Chapter 2: Prologue
BEGG
Early December 1931. Somewhere in New York.
In a dimly lit room, two men were silent.
Even the beating of their hearts dissolved into the stillness, and their existence seemed very tenuous.
"Please understand, Begg. This is the last time I'll be able to meet with you to negotiate."
With no prelude whatsoever, the tall man broke the impasse. Prompted by this, sound, movement, and color seemed to return to the pair's surroundings. As if to confirm that time had begun to move again, the tall man—Maiza Avaro—heaved a great sigh.
"Begg. Say something. I can't leave without an answer from you, and depending on that answer, I may end up hurting you."
Maiza looked sincerely troubled, and the man he'd called Begg finally opened his mouth. Vocal cords subdued, he emitted words that sounded rather choked.
"A-a-all right. I-I-I'll do… as you… say."
Begg's eyes wandered vacantly through space. Only his heart had turned to face Maiza.
"I w-w-won't… d-d-distribute d-d-drugs on… Martillo Family… territory… anymore."
On hearing those words, Maiza looked relieved. He walked over to his old friend.
"Thank you, Begg. Now we won't be your enemies."
In addition to pleasure there was sadness in Maiza's expression. After a short silence, he spoke to the man in front of him again. However, his tone held not situational social diplomacy but genuine feeling for his old companion.
"From this point on, I'm speaking not as a Martillo Family executive but as your friend. Begg, if possible, don't distribute drugs in town—"
"I… I… I refuse. I—I can… do… what I want."
"Begg."
"I… I… I became an alchemist… because I wanted to overcome… my limits… as an apothecary. M-my dream, my wish, my mission… It—It's about to come true. Two hundred years, and finally, finally, finally, I think… I'm about to get it. A—a way… to make… people… happy."
On hearing those words, Maiza shook his head slightly.
"Are you still saying that? No such thing exists."
"I can do… it. I… just… want to… make… people… into… the world. I want… to make… a world… for… each… individual… person. The… best… world… for that person. If I can… make that state… p-permanent, people can… They can die… smiling."
"In other words, you'd destroy the human race. Don't you see? They'd use drugs to bask in their delusions until they died, leaving no descendants, not even eating..."
"O-of course… that's… only… the first… stage. S-someday, I'll make… a drug… that… lets people… keep… dreaming… in their hearts.. while they're awake… and going… about… their business… as… humans. The sort… that… doesn't… damage their bodies, only… makes… them… feel happy."
At Begg's "dream," which was like an elementary schooler's essay, Maiza sighed a little.
"You'll exhaust their souls. Why can't you understand that?"
"Ha-ha-ha. You're saying… that you… of all people… believe… in something as… unscientific… as… souls?"
"At the very least, we aren't in any position to be saying scientific and unscientific anymore. You know that already, don't you? After we made a deal with a demon and became immortal."
Immortal. The word sounded trite, but it was an eternal contract that linked the two of them. It granted immortality, which they'd gained from the demon, and… the curse of consuming one another.
They were able to "eat" each other, through their right hands.
The ability to devour all the other's knowledge, their past and their experiences, and make them their own. In old Japan, there was a practice where a sorcerer would take several poisonous animals, such as centipedes, scorpions, or snakes, and place them together in a vessel where they would consume one another until only one remained. It was believed the survivor was the strongest of its fellows and the cannibalism had concentrated all the venom inside it.
Truly a curse.
In response to Maiza's wprds, Begg fell silent for a while.
Then he argued just to argue, looking cross.
"People… seek… pleasure… on… instinct. I… only… want.. to… pursue… that."
"Pleasure that's overstepped human instincts will be abused. Please don't forget it."
On that note, Maiza turned to leave the room.
"Maiza, th-th-thank you… for… not… eating… me."
"… The next time you say something like that, I'll get angry."
After Maiza had gone, Begg stuck a syringe in his arm.
The drug's purity was far higher than anything on the open market, but still he couldn't feel it.
He was living through eternity, and by now his chemical tolerance was extremely high.
He could no longer seek pleasure on his own.
But what he couldn't do, he continued to seek for other people.
Even if there was no meaning in the act.
—∞—
GANDOR FAMILY
"I tell you, it's a dangerous world these days."
Contrary to the young man's words, the New York sky was perfectly clear and tranquil.
The sun had just reached its zenith, and it shone down warmly into the alley, which was hemmed in by redbrick walls.
Although the alley was in Manhattan, it was a little ways away from the cluster of skyscrapers. In front of a used bookstore surrounded by faded tenements, the young man asked the proprietor another question:
"Don't you think so? The recession shows no sign of improving, and the government's response always seems about to change something, yet never does. We go around in circles, while business and public order continue to slump. I expect it makes it difficult for you to relax and ply your trade, doesn't it?"
"No, sir. Thanks to you, my store's managing to get by somehow." The proprietor of the bookstore spoke humbly, although the young man before him was about his son's age. The shopkeeper's gestures and tone were perfectly meek, but a complicated look simmered in his eyes.
