The Rolling Bootlegs (3 page)

1930     November          New York

The sky was the sort people call crystal-clear. The town was illuminated by the transparent light of the morning sun.

Buildings of red and yellow brick were packed together as though they were trying to cover the entire city in color. That said, the people who walked in their midst didn’t feel crowded by them.

In fact, the automobiles that had begun to make their presence felt in recent years pressed the pedestrians much harder.

The time was Prohibition. All sorts of social currents had converged, and the country had elected to become a “dry society.” Consequently, though, the appeal of liquor had actually increased, and even those who hadn’t previously indulged began frequenting illegal taverns. …In other words, ironically, the result had been the creation of more criminals.

A general store stocked grape juice on its shelves, accompanied by a written warning:

If you let this sit for a while, it will ferment and turn into wine. Drink it before that happens.

This grape juice practically flew off the shelves. It was that kind of era.

The Jazz Age had passed its peak, and the previous year, the Great
Depression had gripped America. The redbrick buildings that filled the city seemed somehow faded.

Still, in the shadows of the city, there were “protagonists” who had the power to resist the Depression. In general, they were lumped together as “the Mafia,” and they had acquired vast power using the sale of bootleg liquor as a foothold.

In other words, the government’s Prohibition policy had become a perfect hotbed, helping them—the enemies of the law—to rapidly advance in society.

All sorts of legends, great and small, sprang up among them, with Al Capone and Lucky Luciano topping the list. That was what 1930 was like.

Their legends always began in the back alleys.

“Change? Spare any change?”

The emergency exit of a bank. Between tightly packed tenements. Where restaurants threw away their leftovers… Frankly, as long as there was a narrow, gloomy road, anywhere was fine. It didn’t matter whether it was crowded with people or nearly deserted. The season or the hour didn’t matter either, of course.

“You can save this miserable man with just the tiniest show of human feeling.”

A panhandler’s voice sounded behind the hat shop. This voice, echoing in the alley, might actually have been where it all started.

Every time someone passed through the alley, a middle-aged man in shabby clothes badgered them, persistently asking for change. When they stepped out onto the street, he’d give up and go back to where he’d started… A monotonous cycle.

“The good Lord sees what you do. It won’t be long before your actions call down his blessings upon…

“What I’m trying to say here is—”

Abruptly, the repetitive cycle was broken.

The man who’d spoken to the panhandler… It might still have
been all right to call him a boy. He stopped suddenly, turning to face the bearded man attempting to cling to him.

“Why are you dropping God’s name all over the place like that?”

Neither his tone nor his attitude matched his age. At the unexpected question, the panhandler’s expression grew puzzled.

“What do you mean, mister?”

“Are you a devout Christian? Have you ever gone to Sunday worship, even once? Did you give to the Church before losing your job? Can you tell me the difference between Catholics and Protestants? If so, you shouldn’t be invoking God’s name and begging in a place like this. Either get yourself to a church and help the nuns with their volunteer work, or look a lot harder for a job, or else blame God for leading you to this state and become a Satanist.”

The panhandler was overwhelmed by the tone of the boy’s quiet harangue, but as soon as the lad paused, he howled an objection.

“But mister! What about donations to the Church, then?!
They
use God’s name, and they get thousands—no,
millions
—of times more money than a bum like me!”

“Except you were only thinking about your own pocket, and you know it. …It just means God turns his back on self-centered louts like you. The Great Depression probably landed you on the streets, but even so, the guys standing out on the avenue with signs saying, ‘Give me a job’ are taking life a lot more seriously than you.”

The panhandler tried to make some sort of retort, but he couldn’t think of anything clever. Even as he struggled for a comeback, the boy continued his own selfish lecture.

“And anyway, there’s an art to panhandling, too. Some who make a living at it stand out on street corners in tatters, even though they’ve got money. A few of them actually break their own arms or teeth, for effect. When they beg, it makes passersby tear up even more than the sight of someone truly infirm. Compared to them, you’re a total amateur.”

At this point, the boy glanced upward briefly, then pulled a leather wallet from his jacket.

“Huh?”

The panhandler had no idea what was happening. Based on the
direction of the conversation, naturally he’d held out no hope of getting any change. …So why had the fellow before him withdrawn his wallet?

“—Ordinarily, I wouldn’t bother with an amateur like you, but…”

He produced a few coins. However, the panhandler’s eye had been caught by the thick stack of bills in the billfold. It wasn’t a sum that anyone, especially a boy like him, should have had in this Depression. Even an adult with an honest job would have been hard-pressed to get that much money. That was how fat the wallet was.

