it was obvious to everyone that the hand was garbage.

“Okay… Remember that rule I just told you about, Jorgi? Do ya?”

Berga tossed the revolver that had been in the center of the table so that it landed in front of Jorgi. The bullets… There were six. Every chamber was full.

“All right: Russian Roulette. This version is no-fail, every shot a winner. Make it a good one.”

Now that it looked as if he really might die, Jorgi was terribly calm.

Why do I have to die? The money would have gone to guys who were all brawn and no brain; all I did was use it for them. If you think about it that way, I’ve done quite a lot for the world. And now I’m going to get the kiss-off from these guys…? Idiots who don’t even know how to make money? I won’t stand for it. There has to be a way out of this alive.

What surfaced in his mind was not regret or repentance, but hatred for the fate he’d earned for himself.

He looked at the revolver in front of him. Then he looked at the people who stood around him. None of them had a hand on their own gun or knife.

There, you see? That’s what makes these guys idiots.

Slowly, Jorgi picked up the revolver, brought it to his temple, and 

“ !”

Suddenly, he thrust the gun out in front of him and squeezed the trigger. Straight at the three brothers, his own bosses, across from him.

He pulled the trigger once…twice…three times, four, five, six……

Click

Click Click

Click-click-click

No fire erupted.

All that echoed through the quiet basement was the metallic sound of the hammer striking. It blended with the jazz that filtered down from the floor above, creating an odd ensemble that lingered in Jorgi’s ears.

“…That’s very unfortunate, Jorgi.”

Luck spoke sadly. Unusually for him, his eyes really did appear sad.

“Take a good look… Those’re all blanks.”

Berga spoke dispassionately, his face expressionless.

Jorgi was stunned; he had no idea what had happened. Luck handed down the verdict:

“…Listen, Jorgi. The three of us were grateful for all the work you’d done for us. We talked it over and came to a decision. If you steeled yourself and pulled the trigger yourself, we’d let you leave the group without a word. If you cried and begged for your life, we’d beat you half to death and let you leave. If you denied everything to the end, we’d cut your tongue out and let you leave. And…you chose the very worst outcome. I can’t tell you how unhappy I am about that.”

At that point, Luck shook his head and said nothing more.

This time, Jorgi really did despair and regret what he’d done. If he’d at least begged for his life…

Even now, it might not be too late. Just as he opened his mouth to speak 

A gigantic shoe was shoved into it.

Berga had suddenly jumped up onto the table and kicked Jorgi’s face the way a kid would kick a ball.

“…Don’t you make my brothers any sadder.”

Eyebrows drawn together in a scowl, he looked down at the degenerate who lay on the floor. The lightbulb that hung right beside Berga’s head was swinging violently.

Several of Jorgi’s teeth had left his mouth, and the whites of his eyes showed under slightly opened eyelids. Apparently, the attack had knocked him out cold.

Seeing this, several of the men who’d been watching the poker match began to move. They picked up Jorgi’s body and stuffed it into a gunnysack. Then two of them lifted the sack…and climbed the stairs to the ground floor.

After this, the gunnysack would be driven outside the city and taken to a place with a view of the ocean.

Jorgi was only unconscious now, but he would probably never wake up again.

The man who knew his fate quietly stirred the vocal chords he almost never used.

“……Damn fool…”

The only ones who heard Keith’s soft murmur were his two younger brothers.

A few minutes after the gunnysack had made its exit, a member who’d been in the jazz hall came down.

“Luck… Dallas’s group says they want to see you.”

Dallas? Who was that? Several names and faces flickered through Luck’s mind.

Then he recalled the faces of the punks who’d been playfully tearing up the neighborhood.

“That’s fine. Confiscate their ‘toys’ beforehand, if you would.”

After a short while, a weary-looking group of four entered.

On seeing them, Luck got the vague feeling that these clowns had just lost a fight. That made it pretty easy to guess why they were here.

And on the whole, his guess proved correct.

“ So, this Firo punk: Could you do something about…?”

“No, gentlemen.”

Luck spoke firmly before they’d finished their story. The other men seemed to be about his age, but apparently he’d decided to respond politely anyway.

“What obligation do we have to help you get your revenge?”

“Well… No… I mean… Some guy from somewhere else is doing whatever he wants around here!”

“You aren’t members of our syndicate. As such, there’s no need for you to worry about our ‘business.’ That said, if the people who contribute to us were to come to us about the matter, we’d spare no pains in addressing the issue…”

This was a fact. In general, small outfits like theirs were built on the trust (or, in some cases, the fear) of the citizens who paid them protection money.

“…Hey, we drop money at your speakos, too.”

“And in exchange, you’re given liquor, correct? I would think that makes us even.”

“Then let’s do it this way, Mr. Luck. If you help us out, we’ll pledge allegiance to your syndicate. That’s a pretty good deal, isn’t it?”

All the strength nearly drained out of Luck’s body. How could they possibly overestimate themselves this much? Not only that, but right after they’d been thrashed by one guy!

Deciding there was no point in continuing the discussion, Luck made up his mind to disclose everything honestly.

“Listen, Dallas… Didn’t you ever wonder why we never contacted you? You can’t have imagined we’d turned a blind eye to your arrogant behavior because we were afraid of you, can you? Frankly, we didn’t invite you to join our syndicate because you didn’t seem as if you’d be the slightest bit of use to us. If we ever end up in a gunfight with the police, I suppose we could use you as shields, but we’d rather not pay human shields a weekly salary. And we didn’t interfere with you…”

He paused.

“…in order to keep the eyes of the police elsewhere. While you play at being bandits, they take less trouble investigating us.”

He hadn’t been thinking anything of the sort, but it was probably better to say at least that much. If they took these jokers in as members, they’d only be marked more firmly by the police, and Dallas’s crew was certain to get in the way.

When he looked, all four men were watching him, red-faced. He didn’t think they were foolish enough to make trouble inside a Mafia hideout, but he couldn’t afford to be careless.