"Really? You don't seem to be getting many customers… although I know one young lady who frequents your store."
"Ah, Mrs. Charlie? Yes, she's an excellent customer."
"If there's anything we can do to help you, just say the word, anytime."
"But, sir! I don't even pay you for protection; I couldn't put you to that sort of trouble."
"We haven't sunk so low we'd take protection money from used bookstores. If you're ever in need, we'll fix you up with enough for living expenses. We're in your debt, after all."
"I couldn't possibly, sir! It's thanks to you and the other Gandors that I'm able to relax and focus on my business. You don't need to go that far for me!"
This was the answer the young man had expected. Not many people would meekly say, "Please do loan me some money" when they heard those words from him.
The Gandor family was a small syndicate that controlled a very tiny portion of the streams of money and people that jostled each other in Manhattan. Their territory wasn't large, but within it, their influence was absolute.
Years ago, the outfit had managed only half the territory it held now, but since the boss's seat had been handed over to the three brothers—his sons—the territory they controlled had begun to expand vigorously. They simultaneously protected and terrified the residents, in the old-fashioned way, and they avoided interacting with other syndicates any more than was strictly necessary. Other than nonaggression pacts, they took no protection from larger organizations and refused to place themselves under their control. They simply and stubbornly stood their ground.
Naturally, in order to do that, they often had to get far rougher than any other organization their size would've been able to manage.
… And one of those bosses had just told the bookstore owner that the world had "gotten dangerous." Was it some kind of joke? Keeping that question locked inside his heart, the proprietor smiled at Luck Gandor, the youngest of the brother dons.
At first glance, it seemed to be an amiable smile, but it didn't go past his lips. On the other hand, the proprietor's eyes weren't smiling at all, and in the depths of his soul, he felt an indescribable terror.
The old bibliophile spoke rapidly, hoping to shake the feeling—
"Hahaha, well, you know how it is. I trust everything's going smoothly for you and your family, Mr. Gandor?"
"No, no, even we have a worry or two."
Shaking his head, the young boss began to expose just a little of his position. The subtle extent to which he did this was an important factor in determining whether his organization gained the trust of the regular citizens.
However, he couldn't show true weakness. As the shadow king of the neighborhood, the syndicate's struggles revealed in situations like these were often things that troubled the residents as well. As a matter of fact, for the most part. The syndicate guys made it sound as though they themselves were troubled, when in fact the only ones who were really troubled were the residents they were talking to.
"You see, there are things we can't even look you in the face over. The matter of those drugs, for example."
"Drugs…?" No, no… The youngsters are just bringing those in from somewhere on their own—that's all!"
"Still, it's a fact that they're here."
The Gandors didn't deal drugs at all. This was another reason the people in their territory trusted them, but the truth was that their organization simply wasn't strong enough to handle the narcotics trade yet.
If they'd simply had that sort of power, they might have gotten involved, and then again, they might not have. This was a thought Luck had from time to time, but in the end, the fact that they didn't have the strength for it didn't change. Personally, Luck wanted to avoid losing the trust of the people who sheltered them by carelessly getting involved in something destructive. The Gandors were tied too deeply to the residents of their territory to sow the stress and chaos that drugs brought. However, these thoughts were pure calculation.
'Berga probably hasn't thought about the profit in drugs, and it's likely the Keith genuinely detests them. Charlie has openly expressed her dislike for them and the way they tear people and their communities apart.'
His mind drifted to thoughts of his middle brother, Berga, and their older brother, Keith, and his wife, Charlie.
If roles were assigned to the three brothers, Keith's was protection, Berga's was fear, and Luck's was cunning. These were, quite simply, the impressions the three gave the people around them. Particularly the upstanding citizens.
Keith's protection of the residents seemed to stem from some sort of pride rather than from morals. For that reason, when it came to getting involved with people's lives or deaths, there was a line he refused to cross. Working from that fact alone, there was a scarce possibility that the Gandor family would ever branch out into drugs.
However, an abnormality had unmistakably started to occur within the area they managed.
Lately, a new type of drug had begun circulating in their territory, slipping through the gaps in their control.
It hadn't turned into a huge uproar yet, but rumors of the drug were spreading steadily. Finally, just the other day, the actual substance had been delivered to the Gandors.
Once they knew it really existed, they couldn't ignore it.
No matter what, they'd have to pinpoint where it was coming from and settle the issue.
Luck's vulpine eyes narrowed even further, and the dark smoldering inside him gradually grew fiercer.
"What's this? A screenplay? That's rather unusual."
On seeing Luck pick up a worn booklet, the shopkeeper spoke, his smile widening…
"Yes, sir—if it strikes your fancy, go right ahead and take it!"
"I couldn't do that."
Shutting the matter of the drugs inside his heart for the moment, Luck drew a thick billfold out of his jacket.
For a moment, as he reached for the bills in the wallet, both his hands were occupied.
"Bweh-heh."
