Read Online The Rolling Bootlegs by Ryohgo Narita - Free Book Online Page B

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