The Rolling Bootlegs (6 page)

“Oh, Master Quates.”

“You’re looking very well, sir.”

“You haven’t changed a bit…”

“You truly are a marvelous being…”

On seeing Quates, who hadn’t changed at all in twenty years, about a dozen men let cries of admiration escape them.

The men were of all different ages, but even the very youngest appeared to be around forty. As for the oldest… There were three elderly individuals who seemed as if they might be ninety.

The old man who’d been surrounded looked around at the codgers who’d done the surrounding and spoke with an air of boredom.

“I don’t see Barnes or Stagen.”

The old men glanced at one another, then looked down. The butleresque fellow who’d escorted Szilard delivered the news with a sorrowful mien.

“Master Barnes is currently at the ‘distillery.’ Master Stagen Heim…passed away last year.”

“I see.”

Quates didn’t appear particularly moved by the news.

“There’s nothing to be done about death from old age. If he’d lasted another year, he would have seen this day.”

No one raised an objection to his declaration that the cause of death had been old age.

They understood. They knew they wouldn’t die from accidents or illness.

“With failed liquor, I was unable to make your souls eternal… Precisely because sudden death ceased to exist for you, your fear of aging must have been extraordinary. However, even that ends today.”

A small cheer echoed through the underground hall.

“…Although there seems to have been a problem of some sort.”

Instantly, the cheers were replaced by silence.

“Is it true that the blender died?”

In response to Szilard’s query, the butler replied hastily:

“Y-yes, sir… It appears he was stabbed to death by a robber yesterday…”

“What happened to the criminal?”

At that, a man of about forty stepped forward and took over the butler’s report.

“Master Szilard. The culprit was just arrested in a
sting operation by police inspectors
. Apparently, he committed his crimes while disguised as a panhandler… He seems to have been a thug with an inclination toward drug addiction, and he was unaffiliated with any syndicate.”

“A coincidence, hmm? If that’s how things are, I should have added—I don’t know his name, but—that blender to our number. Failed product or not, if he’d only had a sip of that, a robber wouldn’t have been enough to kill him.”

Possibly having something on his mind, Szilard clicked his tongue softly.

“A word, Master Szilard… The man was a dull one, incapable of anything save blending and alchemy. Making him our comrade would have been rather…”

The butler suggested, timidly.

“I see… You’re right.”

Although you don’t seem much different to me.
Inwardly, Quates sneered at the old men surrounding him, but aloud, he agreed with them.

“We can simply find another blender. The problem is the finished product. I assume Barnes is keeping it secure?”

“Yes, we’re told there are about three dozen bottles left.”

“Is he all right on his own?”

“On paper, that place is a wheat storehouse, so there’s no worry of invasion by anyone besides rats. In any case, if we assigned someone who was not a member to act as his bodyguard and that individual found out about the liquor, it would be troublesome…”

Then, do it yourselves. You just don’t want to take responsibility if something goes wrong.
Even as Szilard privately despised them, he agreed with the butler’s assessment. He addressed the woman behind him:

“Ennis. Take the car and go pick up Barnes and the liquor.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ennis, the female chauffeur, bowed respectfully to Szilard and the old men, then began climbing the stairs, key in hand. Szilard barked one more order at her back.

“Also, if Barnes has touched even a drop of it… Don’t hesitate. Just kill him. If he’s failed to preserve the liquor properly and spoiled it, kill him then, too.”

“…Understood.”

Cold sweat ran down the backs of the old men.

They wouldn’t die from injuries or illness. As long as they didn’t age, they could rely on regenerating even if they fell into boiling lava.

However… The exception was that they could be killed with ease.

The two before them were creatures capable of eliminating them.

Conversely, they had no hope of killing those two.

An absolute terror from which there was no escape.

They would be able to conquer their fear of old age with the “finished product” that had just been completed. However, the terror in front of them would remain.

Unless willing to confront the blade of death those two wielded, their only alternative was to pledge loyalty.

Loyalty for as long as they lived. In other words, for eternity.

A terror from which only death could free them.

It was a spiral that was somehow contradictory.

“Look, like I said, you take the oil, and you smear it on a leather glove, like so. Then you light it with a match, and…”

In an East Village alley, pale flames enveloped a gaunt man’s right hand.

“Hey, quit it! You’ll burn your hand off!”

In contrast, his roly-poly companion was scared to death.

“I told you, it’s fine. See, if you press your hand against the wall, like so…”

The gaunt fellow pressed his hand against the wall. Starved of oxygen, the flames vanished instantly.

“See?”

“Whoa… That’s really somethin’.”

These two, “Ghost” Randy and “Meatball” Pezzo, members of the Martillo Family, were scrambling to prepare for the celebratory banquet that would be held that night.

They’d bought too much fuel oil, so they’d opened a can and were entertaining themselves with a dangerous game.

“Huh, there’s still lots left. I guess maybe we shouldn’t’ve gone and opened it.”

“Say, what were we supposed to buy after this?”

“Let’s see… It’d be nice to have some fruit for dessert.”

Where was the nearest greengrocer’s? As Randy considered, Pezzo opened another can of oil.

“Hey, Pezzo, what’re you doing?”

“I wanted to try that hand-burning-thingy you just did. You know. We could maybe use it as a party trick.”

“You mook! Why’d you open a new one?! I just told you, there’s lots left in
this
one!”

“What’s the problem? We’ve got a ton of the stuff.”

The paper bag Pezzo held was packed with a dozen or so cans of oil. They weren’t sure whether it had been a store promotion or what, but there were a dozen can openers in there, too.

“Yeesh. Forget about the oil, what’re we supposed to do with all these can openers? …It’s your fault, Randy. You bought too much.”

“What else could I do? The discount got better the more we bought. This recession’s murder, so we’ve gotta stock up while we can.”