Abruptly, Luck heard an odd groan behind him. Curious, he turned around.
But just as he did so, the blade of a knife swept through his throat.
"Ghk..."
A sharp heat, and the unpleasant feel of metal scraping against cut flesh. By the time Luck understood it, bright blood was already spurting out, dying his vision solid red,
"Yeeee!?"
On seeing Luck topple to the ground with a thud, the shopkeeper finally grasped the situation.
Beyond the spray of blood, a lone man stood in the sunlit road.
He was middle-aged; his quivering skin had a sickly sheen to it, and his clothes were ragged. He had a knife in his hand, and his eyes glared wildly.
"M-m-mur-mur-murdeeeeeeraaaAAAAAaah!"
The sudden catastrophe had left the shopkeeper inarticulate he was petrified with fear, unable to move.
"You saw kill, me, kill—kill kill kill witness kill Luck killed, killed, saw it, saw, you saw, kill-kill-kill-kill, witne-kill-Luck-kill-bookstore-kill-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-kill, kill you, kill—kill—"
The man had completely lost his focus. The incoherence seemed rooted in his brain rather than his mouth.
"YeaAAaaaaAAAaagh?!"
The attacker raised his large knife, brandishing it at the shopkeeper. It was the blade that had just slashed Luck's throat, and Luck's blood was—nowhere to be seen.
"Kill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill, kill-ill -ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ilrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
With a moan like some demonic instrument, the man brought down the clean, gleaming knife.
Crunch. His arm stopped dead, just before the blade reached its second victim.
After a moment of confused silence, the shopkeeper gingerly opened his eyes.
His assailant was still standing there, the corner of a book jammed into his temple. The hardcover was in the hand of the guy who'd just gotten his throat cut.
"Are you all right?" Luck asked.
As the last word ended, the man with the knife tottered, then fell over, right in the shop's entrance.
There wasn't a scratch on the mobster's throat. The blood one could have sworn had spattered across the books in the storefront had disappeared without leaving a single stain.
"Uh, wha…? Huh? Mr. Luck, Mr. Luck, you just… Huh? What just…?"
Ignoring the confused proprietor, Luck picked up a red magazine as though nothing had happened.
Then, tearing its cover to shreds, he spoke to the shopkeeper with a cold smile.
"Well, well. That was a close shave. If I hadn't instinctively blocked with this magazine, I'd be dead."
"Huh? But, um, no, there was… blood..."
"You saw the fragments of this cover scatter and misinterpreted it. It really was very sudden."
"But—"
The shopkeeper hung on doggedly. In response, Luck sprinkled the fine bits of red cover around.
"Ah, I'll need to compensate you for this book."
No sooner had he spoken than he pressed a thick stack of bills into the shopkeeper's hand. The sum was enough to keep the man well-fed for a month, let alone cover the cost of the book.
"N-no, I—uh! I can't take all this!"
Ignoring the proprietor's yelp, Luck folded his fingers around another stack of bills, repeating himself emphatically:
"What that idiot cut was this book. Understand?"
On hearing that, the shopkeeper couldn't argue. He only nodded.
"Excellent. Intelligent people do very well in business. Give it your best, please."
Luck had already turned his back on the shopkeeper, and he began to walk away, carrying the man with the dented temple over his shoulder. Their sizes were far too mismatched: He looked like an ant carrying a dead beetle.
In parting, he lifted his hand in a casual wave to the shopkeeper: "It really is a dangerous world… isn't it?"
—∞—
THE WEALTHY
October 1930. Somewhere in New Jersey.
It began with an odd pair of burglars.
That day, Eve Genoard's heart was filled with unease. She was fifteen. She'd been born as the sheltered youngest daughter of a very rich local family, and there was still something childlike about her. That was all there was to say about her: The girl had no other defining characteristics to speak of.
A few days previous, her grandfather, the head of the family, had passed away, and the Genoard household was in a state of confusion.
Her grandfather had been kind, and eve was terribly sad that he was dead, but her unease had another source.
Her older brother: Dallas Genoard. He'd the news and returned from New York.
He was nice to Eve, but she just couldn't bring herself to like him. After all, when he interacted with anyone beside her, the only word for Dallas was lowlife.
When he'd returned to the house, his eyes hadn't held any sadness over his grandfather's death at all.
Instead, they were filled with something ominous. Some dark, secret hope.
Almost as if he were planning to kill someone…
This state had been one of the earliest in the union to develop industry, and her grandfather had built a vast fortune in a single generation. What sort of business had he started here, in this country town far from the state capital of Newark, that had allowed him to earn a fortune? All Eve had heard was that he ran a factory, and she hadn't been especially interested in knowing more. A big factory in the forest. Neither her father nor her grandfather had taken Eve anywhere near it, and she hadn't tried to go. As a result, she had absolutely no idea what her family manufactured.
However, she was aware that they belonged to the class that was commonly referred to as moneyed.
She also knew that this thing called wealth sometimes led human hearts astray.