“…Hey… You sure spout off enough. What do you actually know about us, huh?”

“At the very least, I know one lone boy who seemed obviously younger than you beat you like rugs. Since you just told me so yourselves, I doubt there’s any mistake.”

“Why you little—!”

Dallas, the leader, made no attempt to stop his angry companion. They probably meant to show off their courage and skills, but that method was effective only when the minimum of courtesy was observed.

“Fugwahah!”

The one who’d made the first move fell to the floor with a loud crash. When he glanced over, Berga was standing beside him, fist clenched.

“Berga.”

“Luck… What’s with these mannerless scumbags?”

After a little thought, the youngest brother answered:

“I don’t know them.”

“I see. You don’t know ’em, huh? Then they’re trespassing, right?”

“I was very nearly killed.”

“You were, huh? Then this is legitimate self-defense.”

Confronted with Berga cracking his knuckles, the remaining three men were paralyzed for an instant.

“There’s an idea, Dallas. If you manage to beat Berga, we’ll acknowledge your skills.”

Berga was in a bad mood, and unlike Firo, he wasn’t about to stop beating them once they were down. His long, thick leg stomped on the face of the man who’d fallen first, over and over.

Three minutes later… Four men who were even more tired—or rather, torn up—than they had been when they arrived were making tracks retreating from the office.

After the four had been run out of the basement, Luck discovered something they’d left behind.

“What’s this crate…? Liquor?”

There were two liquor bottles inside the crate. Had they belonged to the men who’d just left? If so, they could throw them away or drink them with impunity, but if they were wrong, it would be a serious matter.

I’ll ask whose they are when everyone’s here tomorrow.

Luck set the crate on top of the safe, then began busily preparing to go out with his brothers.

Quietly, the spiral of destiny turned.

When I wake, the great man himself is standing before me.

Master Szilard. My lord, and the one for whom I have the highest regard.

I look around, and my surroundings strike me as familiar. That’s right: This is the members’ meeting place…near Grand Central.

“Ennis… Why didn’t you kill him?”

He doesn’t look at me. He seems to be reprimanding the female chauffeur, who is near the entrance.

“Sir. I thought we could do that after we found out what happened.”

The elderly members are lined up behind Master Szilard. Every face seems despairing. Although they are grown men, some are crying. Others are glaring at me with hatred in their eyes. The emotions, both despair and hatred, seem to gain in ferocity in proportion to their ages.

Oh, I see. They’re grieving over the fact that I failed to protect the finished product. A politician who seems unlikely to last another year is actually bawling.

“Hmph… Enough sophistry. You can kill strangers with no hesitation, but the moment it’s someone you know even slightly, you balk. ‘Find out’…?”

Master Szilard’s hand is approaching my face.

Oh. Then I am going to be killed.

However, there’s no help for that. After all, I was unable to carry out my mission.

To think that I let even the last hope—those two bottles of finished product—be stolen, and by ne’er-do-wells like those. I must consider myself honored simply to be executed by Master Szilard himself.

“All we need to do to find out…is this.”

Master Szilard sets his palm on my head.

Immediately, “it” is snatched away from within me. If asked what “it” is, the only answer I can give is “everything.” I can feel all the blood in my body gathering in my head. It isn’t only blood, though. I can feel my muscles shriveling and drying up, starting at my toes. I feel the desiccated flesh crumbling, being drawn into my body. Ah, my legs are gone already.

My memories… I can feel my memories being siphoned away. …Oh… Come to think of it, everything I am will become part of Master Szilard. In a way, does that not mean I will gain eternal life? But why was it I wanted eternal life?

Oh, I’ve disappeared up to my stomach. Hurry, I have to hurry and remember. But why is my stomach gone? Oh, the man in front of me is Master Szilard. That’s right, Master Szilard is punishing me. But why am I being punished, I wonder… OH, THAT’S RIGHT, I WASN’T ABLE TO CARRY OUT MY MISSION. BUT WHAT MISSION WAS IT? I CAN’T REMEMBER NOW. THAT’S RIGHT, THERE WAS SOMETHING I HAD TO REMEMBER.

OH, OF COURSE. I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER EVERYTHING.

I WANTED ETERNAL LIFE BECAUSE I THOUGHT…

…I COULD BECOME A HERO, LIKE THE ONES IN MYTHS AND LEGENDS…

…AND PROTECT THIS LAND.

NO, THAT’S WRONG, IT WASN’T THE LAND.

MOMMY. IT WAS TO SAVE MOMMY. FROM THAT GUY, THE ONE WHO HIT HER EVERY DAY.

WHO WAS THAT GUY? I CAN’T REMEMBER. I REMEMBER HE DIED IN AN ACCIDENT.

HE DIED IN AN ACCIDENT. WITH MOMMY.

WHAT’S A MOMMY? I CAN’T REMEMBER.

WHAT IS REMEMBERING?

AH…

AH…

…

It was a grotesque sight.

The moment Szilard placed his hand on Barnes’s head, Barnes began to shrivel up.

No, the expression shrivel up wasn’t the right one. In the areas from which the moisture seemed to have disappeared, the flesh crumbled, and the pulverized flesh was absorbed into the remaining surface… In a word:

He was eaten by Szilard’s right hand.

That was the perfect way to describe it.

Starting at the tips of his toes, Barnes’s body was erased from this world.

In the end, his head—the last remaining thing—broke apart, crumbled, and disappeared into Szilard’s right hand as if it had been sucked into a vacuum cleaner.

The faces of all the old men in the room were pale. There was no longer any crying to be heard. If they took one step out of this room… These men had substantial rank and honor, but right now they were no more than a group of old men dominated by the horror that had occurred before their eyes.

“All right, gentlemen.”

The one to break that silence was the author of that horror, Szilard himself.

“I’ve read his memories, and until the very end… Yes, even as I killed him, he held me in high regard and pledged loyalty to me. …Truly magnificent! I encourage you gentlemen to follow his example!”

The end result was a pile of clothes on the floor, complete with shoes.