“Today’s a big day for me, see, and I’m in a real good mood. Go ahead and take these, and consider yourself lucky you spoke to me.”

After a few moments, the panhandler’s face crumpled with joy.

“Oh, ohhhhhh, thank you ever so kindly, mister! I’ll remember this good turn for the rest of my days!”

“Nah… I don’t care if you forget it, just hurry up and take the money.”

The boy urged the panhandler on, not quite sure what to do with the coins spread out on his palm.

“Ahhhh, the good Lord will surely bless your actions, too.”

“Look, I told you, quit pretending you’re religious when it’s convenient…”

“I know! Say, I’ve got some flowers I picked this morning. It’ll be proof of the kindness you did me. Go on, mister, take one.”

No sooner had he spoken than, without taking the money, the panhandler began rummaging through the dirty paper bag he was holding.

“They’re probably wilted by now, anyway.”

“No, no, I’m sure God will make ’em bloom again, nice ’n’ pretty.”

The panhandler peered into the paper bag, his face still warped with delight. And then…

“A big, bright,
bright red
flower…!”

The calamity struck in an instant.

A small, ferocious calamity that inflicted itself upon the poor paper bag.

A dully gleaming bowie knife sprang cruelly from its shredded belly.

“
!”

The bearded panhandler screamed something inarticulate, his face well and truly happy.

And almost before his weird, ecstatic cry had ended…

…it transformed into a shriek of shock and pain.

“
Gaaaaaaaaah! Gah! Gwaah… Ah!”

Just before the tip of the blade reached his gut, the boy slapped aside the hand wielding the knife, simultaneously twisting his body lightly. The blade sliced through air, skimming past the boy’s side. In the next instant, he’d grabbed his opponent’s outstretched arm, wrenching it up with ease.

These were the only moves made in the interval between exhilaration and excruciation.

“Hup.”

Little by little, as if leaning into his assailant’s back, the lad put more of his weight behind the hold.

He heard the knife strike the pavement but paid it no heed.

A definite creaking sound became audible from the vicinity of the joints in the man’s arm.

But that noise was drowned out by the man’s screams.

“Waugh… Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Ah! Kha! Augh! St-st-st-st-st-st-stop…!”

When he saw the panhandler’s will dominated by pain, the boy shoved him into the dark red brick wall. The man fell to his knees with a dull thud. Then, moaning, he slowly tipped over, rolling around on the ground.

Watching his attacker from the corner of his eye, the boy picked up the coins that had been scattered by the brief bout of violence.

Then, when he noticed the bum had stopped moving:

“C’mon. Get up.”

Taking the man’s arm with a certain wariness—his assailant was about twice his size—the boy pulled him to his feet. Then he leaned the panhandler’s back against the brick wall.

“Your mistake was flagging me down. I’m not a pious guy. Unfortunately for you, I’m not self-sacrificing enough to stand there and let you stab me.”

Breathing roughly, shoulders heaving, the man let the boy’s sarcasm slide. He glanced away quickly, moving only his eyes. Even under these circumstances, he seemed to be searching for some way out.

“Planning to make a break for it? Don’t be hasty.”

Spreading the coins he’d picked up across his palm, the lad held his hand under the man’s nose.

“Remember what I said? Consider yourself lucky…”

He balled his hand into a tight fist, squeezing the coins hard.

“…Be grateful and
take ’em
.”

It didn’t look as though he’d taken much of a swing. However, the punch the boy paid out had enough force behind it to break the hobo’s front teeth.

“—!”

The impact of the blow slammed the back of the panhandler’s head into the brick wall. This, in combination with the pain from his front teeth, elicited a wordless scream, and then
he slid, slowly…scraping his back down the wall…finally crumpling messily to the ground.

Unlike before, he’d completely lost consciousness, so he didn’t roll around on the pavement this time.

Slowly, the boy relaxed his clenched fist. One after another, coins dropped from it. They rained down onto the man’s face, which was smeared with blood from his nose and mouth. His mouth hung open, sloppily, and a few of the coins fell in. The dry, metallic sound of the ones that hit the pavement was drawn into the decaying air of the alley.

“…Hmm?”

Glancing over, the knife from earlier lay on the ground, a little ways away. Its shape was common, and it wasn’t worth much.