When she was taken to society functions, she saw all sorts of people: those who clung to wealth, those who coveted it, those who manipulated it, and those who loathed it. She witnessed its elegance and its ugliness.
Having these experiences, she was able to pick up on two things.
One was that her grandfather's legacy would probably amount to an enormous sum, far more than enough to lead people awry.
The other… was that her brother Dallas had been completely taken in by its glamour.
Even so, there was nothing she could do. At the same time. She was aware that if things went on this way, something she cherished would collapse.
Terror regarding the approaching tragedy, anger at her cowardice: She was at sensitive age, and being caught between these two feelings was eating away at her nerves.
When she'd been filled with unease about these things, involuntarily, she prayed to Good.
She asked for a miracle.
'I just want to be free of this anxiety. That's all.'
Under the covers, as if she were making the wish of a lifetime, she prayed and prayed.
… And abruptly, a miracle presented itself.
Late at night, when darkness and silence had enveloped the mansion, two intruders appeared in her room.
Before Eve even had time to scream… she froze, her eyes round.
The man and woman who'd slowly opened the door were dressed like American Indians.
The man wore a short coat of animal pelts over bare skin, his lower body encased in rough hemp trousers. The woman wore a matching outfit, and their clothes were ornamented with beads in geometric patterns.
They wore native war paint, too, and large feather headdresses.
The strangest thing of all was that both were white people. If it hadn't been for that, she might have just screamed.
For a moment, Eve had no idea what was happening, and then the couple turned to her and said, firmly but quite casually:
"Shh. Don't make a sound! We're nobody suspicious."
"Hide us for a little while, okay? Just a little while!"
The two had large sacks on their backs, like the one Santa Claus carried, and several bills peeked out of the openings. The bottoms of the sacks were lumpy with what were probably jewels and ornaments, and she knew right away what the pair really were.
Burglars. Even when she'd arrived at that answer, she didn't panic or make a fuss. She still wasn't quite sure why, but it might have been because they were wearing very innocent, artless smiles.
"Say, are you maybe, you know, one of the Genoards?!"
"Yes, a sheltered young lady!"
When she heard the two of them whisper-shout, the feeling of unease finally returned.
Were they going to take her hostage?
However, in mere moments, that unease dissolved. The words the two white American Indians said next were beyond anything she'd imagined—or rather, they came from an angle she hadn't even considered.
"I see! You don't have to worry anymore!"
"Isn't that great!?"
Nothing they were saying made sense to her. Ignoring the bewildered Eve, the two kept right on talking:
"We're taking all your unhappiness for you!"
"Now your family won't have to fight!"
"It's best when families get along!"
"Yes, you'll be happy!"
They were so delighted that this girl, whom they'd only just met, was going to be happy that they might as well have been talking about themselves. At that point, Eve finally stumbled upon what they meant.
If the inheritance disappeared, no one would fight over it. If there was no fortune, no one's heart would be warped.
These two were making her wish come true.
It was a horrendously selfish theory, and if anyone other than Eve had heard their story, it wouldn't have been at all odd for them to deck the couple immediately. However, Eve was grateful to them.
After all, they'd appeared right after she'd prayed to God and used her single "wish of a lifetime."
'They must be God's messengers. I'm sure of it.'
The Genoard family had never been very religious, so Eve's idea of what God and angels looked like was extremely vague.
Forgetting even the fact that they were dressed like Indians, Eve knelt to them.
"H-hey, Miria. Why is she worshiping us?"
"I don't know, but since she is, we need to do something for her!"
"Hmm… I'd really like to perform a Snake Dance ritual, but that takes dozens of days, and we'd need fifty snakes. Besides, we're not shamans, and if we did it, the great nature spirits or whoever they are might get mad at us."
"Let's do a Butterfly Dance, then! The one those Hopi children taught us!"
"Sure, let's go with that."
The two nodded briefly, then began to dance a recreational dance from the Hopi Tribe. The dance —performed by just the two of them, with no song or music—bordered on comedy, but Eve watched it earnestly.
"Miss! Miss Eve!"
The dance was interrupted by a knock at the door to her room.
"They say there are thieves prowling around inside the mansion! Is everything all right in there, miss?!"
'Oh no! Hurry and hide—'
When she turned around to warn the pair, they were nowhere tp be seen.
The wide-open window swung in the breeze, and that was all.
'Of course. They must have returned to the heavens.'
The girl was prone to fantasies, and she completely failed to see the Indians clinging to the tree outside the window.
The next day, Dallas came to Eve's room, looking terribly tired. He seemed very irritated, but at the sight of his sister's face, he started to smile again, just a little. It was a genuine, big-brother smile, the sort she hadn't seen in several years.
"Want me to teach you billiards, Eve? It's been a long time."
On the verge of tears, Eve beamed and nodded.
—∞—
After that, as the burglars had said, she lived happily.
However, one year later… quite abruptly, her happiness was shattered.
—∞—
December 1931. Same Location.
