1932 Drug & The Dominos Read online

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

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

  “I-is that okay?”

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

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

  Roy shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Then it’s pointless!”

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

  “Ah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  At the same time The Gandor Family office

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

  “So? What happened to the idiot?”

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

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

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

  “……”

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

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

  “’Scuuuse me. It’s Tick.”

  “Ah, Tick. Come in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yesss, sir.”

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

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

  Luck shook his head. His expression was tired.

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

  As he spoke, Luck had a thought:

  Ah, there it is again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Compared with them, how pathetic was he?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “……”

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

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

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

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

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

  “I will take it under active consideration.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Boss! Boss! Trouble!”

  “What the hell happened?!”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Damages?”

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

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

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

  Keith’s response was extremely simple.

  “Good work.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “……”

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

  “Yeee…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Tick! Tick!”

  “Yesss? What is it, hmm?”

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

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

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

  When Tick reached the man, he looked genuinely sad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It was still there. I’m so glad I still had anger in me somewhere. Look at the strength of this hatred for the man who hurt Nicola and my comrades.<
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  In their line of work, anyone could die at any time, either because they’d made an enemy or simply for a handful of change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The same day Late at night The Daily Days newspaper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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