The line sounded like a very unfunny joke, but he’d said it in all seriousness, and of course no one was laughing.

“…And rejoice: He appears to have managed to save two bottles of finished product from the fire.”

After a moment’s pause, a commotion rose among the old men. The room that had been enveloped in terror and despair was about to take an abrupt turn into joy.

“Although it seems they were stolen.”

That joy faded instantly.

“Well, I know where they were stolen, and the faces of the ones who took them. If we’re lucky, we should be able to reclaim them.”

Once again, a commotion went up from the group of old men. To them, letting this chance slip through their fingers meant being forced to accept death. To Szilard, who was already ageless, it meant only that the completion of the elixir would be delayed, but to those who were hounded by old age and had already grown elderly, it truly was a matter of life and death.

In front of the group of old men with glittering, hungry eyes, Szilard was thinking of other things.

Even if the finished product has been created, there’s no sense in giving it to these good-for-nothings. For one with a heart as loyal as Barnes’s, I would have considered it, but in the end, he died, too. …Well, I did kill him myself, but still.

What I want isn’t trifling rank or money. It’s absolute loyalty…and perfect knowledge. That’s all. As soon as it’s completed…I’ll have no use for them. They can vanish, go to nourish my knowledge. …Hmph. That said, I expect most of their knowledge is unpalatable, and I fear it may lie heavy on my mind.

While he’d had his faithful “tools” create the finished product for him, Szilard had been engaged in his own separate, independent research. That research involved his own body, and through it, he’d learned several important things. Although, since he hadn’t yet fully verified them, they were still only in the realm of conjecture.

First, regarding the reason my body regenerates. We seem to have died at the point in time when we drank that liquor. Or, no, not died… It may be more accurate to say we were reborn.

As the result of a wide range of repeated experiments, he’d deduced that his immortal body resembled a colony of living organisms. Even if he was cut into pieces, each individual part tried to re-form the original, aggregate whole.

More than on the cellular level… It’s as though each individual molecule—no, each atom—has been transformed into a living organism.

Once, he’d burned an alchemist who’d come to eat him, but the smoke hadn’t been carried away by the wind. Instead, it had continued to envelop the man as he burned, and had disappeared when the fire went out and he regenerated. Considering the fact that regeneration occurred even from ash, the phenomenon seemed to extend beyond the molecular level.

In 1897, the British scientist Thomson had discovered the electron; in 1911, his student Rutherford discovered the atomic nucleus, and knowledge of the existence of particles smaller than atoms began to spread around the world.

At the rate they’re going, in two or three years they may discover another new particle. How deep and subtle is this transformation into living organisms, I wonder? …That said, even given another hundred years, scientists who dwell in sensible society will never be able to understand this immortality. I can clearly sense principles beyond the science of this world at work. …Regardless, I have serious doubts about whether science can be applied to power gained from summoning a demon.

In that case, instead of inducing a scientific reaction, was that liquor a medium used to summon the laws of some other world into this one? He’d promoted the manufacture of the finished product based on the “knowledge” of a compatriot who’d been researching that angle… Since this distillation had succeeded, that inference seemed to have been correct.

And another thing: The colony phenomenon itself was the reason behind both “eating” and “being unable to give false names.” These particle-sized living organisms that gathered around the “intellect” of an immortal were strongly attracted to one another. In other words, the act of eating was probably an act of fusion, based in one intellect and performed through its right hand. A colony of bees has no use for two queens. So too does only one intellect remain.

Then there was the issue of false names. He’d been able to give false names to ordinary humans. However, when he tried to do so with immortals, or to write his name on documents…

No matter what I do, I am unable to give a false name. The demon called it a restriction set on our spirits, but…it felt as though all the cells in my body, from head to toe, were giving me an order. I felt a pulsation, a “trembling,” not from my head, but directly from my body. …In all probability, every member of this colony of cells wants to fuse with others of its kind… Is that why they won’t let us hide ourselves completely?

However, he had been able to grant a false name to temporary immortals to whom he’d given the failed product.

Apparently they know the other is not the same species meant to be fused with, but simply “food”… Kuh-kuh-kuh… What a truly well-designed system.

That said, many things were still unexplained, such as the question of where the mass of humans who were “eaten” went. Szilard was irritated that the gaps in the knowledge he wanted were not being filled in.

If he’d known how to blend the finished product, at least, he would have been a little closer to perfect knowledge, but…

…the man’s little brother had known only half the blending method.

He’d come to New York this time around in order to eat the man who’d discovered the method, but in the end, it had been a wasted trip. Well, once he acquired the actual finished product, no doubt he’d be able to analyze the blending method on his own. He didn’t care about the order of events, as long as he ultimately gained knowledge and the finished product.

Either way, if I acquire a complete body of knowledge, loyalty and wealth will follow. For that reason as well, first I need the finished product…

The way to summon the demon, and the complete method for blending the liquor of immortality.

Detestable stripling. You who know both these things—both pieces of knowledge I do not know—simultaneously…

Where are you hiding?

“…And by the way, Ennis. It seems there’s a man who’s looking for you.”

Ennis was slightly bewildered by her master’s words. She had absolutely no idea who it could be.

“Let’s see… I’m able to share knowledge with you as well, in reverse. I’ll show you now.”

No sooner had he spoken than Szilard laid his left hand on Ennis’s head. Their audience’s eyes went wide, but Ennis accepted it silently. There was a brief pause, and then faces appeared in her mind.

A group of four thuggish men. She also knew that they were the ones who had stolen the finished product. The face that appeared next belonged to the man who was looking for her. Who could he be? She felt as if she’d met him somewhere, but she couldn’t remember where it had been.

“…In any case, look for that group of four.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ennis left the room again. As he watched her go, Szilard grew a little concerned.

He didn’t think it was possible, but could the man who was searching for her be one of his former comrades?

No, it couldn’t be that. No one knows about Ennis. I ate everyone who knew what she really is. There are no longer any alchemists who know about Ennis, and if they attack her without knowing, it does me no harm. There was even one who thought she was a mere human, got careless, and was eaten.

