Edward’s eyes flared with hatred. It was true that, next week, he’d begin his training period with the Bureau of Investigation (which would, five years later, be renamed the Federal Bureau of Investigation…the FBI). He hadn’t even told his sweetheart or his colleagues, so why were the sort of people who really shouldn’t have been in the loop in the know?
Resolving to track down the source of the information leak, the young assistant inspector turned his gaze back to Firo out of sheer embarrassment with himself.
“…Anyway, Firo, listen up. It doesn’t matter who you give handouts to. Nobody’s gonna see you as anything but a phony. Quit doing useless nonsense and either get yourself out of town already or get ready to do time.”
The conversation had shifted back to him abruptly, and for a moment, Firo was bewildered. Before long, though, he answered as though it was a pain in the neck.
“Like I care? Even if I’m posing or doing it to make myself feel good, it’s all the same to whoever gets the dough. Who exactly am I bothering with this so-called phoniness, huh? Where are they?”
“Don’t think everyone will be happy to get that dirty money you bring in.”
“…That makes donating to community chests and organized charities a real nice system, doesn’t it? There’s no way to tell which money came from where.” Firo didn’t deny the part about dirty money. “Not that I make a habit of giving handouts.”
“That again… What is today to you, anyway?”
Just as Edward asked his question, Maiza broke in:
“Firo, we should be going. …That’s all right, isn’t it, Assistant Inspector?”
“…Uh, yeah…”
“Oh… I’m sorry, Maiza. I did keep you waiting, didn’t I?”
The two of them prepared to leave. Watching them go, the young assistant inspector mulled.
A skilled up-and-comer in a syndicate and one of its senior executives. A special day.
Something occurred to the detective, and he called at the boy’s back.
“Firo, don’t tell me you’re…”
The lad stopped. His back remained turned as he faced the broad street.
“…Don’t tell me… An executive? …Are they promoting you? You? One of the associates?”
He frowned as he asked the question, as if doubting his own words.
Edward had lived in this city a long time, too. He admitted that Firo was a capable foot soldier in his syndicate, but he was too young to be promoted to executive. The “boy” wouldn’t be twenty for another year and a half, and he looked three or four years younger than that. The idea of this kid being made an executive of even a small underworld organization—no, of any organization at all, even a daylight one—was inconceivable.
Still, he’d heard there was a special ritual that accompanied promotions. Firo had said he was meeting a senior executive—one who, as a rule, would never allow an audience—at a hat shop… He knew that on “special days” a central figure of Firo’s syndicate always visited a milliner or tailor. Just knowing this wouldn’t get Edward anywhere, but it was a good way to gauge who the players were.
“Hey… Is that really it?”
The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t deny it, either. Without a word, he started walking again.
Edward took that attitude as affirmation. With an appalled smile, the sort he would have worn on hearing a tall tale down at the bar, he kept right on talking, aggressively.
“Seriously? They’re actually making you an exec? You? A little brat like you? You’re puttin’ me on, right? C’mon, now… Hurry up and tell me I’m wrong. I’m about to bust a gut over here. So, what, is your outfit really that short on people?”
The pair ignored him and set off. It didn’t bother Edward. He went on, laughing. “Or, you know, I always thought you had a kind of girly face… How many executives do you gotta lay to skip to the top like that, huh?”
Silently, the two men stopped.
Firo wondered if a threat was in order. His thoughts went to the knife at his hip.
“Assistant Inspector.”
However, it was Maiza who turned first.
Still wearing that benign smile, he faced the assistant inspector and said, simply:
“Go any further, and we’ll take it as an insult.”
Edward’s expression froze. His sneer died in his throat.
Maiza’s smile was simple and honest, and his tone was no different from what it had been a moment before.
However, the poor assistant inspector had realized something.
I’m going to die.
The instant he said a single word about “the syndicate” or Firo, the man in front of him would probably kill him. The cold emotion resonating deep in that voice had him convinced.
The eyes were what drove the thought home. They elicited in the inspector an unnamed fear, as if something unknowable was stealing into them from their depths…
As Edward closed his mouth, realizing he’d broken out in a cold sweat, Maiza laid a hand on Firo’s shoulder and continued:
“…True, our syndicate may exist only to be eaten…”
He paused for a moment.
“…but be careful not to let the poison do you in.”
That bastard. So he was eavesdropping.
Edward thought this but was unable to actually verbalize it. The sensation of cold sweat had reached his back.
Firo was still glaring at the assistant inspector. Patting his companion’s shoulder twice, Maiza stepped out onto the thoroughfare as though nothing had happened. As if drawn by the motion, Firo’s feet also turned toward the avenue.
“…Reme… Remember this… Even if you kill me, I’ll never accept Mafia scum like you… Someday…I’ll wipe you out…! I swear it!”
Behind them, the pair heard the assistant inspector’s strangled voice.
“Ah. We aren’t Mafia.”
Waving a hand lightly, Maiza answered without even turning around.
Firo followed him, and they disappeared into the crowd.
“We’re—Camorra.”