What had crushed Eve's ordinary days was a sudden onset of a great loneliness.
Her father, Raymond, and his oldest son, Jeffery, had succeeded her grandfather as the center of the family. One day, they left for work in Manhattan, and they never came home again. Or rather, to be accurate, they did return. However, they were so horribly changed that Eve was unable to believe they were her family.
Two corpses had been discovered in a car that had fallen into Newark Bay. The police didn't tell her whether it had been an accident or murder. They said only that they were investigating, and then they left.
On top of that, she was informed that Dallas, her older brother, was missing. Her mother had passed away before her grandfather, and so, for all intents and purposes, Eve was the only remaining member of the Genoard family. Gradually, the servants quit and left, and the mansion grew as quiet as a ruin.
She heard that her family's "business" would be taken over by the factory directors. Eve was paid a token guarantee, and practically speaking, her only remaining assets were the mansion and the land. Not many people would have continued to serve in a house like that, and the only ones who stayed were the butler and the black housekeeper.
"Oh, my stars and garters! Then yer fixin' to go f'real, Missy Eve?"
The plump black woman sounded impressed by Eve's resolution.
The woman, Samantha, had worked as a housekeeper all over the country; she spoke in a mishmash of accents from all different regions, and absolutely everyone had trouble understanding her.
"Yes, I am."
Eve, who'd been in Samantha's care since childhood, didn't feel a shred of prejudice toward her.
"Miss, as unworthy as I may be, I, Benjamin, am confident that I can at least aid you by serving as your guide to the town."
"Benjamin, are you sure you don't mind?"
"You needn't trouble yourself over it. Serving you is my duty, miss, and it is also the one purpose in life this dotard has."
The man who said this, bowing deferentially, was a German butler who'd served the Genoard family since Eve's grandfather's time.
Although he wasn't a very stiff person, as far as appearance went, there would have been no difficulty in calling him a stereotypical butler.
Cackling at the sight of the profoundly respectful manservant, Samantha thumped her chest.
"Whaddaya actin' all starched fer? Missy Eve, I'm a-goin' witchoo, so youse jes' rest easy."
Accompanied by these two members of her family, Eve left for Manhattan, a great, unfamiliar city.
… In search of her vanished brother, Dallas Genoard.
—∞—
DOPE ADDICT
"Roy… Roy..."
A woman called to her lover. The man was high as kite, and she was afraid for him.
"Roy!"
Staring up at an institutional ceiling, the man—Roy Maddock—gave a full-body shiver. Immediately afterward, he shot up from the bed as if he were on springs and raked his surroundings with a glare. He saw several men and women, sitting or lying down; all wore the same hollow expression.
"Roy, pull yourself together!"
In the center of his vision, a woman was yelling something.
'I know this dame… It's… Oh yeah. It's my girl, Edith.'
He also understood that she'd pulled him back to "this side." Roy's eyes still weren't focusing, but he turned them away from her, clicking his tongue in irritation.
"What's with that attitude?! Roy, I thought you might really die this time, so I—"
Edith's shout clanged away in Roy's brain. The vibrations passed through his head, reverberating down his spine.
"This, after I told you over and over! After you promised you'd get yourself clean! Why are you here again!?"
The wound on his neck that he'd gotten during a previous trip started to throb, as if it had just remembered the sensation. With that, finally, his mind woke up completely and understood that it was back in reality.
Bleeeargh.
At the same time, with no hesitation, he spat out the substance that welled up from his stomach.
Nearly colorless vomit spattered over the concrete floor. However, Edith only grimaced slightly, and none of the people around them yelled.
It wasn't a physical side effect of the drug itself. The terror and anxiety of being abruptly pulled back to reality had had an instantaneous effect on his digestive system.
There was a reason the room's floor was rough concrete. Vomiting and pants-pissing were everyday occurrences here, and it was completely undecorated in order to make it as easy as possible to clean.
In short, this was a recreation room with a specific purpose: It was dedicated to the use of a certain type of drug.
After he'd vomited to the side for a little while, Roy spoke, sounding annoyed. "How should I know what I promised you when I was sober? I don't bring no real-life stuff in here."
"Don't give me that! And here I thought you were back on the right track… What happened?"
In answer to her question, Roy picked up a bag of powder that had been near him.
"You've got nothing to worry about. There are several drugs that have been circulating around here recently that aren't like weed and coke. They're new types. That means they ain't illegal yet. I'm not committing a crime or nothing. What's the problem, huh?"
"You know that's not what this is about! If you keep this up, you'll die! Do you have any idea how moronic you look when you're hopped up? You might as well be a beached, dying octopus or squid! Just look at the faces of the people around here!"
As if to shake off the rest of the sermon, Roy raised his voice a bit roughly:
"Say what you want about me, but don't you disrespect my friends. And hey, you're a waitress at a speakeasy. I don't want to hear to hear this from somebody who's breaking the law."
Flinching a bit at those words, as one would expect, Edith fell silent, looking chagrined.