…Come to think of it, that was when it began. When Ennis grew hesitant to dispose of companions. She may have acquired some uncalled-for knowledge.

Well, never mind. Either way, if she becomes an obstacle, I’ll simply get rid of her.

Killing her was far easier than “eating.”

Ennis disappeared through the hole in the ceiling.

Szilard closed his eyes. His lips curved into a smirk.

“Yes… I’m Assistant Inspector Edward Noah.”

The salute Edward gave had more spirit in it than the one he regularly used for his superintendent.

The pair in front of him were special agents from the Bureau of Investigation. It wasn’t that they outranked the superintendent. It was only that Edward would begin his training with them next week, and they would be senior members of his new force. This, in combination with the fact that he’d longed for this promotion, made the two men seem several times more dazzling to him than his boss.

“Uh… Thank you for your service. Erm… I’m Bill Sullivan, and this is—”

“Donald Brown here.”

Brown, who stood beside the thin Sullivan, introduced himself while interrupting his partner. He had a powerful build, and the fist that lightly clasped Edward’s hand seemed twice as big as Edward’s own.

His supervisor had told him about this in advance. Apparently, these two had come in pursuit of suspects from a multi-state string of robberies. Edward had been ordered to cooperate with their investigation as a member of the local police force.

“So… I think you’ve probably heard, but I’ll give you a brief rundown. Uh… Take a look at this photograph…”

As a point of fact, all Edward had been told was that there was a string of robberies and thefts, which meant this would be the first time he’d heard any details.

The photo he was handed showed a man and woman who were wrapped in bandages from head to toe. He knew one was a woman, because she was wearing a wedding dress over the bandages. Parenthetically, the one who was probably a man wasn’t wearing anything except the bandages. He was wrapped up so well that the only things exposed were his eyes and mouth, so in a sense, there was no real problem, but…

“……………”

For several seconds, Edward was silent.

Was this a Bureau of Investigation–style joke?

When he looked unsure how to respond, Bill gave a wry smile and explained.

“Uh… How should I put this? Hmm… Those two really are the suspects. That photo was taken by a newspaper reporter, out of curiosity. Apparently they were quite happy to let themselves be photographed. Uh… And then, you see. I’m not sure how to put it…”

Donald, seemingly unable to put up with his partner’s hemming and hawing any longer, picked up the explanation:

“Right afterward, those two committed a robbery. When the police came running, all they found were the bandages and the wedding dress, dropped in an alley. The only thing all the witnesses said was ‘Bandages,’ see? They had no solid leads.”

I see. It made sense; if they initially struck in flashy clothes then disguised themselves, their chances of making a successful getaway increased significantly. …If they managed to make their flashy outfits blend in a bit beforehand, that is.

“They’ve also worn black masks and cloaks, and top hats and canes—Anyway, weird outfits. So far, they’ve committed more than eighty robberies and burglaries.”

“Then…why hasn’t anyone been able to catch these jokers before now?”

He thought it was a rude question, but he really had to ask it.

“Uh… How should I put it…? Because the damage they did was, um, what it was…they hadn’t made it onto the Bureau’s investigation list until now. Uh… The first one was clocks, if I recall. Then chocolate and candy… Once they stole the doors from a museum. Just the doors.”

Edward sighed inwardly. Did the Bureau of Investigation detectives have to run all over the country chasing nuts like these?

“However, as you’d figure, the one they pulled in New Jersey last month was a problem. They stole the millionaire Mr. Genoard’s legacy, down to the last cent.”

Edward hadn’t heard of that particular incident.

“…But that wasn’t in the papers, was it?”

“Mr. Genoard’s relations wouldn’t let it be made public. They said it would bring shame on their entire family.”

What a selfish lot. Criminals threw their weight around in the world because people like those existed. Edward very nearly fumed, but, considering that keeping the papers silent hadn’t really changed anything, he suppressed it.

“Still, weren’t any of the previous heists in the news? Granted, what they stole was… But even so.”

“Yeah, ‘Scarface’ and Luciano are all everyone’s been talking about lately.”

Scarface. Alphonse Capone’s famous nickname.

“Ah… Scarface, hmm…? When he moved to Chicago, and everyone thought he’d risen to the top… He wasn’t even thirty yet, you know. He’s only about thirty-one now. A kid from Brooklyn becoming this big boss, Public Enemy Number One, before you know it… I tell you, American history doesn’t have many legends like the one he’s built.”

“Let’s not talk about that lowlife.”

It was true that Capone had raced up through the ranks of the underworld at a young age. In that sense, he’d had innate talent, and he may also have been a hard worker. However, Edward refused to acknowledge either talent or effort in criminals.

“Mm… In any case, it seems as though the preferred stance of both our muckety-mucks and the ones in government is that ‘the Mafia doesn’t exist,’ you know… They say even Capone is ‘just a thug’… It’s always us little guys that get stuck with the real trouble. Ah… What a hassle.”

As his partner criticized the higher-ups with a wry smile, Donald mildly admonished him. “Bill… Watch what you say. If those ‘muckety-mucks’ decide they don’t like you, they’ll ruin your life just like that.”

“Ooh… Scary, scary. I’m not sure it’s a good thing to have bosses that are scarier than Capone…”

Donald laughed, just a little. Then he sobered up again and spoke to Edward.

“Well, we’re not Capone’s only enemies. I doubt the New York Mafia thinks very kindly of him… He’s done too much killing.”

That was a fact. The several huge Mafia syndicates that controlled New York weren’t pleased with Capone’s heavy-handed methods. They’d even begun to talk about having the moderate Johnny Torrio control the underworld. Capone had begun a war against both the daylight and shadow faces of America at the same time.

Abruptly, Firo’s face appeared in Edward’s mind. That guy was about to become an executive at a young age, too. Was he a similar case? Was he the type who’d be able to force his way up through underworld society, like Capone?

