Read Online The Rolling Bootlegs by Ryohgo Narita - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ryohgo Narita
Tags: Fiction
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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. Theywere 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
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. Theywere 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
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