"Why not go crying to your Gandor bosses, then?" Roy sneered. "You can't can you? The Gandors are tough on drugs. Plus, this is the stuff their enemy the Runorata Family is spreading around! You've known I was hooked on this stuff for ages, and you kept quiet about it. The Gandors'll probably kill me, but you won't get off scot-free—"
Having ranted that far, Roy abruptly fell silent. He'd just realized that Edith was tearing up.
"I don't care what happens to me, it's just—I'm being quiet because I don't want you to die, Roy! But I think I'm at the end of my rope there, too! If I have to watch you break like this, you… you should just go die!"
Once she screamed the last of those words, she left Roy without looking back.
As Roy heard the door slam, his expression began to crumple rapidly.
"Wait, I, why did… Why did I make her cry? No, I— … Yeah, that's right, I broke my promise, so I shoulda apologized, right? That was wrong, I… huh? Why did I do that?"
As he thought back over what he'd done, sadness and regret welled up together in his heart.
"Wait, wait, wait! I was wrong. No matter how you look at it, it couldn't be anyone but me. Why was she crying? That's wrong. I'm the one who should cry, right? I'm the one who shoulda gotten yelled at and cried, right? That's not okay, hey, wait, waitwait, wait, why aren't you here, why, wait, please wait, c'mon, c'mon..."
Roy lowered his head and began to sob, quietly.
"Wait… Please, wait. How'm I supposed to apologize this way…?"
Watching him, a man and woman in a corner of the room began talking quietly to each other.
"The girl should just break up with that loser," the woman whispered.
"Uh? Hunh, their relationship ain't so shallow a little fight like that could bust it up."
The drugs had worn off for the pair a while back, and they were watching Roy with comparatively clear eyes.
"Besides, the stuff the dame said was wrong," the man continued.
"What part?"
"Even if the Gandors don't tumble to this, that Roy fella's gonna die soon. If you look at it that way, he'd have a better shot at surviving of she snitched to the Gandors and begged."
"Die? You mean fly a bit too high? But they said that drug's safe for you, physically..."
"Well, that's obviously just a Runorata lie! And even if it were true, it's like calling down the Grim Reaper, right into your body. No way to get away from that… See, that guy, he got high on heroin, just once, and when he did, he gashed up his neck with his fingernails. Shredded it. That ain't a normal reaction. He's too sensitive to drugs. You probably don't know, but with heroin, you don't get high the first time. It just makes you sick. You do it a few times, get used to it, and then you dive into the other side. That guy, though, he flew somewhere weird on his first try."
He drew a small wallet from an inner pocket and took a few bags of powder from inside it.
"After he landed in the hospital, Edith frantically talked him down. Well, he'd just started, so he managed to shake the hop pretty easily, but then he went right out and tried the stuff the Runorata fellas are scattering around. He fell for that idiotic 'No physical withdrawal symptoms' line real easy. I mean, c'mon, there's no way anything's that good!"
As the man spoke, he opened a new bag of drugs.
"Well, and I'm the bonehead who knows that and still does it. As a rule, most guys who get into drugs are idiots. But that's the thing. That's what's good about it… That's it. Heh-heh, heh-ha-ha."
—∞—
'I have to apologize to Edith.
I left the room. That's a start. But I've got no idea how to face her.
This time, this time for sure, I'll quit. If I do, she'll understand, too. And anyway, I used up the last of my money on this one bag. They said it was some new kind of upper. Uppers are rough when you come down, but if you don't have the drug, you've just gotta get through it.
So, okay, this is the last one. I've gotta use it carefully. I mean, it's my very last hit, so I want to fly like it's going out of style.
I think I maybe thought something like this when I made that promise with Edith before, but I'm positive my will was weak that time. I'll be fine now. I've grown, too. I can make this dose the last one.'
'Ohhh, here we go here we go here we go here we go damn this is crazy whoa-ho-ho this is awesome, the right side of my brain is sorta jumpin'! Man, it feel like my right brain's about to blow! Hey, I can see rainbows! Wow, what is this, huh? Me? Does the body I'm moving belong to me? Is the brain that's thinking stuff right now really mine? Whoa, I could do anything now! I just surpassed myself! So brains can evolve, huh? My consciousness is jumping to the future!
Awesome, this is so awesome. What's awesome? I'm awesome!
I can do it, I can do it! Now, I can do anything!
AnythingAnythingAnythingAnythingAnything—'
—∞—
'I'm awake.
Apparently, I'd come back to my apartment at some point, because the stuff all around me is familiar.
My head hurts. It's cold. Freezing cold. Dammit, it's here. I'm down.
Ferocious unease and anxiety well up from the depths of my chest. The urge to throw up comes with them.
All of a sudden, I'm scared of everything in the world. The higher I fly, the bigger the reaction is. I feel like the Gandor fellas are gonna open that door any minute and barge in here to kill me.
I feel like there's a sniper rifle trained on me, right between the eyes.
Maybe there's a hitman under this bed.