No, I won’t let him do that. I’ll dump him in jail before that happens; count on it. I’ll wipe out the Martillo Family, too. Sure, he’s young, and that’s a fact… For that very reason, if we act now, we might still be able to straighten him out.

When that time comes, I intend to give my full cooperation.

“—Uh… By the way, getting back to the robbers…”

He was pulled back to reality. His current opponent wasn’t a big boss like Capone, or a little syndicate like the Martillos. It was a weird, well-bandaged couple.

Edward sighed. His mood was on a downhill slide.

“Whew. The pain’s finally subsided.”

As he rubbed his bruised arm, Isaac gave a sigh of relief.

“It has, hasn’t it.”

It wasn’t as if she was actually feeling Isaac’s pain, but Miria agreed with him.

The thieving duo, who’d been hit by a car, were walking along Broadway carrying their helmet and mask, which had been miraculously unharmed. Even when they noticed the pair, the passersby only thought they must be involved with a musical, and so didn’t pay them much attention.

“Still, the lousy tin can that pulled that hit-and-run—Next time I see it, things are going to get ugly!”

“Ugly!”

“I’ll hit it!”

“You’ll break your hand.”

Miria occasionally contributed a good comeback. However, Isaac was undeterred.

“Then…I’ll hit whoever’s driving it!”

“How are you going to drag him out?”

“Then…I’ll spit on the car!”

“Ooh, that’ll be perfect!”

Before long, the two of them entered a deserted alley where they began to discuss their next caper.

“All right… Our journey is approaching its climax.”

“It really is!”

“It’s been a long road, now that I think about it… Yes. First, we became thieves of time!”

“The time we stole clocks, right?”

“Then there was that big job… The one where we tried to steal an entire museum.”

“We eventually realized it couldn’t be done, though.”

“Yes, and so, in order to at least make it impossible for anyone else to get in…we stole the entrance!”

“Those doors were our heaviest prize yet!”

No one could stop these two now. It was nearly impossible to tell whether this crazy conversation was natural, or whether it was a type of trance to help them escape reality.

“Once, in a bid to become villains, we stole the source of children’s nourishment!”

“Yes, we took chocolate. I bet the kids in that town starved to death! Poor things!”

It felt more as if these guys were the “poor things.” Had chocolate been all they’d eaten when they were little? …One got the vague idea it might have been.

“We repented, deciding to do good things from that point on, and then…we did that one job.”

“That one, yes!”

“We stole a rich man’s legacy!”

“Now there won’t be a fight over the inheritance!”

“We preserved one family’s peace.”

“I bet they’re really happy right now.”

They didn’t seem to have the slightest idea that, thanks to that job, the Bureau of Investigation had begun to move. That said, it was rather doubtful whether they knew an organization called the Bureau of Investigation even existed.

“And so! Since it felt so good to do something good, let’s make our last job a good one as well!”

“What kind of job?”

“We’ll steal the Mafia’s black money!”

He said something that would have been no laughing matter even if he’d been joking, but fortunately, there was no one else around.

“That’s amazing! Isaac, you’re just like Momotarou!”

“Mo-Mo-Ta-Row?”

“It’s a fairy tale from China or somewhere! A guy with a katana and his henchmen storm an ogres’ hideout, fists swinging, and steal all the gold the ogres had collected!”

She had several things wrong, but Isaac didn’t know the truth, and he accepted it at face value.

“I see, I see! An antihero, then!”

“Isaac, you’re so cool!”

“Let’s live with the thought of those dead children engraved on our hearts.”

Apparently, to them, the simple theft of chocolate had turned into something rather macabre.

“How cool!”

While they were having this dim-bulb conversation, a group of four men came walking toward them.

Isaac and Miria moved over to the side of the alley, but the group was arrogant, and they didn’t give way at all. As a result… One of the men’s arms made contact with Miria, and she staggered, very slightly.

“Hey now, be careful!”

“Be careful!”

…And the spiral of destiny turned again.

Dallas Genoard was in a foul mood.

It all began last month, when his family’s estate in New Jersey had been burgled.

His grandfather had died, and an enormous inheritance had been just about to come his way.

His mother had already passed on, and he had only three family members left: an older brother, a younger sister, and his father.

He’d planned to kill his father, then pin the crime on his brother.

If it had worked, a majority of his father’s share of the inheritance would have fallen to him. He could then have given his little sister pretty much any excuse and taken the rest from her.

The plan had been flawless. He had no intention of carefully examining the content now, at this late date, but if he’d put it into action it probably would have been a perfect crime. …And yet.

On the night he’d gone home fully set on carrying out his plan, the house had been robbed.

Before he knew it, several of the servants had been tied up, and the entire contents of the safe—cash, title deeds, jewels, everything—had been spirited off. None of the guards had noticed a thing.

He thought it must have been the work of someone incredibly sharp. …Although he was a little concerned by the fact that, according to the servants’ testimony, the culprits had been “white Indians,” and by the fact that they’d left a note in the safe that said “We’ve taken the seeds of your unhappiness.”

In the end, no inheritance had come his way, and he’d ended up having to return without executing his plan.

It would take time to sell off the land, and since it was cheap property out in the country, it wouldn’t bring in much… So, if the criminals weren’t caught, should he take that risky gambit anyway, even if it was just for the sum value of the land?

He’d come back to this ripe apple even as he mulled over such concerns, and for now, he was doing as he pleased. He and his cronies made a habit of mugging the unsuspecting and then pissing away the money.

Just when he’d been feeling irritated by that routine, that old man—and Firo—had appeared.

That lousy brat!

The boy had looked significantly younger than Dallas. As he remembered the kid’s face, he gritted his teeth.

Like we’re actually gonna let that punk make monkeys of us and get away with it!

But the guy had thrashed all four of them.

If we at least had more people… Or, no, if I had a gun…

Dallas hadn’t had either, so he had headed somewhere that was bound to have both. He’d thought that if a punk from some other organization was acting like he owned the place, the actual owners would make a move. But he’d been very wrong.

