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.