Or maybe everybody except me is dead already. Come to think of it, I haven'y heard a sound for a while now. Why? Maybe Martians invaded while I was high and slaughtered everybody.
The rotten Gandor brothers aren't out dancing with octopus monsters right now, are they? Or maybe they're discussing how to off me?
I bet the Gandors are gonna shoot me and boil me and burn me and roll me up and sink me, and then at the bottom of the ocean the octopus Martians are gonna torture me and kill me and violate me and eat me and bleach me— No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no-nohoh-nooOOOOOooooo!'
'Calm down, man! You're hallucinating; this isn't real. You know that. But why am I so scared, when I know that? Maybe it's not a hallucination or a delusion, maybe it's real, maybe there's really something behind that door— Stop! Don't think! If you think, you're finished! You lose! You'll die! Dammit, if I just had those drugs from a minute ago! One more time, if I took those one more time, I bet I wouldn't come down that time! Drugs, gimme drugs! Somebody's gotta go deal with the Runorata pushers directly and get me drugs, or Iiiiiiiiiiii, AaaaaaaAAAh, I'll die, this is really gonna kill me, hey save me, somebody help me, hey, Edith, Ediiiiiiith...'
Seven hours later, in his bathroom, Roy finally managed to calm down.
He'd stripped naked, and he stood dazed on a floor that was smeared with his vomit. He'd anticipated situations like this and had rented and apartment with a bathroom on purpose. He was really grateful to himself for having made it to that bathroom while he still had some sense left.
On one hand, this had been his first time taking that kind, so the down hadn't been as bad; on the other, since he regularly took other drugs, he'd probably had a weird reaction. Either way, the things her'd done before now bounced back up and hit him. From a medical perspective, there might be aftereffects, but after all, it was a new type of drug. Roy didn't know any of the details. All he understood was the tremendous excitement from the instant he'd taken it, and the terror of the down he'd just come through. The weakness of will it took to succumb to seeking temporary highs and the determination to make it through the subsequent fear: Roy was a member of the odd breed that possessed this strange combination of mental strengths.
As he cleaned himself and the bathroom, he even felt a slight sense of achievement. Now, this time for sure, he'd be able to keep his promise to Edith. He had the feeling something like this had happened before, but that was probably just his imagination.
Pulling shorts and a shirt onto his now-clean body, Roy headed for the living room, humming. 'I gotta say, though, I hurt all over. Did I get in a fight while I was high or something? Is it some kind of bad effect from the drug?'
Abruptly, he stopped in his tracks.
'What's that bag?'
A bag he'd never seen before lay under the table. It was a big leather satchel, and it bulged as if it was stuffed full of something.
He'd seen it somewhere before, but he couldn't remember where. He actually got the feeling he couldn't afford to remember where.
The terror he'd thought had subsided returned. Instead of his brain, his heart started to jump loudly.
Fearfully, he went closer, opened the bag, and—
As he remembered everything, Roy's heart nearly stopped from the shock.
The bag was stuffed to bursting with white packets of powder.
It was the new drug the Runorata Family was spreading around, the stuff he'd just been in thrall to.
Slowly, the Grim Reaper that lived inside him began to swing its great scythe down.
—∞—
RUNORATA FAMILY
A mansion on the outskirts of Newark, the capital of New Jersey.
"And?"
The man who spoke was standing beside and ostentatious desk. He was probably over fifty; his wrinkles were neither deep nor shallow, and he wore intellectual-looking glasses on his dignified face. While there was no emotion to be gleaned from his tone or expression, the men in suits who stood around him all visibly tensed en masse at this single word.
"You're telling me not only did someone steal all of the new drug, but you let the thief get away?"
As the middle-aged man continued, everyone in the room gulped.
Then, looking like death-row convicts who'd walked up those thirteen steps, they waited for him—Bartolo Runorata, the boss of their syndicate—to finish.
After a breath that seemed like an eternity, Bartolo slowly closed his eyes and spoke.
"And?"
The big man who came forward to answer the question broke out in a cold sweat. "Right, we'll mobilize all the men we can spare and find that guy—"
"What I'm asking you is..." Bartolo cut the man off and quietly went on. "Exactly what benefit is there for me, you, and by extension the entire Family in your reporting every trivial thing to me this way?"
Although his voice was calm, the sharpness in it seemed to seize the hearts of everyone who heard it.
"Gustavo. I told you I was leaving the Manhattan business in your hands, remember? That means the only thing you need to report to me is either good news or bad news… Or what? Are you telling me you're incompetent enough to judge an insignificant little situation like this one as 'bad news'?"
The man he'd called Gustavo wore an expression that made him look like a frog that had been impaled by a shrike. His big body was quivering.
"Boss, I'd never..."
"So you're incompetent?"
At those words Gustavo went completely silent.
"I have plans to see my grandchild today. Don't sully my memories of this day with dull talk."
On that note, without giving reprimand or advice, Bartolo left the room.