As a result, they’d acquired a variety of new bruises and were back to skulking around the city.

Dammit. I’m gonna murder that punk and the Gandor chumps, too.

As he walked along, irritated, he lost the capacity to pay attention to his surroundings. …Not that he normally paid attention when he was walking, in any case.

His arm bumped into something.

He decided to ignore it and keep walking.

Someone yelled something at him from behind.

When he turned around, a couple in weird clothes were grousing at him.

Out of spite, Dallas decided to thrash the man and assault the woman.

He didn’t feel the slightest shred of guilt.

Ennis had found the men she was after, but she wasn’t sure whether she should strike.

If it had been just the four of them, there would have been no problem, but two people who weren’t targets were there as well.

Not only that, but she thought she’d seen the pair somewhere before.

When she noticed the Japanese helmet the man was holding, she remembered everything.

It was the couple she’d hit while chauffeuring that morning.

And those two were traveling with the four men she was targeting…

“Sumbitch!”

One of the four men punched the male half of the couple. The tall man had no way to fight it: He took a fist in the stomach and fell to the ground with a thud. With that as an opener, three of the men began to kick him and kick him and kick him—

“Eeeeeek, Isaaaaac!”

The last of the four men had the woman in a full nelson.

Apparently they weren’t friends with the other four. On the contrary: If nothing changed here, they might be killed.

Immediately, Ennis gauged her surroundings. No one seemed to be coming. Of course, if those four were reported and apprehended by the police, she’d have a problem on her hands.

That said, if she went out there, the man and woman would remember her face.

After a little hesitation, she stepped into the alley.

When she was close enough to touch him, the man who had the woman in a headlock noticed her.

“…What’s up, doll? Those are some weird clo—”

He was cut off midsentence.

Drawing a clean arc in midair, a spin kick connected with the man’s temple.

When Szilard had bestowed on her a variety of “knowledge,” he’d given her combat-related expertise as well. On top of that, she didn’t simply understand it with her brain. Her entire body knew it.

She’d managed to unleash that kick with perfect balance, just as if she’d practiced it thousands of times. If Szilard gave her the knowledge, she’d probably be able to ride horseback or dance perfectly on the first try, too.

“…What the hell?”

The three men stopped kicking and turned to look at her. The man who’d taken her assault was on the ground, unmoving. Released, the woman ran to her lover (?).

Without a word, Ennis approached Dallas and the others, then sank a punch in the nearest solar plexus. She bent forward slightly as she did so, launching a sharp attack on the man’s center.

The fellow bent double, leaning over her. Smoothly, Ennis sidestepped the falling tough and charged at the next one with a speed that made it hard to believe she was a woman. Keeping her stance low, nearly sliding, she swept his feet out from under him.

Ennis had closed the distance between them in an instant, and the second man was completely at her mercy. At the shock that ran through his feet, his stance fell apart in spite of himself. His weight proved too much for his shaky balance to hold, and finally, he fell right on his can.

As he tried to get up, Ennis drove her shoe into his chin. His head went backward, and he just managed to stop it a little ways from the ground. Then her foot struck again. The added momentum smashed the back of his skull into the pavement with a dull thud.

Dallas only watched the spectacle, stunned. Memories of the thrashing they’d gotten that afternoon rose vividly in his mind.

In a mere dozen seconds, all three of his companions had been knocked out.

“…This time… This time, it’s a broad?!”

Today was not his lucky day. Even as that thought tore through his mind, he was sure he couldn’t win against the woman. His knife had been taken when he entered the Gandors’ hideout. …Not that he thought he could have won even if he’d had it, however.

“O… Okay! We’ll let those guys go. Just give us a break, all right?”

As far as he was concerned, he’d thrown away both shame and his reputation with that line, but the dame wouldn’t let him go.

“No, my business is with you.”

“Huh…? Uh… Gah…!”

The woman sank her fist into Dallas’s solar plexus. When she bent forward, it had seemed to Dallas as though she’d disappeared. Her attack had simply moved that fast, and it unerringly snatched his consciousness away.

“………”

Still silent, she looked around. All four men were out cold, and the man and woman pair were long…

“Wow! She took them out all by herself!”

“That’s amazing!”

…Not gone. They hadn’t run.

“Thanks, sister! We’re complete strangers, and you still saved us!”

“Thank you!”

The two hit her with rapid-fire thank-yous, and Ennis felt a little guilty. It was too late to mention that she’d saved them because she felt bad for having hit them with the car.

“You’re just like one of those, what’s the word… A hero!”

“Except she’s a lady.”

“Ah, right, of course… A heroine!”

It was a strange conversation, but they really did look happy. This bewildered Ennis. Now that she thought about it, in all the time since Szilard had created her, no one had ever thanked her before.

“We owe you our lives, lady! Ask for anything!”

“We’ll do anything!”

The offer actually troubled Ennis. At a time like this, was it all right to turn them down? If she did ask for something, how much was she allowed to ask for? This was “knowledge” Ennis didn’t have.

Cautiously, after giving it a little thought, she made a request:

“Um…I’d like to carry these four to the car… Could you help me?”

They put one in the passenger seat, shoehorned the other three into the backseat, and closed the doors.

“Whew. That’s that, then.”

“Yes, that’s that!”

“Um… Really, thank you very much.”

“What are you talking about?! We haven’t done anywhere near enough to repay you yet!”

“Ask for something else, anything else! Isaac’s amazing, you know!”

After transporting the unconscious men, the three of them indulged in a brief rest. Ennis thought it was likely she’d “dispose” of the men after this. Meanwhile, the pair were planning to steal money from the Mafia. However, with neither party knowing these particulars about the other, they continued their conversation.

“That’s right… It looked a lot like this one. The car that plowed into us.”

“It did, didn’t it?”

“That rotten car! Next time we meet, I’ll scratch it with a coin!”

“What about the spit?”

“I’ll spit on it, too!”

If she could make amends for the hit-and-run with something like that, Ennis thought, she didn’t mind if they did it all day, but of course she didn’t say so.

“By the way, sister, what are you going to do with those four?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Huh…?” She certainly couldn’t tell them the truth. On the spur of the moment, Ennis lied. “Um… I’m planning to turn them in to the police.”

Drat! she thought, as soon as the words were out. The nearest police station was very close. These two were technically victims, and they might say they’d run behind her and follow her there.

“I see… Unfortunately, then, this is where we part.”

“This is good-bye!”

“?”

“Just between us, see… The police are a no-go as far as we’re concerned.”

“A no-go.”

Ennis studied the two of them. She really couldn’t imagine that they were criminals. They were probably runaways.

“Um… Have you done something?”

“Let’s see… What was the worst thing, do you think?”

“Umm… Probably killing all those children.”

Ennis thought they were joking. Of course, the two of them had arbitrarily convinced themselves that children had starved simply because they’d stolen chocolate, so it really was more like a joke than anything. Once you knew that, you might even begin to think their very existence was a joke.

“So I suppose you could say we’re on a journey of atonement.”

Isaac parroted a line he’d read in a novel that had struck him as rather dashing. …That said, coming from someone who’d stolen chocolate “because he wanted to be a villain,” it was an extremely eyebrow-raising statement.

“We did bad things, so now we’re doing just as many good things!”

Meanwhile, Miria was terribly serious. In this case, the “good things” were most likely stealing inheritances and plundering money from the Mafia, which meant, in the end, they weren’t noticeably different from “bad things.”

“Is… Is that right… You’re both very strong, aren’t you…”

“Huh? Oh, yes, I’m strong!”

“Strong!”

“Compared to you… I’m hopeless. I’m terrified of facing my sins…”

Why was she talking about something like this with people she’d just met? Oh… It was probably because…if she let this chance slip away, she’d never have another opportunity to tell anyone about it.

Ennis managed to convince herself of this, but even then, naturally, she didn’t say what it was she had done. If she told them that, she’d end up involving them in her fate. If that happened, it would probably mean their deaths.

“What, you’ve done something, too, lady?”

“Then we’re all bad guys together!”

Together. Oh, how nice it would be if that were true. …But it’s too late. I’ve sinned too much. Ennis was downtrodden.

When Szilard had created her, he’d given her the bare minimum of knowledge and common sense, no more than what she’d need in order to take care of him: all the languages Szilard knew, knowledge related to combat, how to cook meals and drive cars, and similar things. That, and the names and faces of people she had to search for. These were the faces of the alchemists who had been Szilard’s companions, and a young man named Maiza Avaro was at the top of the list.

He’d taught her nothing about ethics or religion. Even with regard to law, he’d only given her information concerning monetary transactions and driving the car.

Finally, there had been one important thing: the fact that Szilard could kill her easily. At the same time as the rest, he’d taught her to fear death.

Reading books was forbidden, and Ennis had never been allowed to listen to the radio (which had been invented after she was born).

Her turning point had come when she’d “eaten” a man who’d made an attempt on Szilard’s life. As a last resort when fighting alchemists—in other words, people who had the same power of immortality as herself and Szilard—she had been given the knowledge of “eating.” Of using her right hand to absorb everything her opponent had.

The first time she’d absorbed another person’s knowledge, she’d learned all sorts of things. Knowledge she lacked had poured endlessly into her mind. It was as though her world had abruptly opened up.

She had thought about the contents of that new knowledge for a little while, and had come to understand both the sinfulness of what she’d done…and the horror of the man known as Szilard.

…But what could she do about it now? Just being aware of her sin wouldn’t bring back the people she’d killed.

Besides… If he knew she was thinking these things, Szilard would probably dispose of her.

She’d learned, far too well, that that was the sort of man he was.

It wouldn’t be possible for her to eat him first. Ennis knew that better than anyone. That man would be able to end her life before she could completely absorb him.

When he learned she’d eaten an alchemist, Szilard had asked her a question.

“I see… What do you think of having gained new knowledge?”

“Sir. They are all ideas I am unable to understand.”

It had been the only answer she could give.

“…Hey, lady!”

“Lady!”

She came back to herself with a start. The man and woman were looking at her anxiously.

“…Oh…”

“Are you okay? You were spacing out.”

“You were.”

“It’s nothing… I’m sorry. I’m all right.”

“Well, look, I don’t know what you did, but you just saved us, didn’t you? That makes it even. Let’s call it even.”

“That’s right. No matter what sort of bad things a bad guy does, you know what? If they do even one good thing, everyone thinks, ‘Maybe they’re actually a good guy.’ That’s how the world works! Even Capone… I hear he’s killed lots of people, and he makes liquor, and he even evades taxes, but since he also did good things, he’s popular. He’s got a house in Miami. He’s friends with Dempsey. He’s got a pretty wife, too!”

On the other hand, they say that if a saint does even one wrong, they’re treated with more contempt than a demon would be. If the world turned on the general public’s opinion, her statement just might have been correct… But that said, Capone would later do time in Alcatraz.

“So there, you see? You saved us, and that was a real good thing, so you’ll get to be popular, and live someplace warm, and be friends with boxers, and get together with a swell guy!”

“That’s right, you’re even, even steven. If it still doesn’t feel like enough to you, just do more good things! Then you’ll be even!”

What they said sounded insane, but in their own way, they were probably trying to cheer up their benefactor. Just knowing that made Ennis feel worse.

“Thank you… I’ll be going, then.”

Somehow managing to force a smile, she got into the driver’s seat.

“Oh, I see… Yeah, that’s right… Erm… Listen, I’m Isaac Dian.”

“Um, I’m Miria Harvent!”

For a moment, she didn’t understand what they were saying. When she realized they’d given her their names, she hastily etched the words into her brain: Isaac and Miria.

“I…I’m…Ennis. I don’t have a last name… Just Ennis.”

“I see, no last name, hmm? That’s different.”

“I’ve got it memorized: Ennis. Ennis. Ennis, right?”