The people who remained seemed to be trying to gauge what the others were feeling. All of them wore expressions of mixed unease and relief.
"This ain't no time to turn cretin, men."
Gustavo lit a fire under his subordinates; his expression and attitude had changed completely from what they'd been when his boss was present.
"Watch that mugger spread the drugs around for peanuts. They'd laugh us out of town! If that happens, our job in Manhattan might turn into 'bad news'! Do whatever you have to—just find that punk!"
As far as they were concerned, this had been an enormous blunder.
Some absolute nobody had made off with a bag crammed full of drugs. It hadn't happened because they'd been particularly careless. The carriers who were driving the car simply hadn't been able to predict the situation.
They'd never expected a truck to plow into their side at full speed.
The impact had thrown them from the vehicle, and a young guy had gotten out of the truck and run off with the new product, which was worth six hundred thousand on the market.
The culprit must have taken a big hit from the impact as well, but he'd fled the scene as if he couldn't feel pain. Naturally, they weren't able to report the damages, and the incident had been dealt with as a simple hit-and-run.
The truck had been stolen, and they'd gotten word that from the looks of the perpetrator, he was probably a junkie.
However, that district was run by the Gandor family, and they didn't deal drugs at all. The Runoratas knew nothing would turn up there even if they looked, so their investigation from that angle had been lax from the beginning.
Viewed objectively, it was a priceless joke. The ones distributing drugs in that area were the Runoratas themselves. They'd been attacked by a kid who was high on drugs they'd sold. For dealers, it was a huge, unprecedented screwup pf the absolute rock-bottom lowest order, the sort of spectacular error that would probably never be seen again.
"Just take back the goods. As long as you do that, I don't care if you murder him or what—"
"I… can't… have… that."
Behind him, Gustavo heard an eerie groan. When he hastily turned around, Begg was sitting in a corner; apparently, he'd gotten into the room at some point. Even though there were lots of empty chairs, he was sitting right on the floor.
"Begg, huh? Don't spook me like that! … And whaddya mean, you can't have that?"
"I… want to… ask… him… what he… thought. If… someone… did something… that reckless… while… on my drugs, I… absolutely… want… to… hear his… story. I… may… use him… as a test… subject… for my… new… drugs. So… if… you can, take… him… alive."
"Of all the moronic—"
Involuntarily, Gustavo began to yell at him, but he kept the rest of the words locked in his throat. He didn't know much about Begg, but when he'd joined this organization, the guy had already been there. He had to be one of the oldest members, but Gustavo didn't even know his real age. At a glance, he looked to be around thirty, but it had been eight years since Gustavo became part of the syndicate, and in that time, Begg didn't seem to have aged at all.
It was likely that his body had gone strange places due to the effect of some drug. Instead of being jealous of his youth, the people around him treated him very cautiously and did their best not to talk about it.
"—Don't ask for too much, all right? We gave to a terrific refinery, remember? Don't pester us for more."
"Hmm. You… got one… for me? You… only… took over… a cocaine factory… that… someone… else… had… been… running… Along… with… its… cover… business. His… name… was… Genoard, wasn't… it? The… previous… owner."
There was clearly irony in the halting words.
"Took it over? Hey, don't say that. The company lost its manager, and we just shored it up, that's all. From both the front and from the back, see."
"'Lost,' hmm? B-by… throwing… himself… into… N-Newark… Bay, car… and… all? What… violence. That's… s-several… times… r-rougher… than… Bartolo's… m-methods."
"… You're a member of this family, too. Why don't you watch your mouth a little?"
Behind his blank expression, Gustavo was clamping down rage. In response, Begg's smile was clearly scornful. Before long, as if he'd tired of it, the smile disappeared, and Begg began to leave the room as though nothing had happened. As he left he called attention to a certain treaty.
"List…en. I told… you… before: B-be… careful… not to… meddle… with the Martillo Family. That's… my condition… for… cooperating… with you, Gustavo."
Once he'd said this, Begg disappeared beyond the door without a sound.
"Hunh. For a guy whose useless for anything that ain't drugs, he's pretty full of himself… Bastard!"
Spitting out that parting shot, Gustavo turned back to the men who were still in the room.
"Listen up. We're grabbing territory from the little outfits, starting with the Gandors. At the same time, we're putting down roots for the drug business. That's our job in Manhattan. Another job nobody asked for got piled on top of that, but it don't change what we'll be doing. Crush anyone who gets in our way. If they're weak, crush 'em even if they're not in the way. There's no need to warn them or negotiate. That stuff's for equals. We just have to flex our power in front of'em, get me? Fast and thorough, so that by the time they see it, it's too late—"
Talking as though he'd become the boss of the syndicate, Gustavo loudly declared their victory. It was as if the self he'd shown Bartolo mere moments ago had never existed in the first place.
"This age is ours, period. I won't let that thieving punk and the puny playtime mafia exist in our world. Crush 'em, grind 'em down until there's nothing left, erase them completely from the past, present, and future. That's our duty."