They were both smiling like little kids. In response, Ennis gave a curt wave, then began to drive away.

In the mirror, she watched them get smaller and smaller.

They were yelling something. Ennis strained her ears.

“See you later!”

“Let’s meet again, okay?”

On hearing their voices, she had a thought:

She wanted to see them again, too. She probably wouldn’t be able to, but if it was possible, even if it was just one more time, she wanted to do it.

Their encounter had been brief, but those were two people she wanted to see as many times as she possibly could.

When she thought that, she truly…smiled, just a little. It was a natural smile, not at all forced.

It was the first time she’d ever smiled and meant it.

When she realized that, she cried. Just a little.

Twenty minutes later… The four young guys were lined up in the basement room where Szilard and the others were.

All four had their hands tied behind them, and their legs were handcuffed together as if they were about to run a three-legged race.

The four woke up, one after another, and began cussing at the old men who surrounded them. When Dallas, the last one, woke up, the other three stopped yelling for a minute.

“…What the hell is this? What’s going on?”

“Well, uh… See, it’s… Dallas, these guys won’t say anything.”

At that, Dallas looked around. Old men in expensive-looking suits sat near the back of the room, as if observing from a distance. The room was bleak, and except for the round table at the center of the group of old men, it held nothing particularly eye-catching.

“And hey, Dallas… While we were out, that lady shot us up with something.”

One of his guys spoke uneasily. The feel of the needle going in had woken him up, and he’d seen the other three get injected. At the word injection, a fierce anxiety welled up from the pit of Dallas’s stomach. Just what sort of weird stuff had they put into him?

“How are you feeling? …Ah, my apologies. There’s really no need to ask.”

As Dallas and the others broke out in a cold sweat over the strange situation, a voice suddenly spoke from behind them. When they twisted around to look back, they found an old man in a navy blue suit standing there. His mannerisms painted him as the most likely choice for the commander of their captors.

“From the way the other three act, I assume you’re the leader.”

“…Who’re you, geezer? What’re you gonna do with us?”

“Hmm? I’m Szilard. There’s something I want to ask you, and then I intend to kill you. Does that answer your question?”

Even as he spoke, he put out a hand toward the man next to Dallas.

“What the hell?! Kill us?! Yeah, go on and try it, you—”

The poor soul on whose head the hand had come to rest could see their captor over his shoulder; he began swearing at him…and then stopped moving.

“I will.”

Giving an unhurried answer, Szilard began to “eat.”

The only word for it was nightmare.

One of Dallas’s friends was disappearing, right before his eyes. Starting from his toes, as if his body were being folded up. First his shoes fell off. Then the handcuff that was connected to Dallas’s own ankle dropped with a clink. His brown trousers flattened, starting at the cuffs and traveling upward, like a balloon losing air.

“Hey… James…”

This guy’s name was James, right? Wait…huh? Didn’t we even know each other’s names? Was that all we were?

The bizarre sight seemed to have disturbed Dallas’s memory center slightly.

“No, hold it… Hey! I said wait! Hey! James is disappearing!”

He tried to stop Szilard with his words, but his body was rooted to the spot.

Even before he’d finished speaking, their group of four had become a group of three. Dallas felt cold air seep into the space that had opened up next to him.

“…Hmph. I don’t call that ‘decent living’…”

Having finished his meal, Szilard was slowly savoring the “knowledge.”

“Oho… That liquor… You don’t know whether it’s safe or not.”

At those words, a stir ran through the men at the back of the room.

“In that case, why don’t I have you go make sure…Dallas Genoard.”

Dallas was dazed. Szilard bent down and whispered in his ear.

“Do you feel like striking a bargain?”

He didn’t understand.

“…Still in shock, I see. We’ll finish this later.” Shaking his head, Szilard stood, turning his back on Dallas. “And by the way, his name wasn’t James.”

With that, he and the other old men disappeared into the next room.

The three of them were left behind. One of them muttered, gazing vacantly into space:

“Dallas… The guy who just disappeared was Scott. …James is…me.”

No one responded to the words. They only echoed, uselessly, among the three of them.

“Ennis… It seems there were others who saw you fighting.”

Szilard questioned her. According to the knowledge he’d absorbed from Scott, Ennis had appeared while the little gang was attacking a couple.

“Yes. I thought more people might gather if I simply stood by and watched.”

On the spur of the moment, Ennis lied.

“What happened to the couple?”

“They seem to have left immediately. I did check, and there were no signs that I was followed.”

“I see… That shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“No, sir.”

Still expressionless, Szilard gave Ennis her next orders:

“Well, then… The finished product is in the hideout of a Mafia group known as the Gandors. It would be unfortunate if we attempted to negotiate and ended up leaking our information to them. Threaten those three… Or, no, tell them we’ll give them a reward of some sort, and have them steal it back. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Only, their companion has just been killed… Do you think they’ll do it?”

“There’s no need to worry about that. According to the memories I just ‘ate,’ that lot values personal interest over friendship and the like. If we say we’ll spare their lives and give them money, I expect they’ll work with a particular will.”

Tapping his own temple lightly with a finger, Szilard grinned.

“In any case, once they learn their bodies have been made immortal—even if it is an inferior immortality—they’ll be so moved they’ll forget about their friend on the spot. In other words, that’s the sort of men they are. There will be no problems.”

“…No, sir.”

Giving a mechanical bow, Ennis hurried from the room.

The old men—who had been watching—shrieked.

“Master Szilard!”

“Th-then that injection really was…the incomplete product…”

“Why would you bestow it on those vulgar ruffians…?!”

“Quiet.”

“…………”

One glance from Szilard, and silence fell as if by magic.

“Never fear. This may turn into a fight with the Mafia, that’s all. I’ve only made tools for us to use in the event that it does. Once this business is finished, I plan to ‘eat’ them immediately. …Or do you have the physical strength to win an all-out war with a gang? If so, I’ll just have you do it.”

The old men said nothing more.