“Yeah, sure, but… If I hadn’t stopped you, all our dough woulda turned into oil.”

As Pezzo said this, laughing, he poured oil onto his glove.

“Randy, light this for me, wouldja? I can’t do it right when I’m holding this bag.”

“No help for that…”

Randy lit a match. Since there might yet have been oil on his glove, he whisked his hands apart quickly as soon as he struck the match.

“Here.”

As he brought the flame closer to his pal’s glove, Randy abruptly realized something.

Hey, his is cloth…

But it was too late. The spark had jumped to Pezzo’s big glove, and it blazed up so furiously one could practically hear the roar.

“Whoa! Ain’t this too much fire?!”

Startled by flames that were larger than he’d expected, Pezzo hastily shoved his hand against the wall.

However, although his palm was extinguished, the areas that weren’t touching the wall still blazed blue, as merrily as ever.

“Hey! It ain’t goin’ ouuuut!”

“Aaaaah! You idiot! You got oil all the way ’round the back of your hand!”

When Pezzo withdrew his hand from the wall, the flames reclaimed the areas that had been briefly extinguished.

Panicking, he waved his hand, but the fire showed no sign of abating. Quite a lot of oil had soaked into the cloth’s fibers, and Pezzo’s right hand looked like the wick of a giant candle. He flung the paper bag aside, and the contents of the opened cans splattered over the white wooden walls.

“Dammit! It’s getting hot!”

“Calm down! Just take the glove off!”

At Randy’s urging, he hastily withdrew the glove, then hurled it away, flailing his hand around like a lunatic.

Aside from some mild blistering on the back, nothing seemed to be seriously wrong with it.

“Ahh… I thought I was a goner…”

“Jiminy Christmas… I really don’t want to eat a whole roasted
you
.”

“You got
that
right.”

“Ha-ha…”

Breathing sighs of relief, the two began picking up the cans they’d scattered everywhere…

…and froze.

The discarded glove had landed right smack on top of the spilled oil…and the flames had migrated not just to the oil but to the wooden building itself. If there was a difference, it was that the color of the flames had changed from blue to red.

Randy quickly scoped out the area, making sure there weren’t any witnesses.

Pezzo picked up the paper bag, which fortunately hadn’t been burned, and snatched up the oil cans.

Having completed this brilliant combo play, the pair silently exchanged looks, and

—giving forceful, simultaneous nods, they cheesed it like the wind from the scene of the crime.

At last, at last, the time has come for my long-cherished wish to be fulfilled.

Life eternal. When I heard tell of it in legends and fables, I snorted at the notion, calling it a hackneyed pipe dream. However, now that I think about it, that ridicule may have been superficial, intended to force myself to understand that my own yearning…could never be reality.

Now, with this “reality” right before my eyes, I can imagine even that ridicule as the material from which my delight in this moment was formed.

A white rat struggles on the desk. This is the reality I sought.

Even this rat is a variety born from Master Szilard’s alchemy. In exchange for extraordinary powers of propagation, this short-lived species has a soul that lasts a mere seven days.

However, the specimen before me has already survived fifteen days, and, conversely, has demonstrated no growth whatsoever since the administration of the “liquor” on the third day. With the failed product, growth occurred, indicating that we were unable to halt the phenomenon of aging. On those grounds, we may consider this liquor to be a truly finished product.

I bring the hammer down. There is an unpleasant noise, and a red substance spatters across the desk.

Silently, I watch the small animal, now transformed into something appalling. No matter how many times I see it, the moment
before the miracle feels long. When one is certain a miracle is imminent, one becomes all the more impatient for it.

In reality, the silence lasts a mere several dozen seconds, but to me, it feels like hours… No, like the
decades
I have spent waiting for this day.

The separate drops of blood that had spattered onto the desk begin to wriggle, as though each has a will of its own. Even the blood that has soaked into the wood fibers crawls up to the surface, like an adder drawn to the light of the sun. What else could one call this but a miracle?

Before long, the march of blood arrives at its destination: the place where I brought the hammer down. The white rat that has been transformed into a grotesque lump of meat.

It feels as though I am watching time roll back on itself. No, on this desk, at least in regard to the phenomenon of the rat’s death, time is indeed flowing backward.

If the flow of time changes, it is a miracle, nothing less than an act possible only for God or a devil. The day has come when I, too, will be added to the system of that miracle.

Yes… The exalted personage who summoned me to this miracle was himself incorporated into it more than two hundred years ago.

Twenty years ago, Master Szilard added me—then a mere Realtor—to the “members.” At the time, I had risen in the world of real estate and grown conceited, but looking back, it was a paltry appellation. That mundane title was no more than a tool to be utilized to obtain this gift.

A congressman of my acquaintance (who was also a member, naturally) introduced me to Master Szilard, and at first, I was incapable of giving him credence. …Until Master Szilard severed his own finger, that is.

When I witnessed its regeneration, the childish desire for eternity rose again within me.

Then one day, at last, I obtained the liquor. It was what Master Szilard termed the failed product, but through it, I acquired an indestructible body. However, the single exception was death from old age. In comparison to the finished product, which conquered even that, I see, yes, it truly was flawed.

Having drunk that failed liquor, I was honored with the role of employing and managing a blender who would create the finished product. I had very little expert knowledge, and I wondered why I had been chosen, but Master Szilard said, “I can’t trust anyone who knows too much about alchemy.” I didn’t understand the reason, but if Master Szilard says it, it cannot possibly be wrong.

In the twenty year interim, I issued orders to the blender and administered the finished product to white rats. The concoction included strong poisons, so there was no fear that the blender would drink it. In fact, white rats that were given liquor other than the finished product died instantly. Either that, or, as with the failed product, they met their deaths through old age.

The heaviest blow came from the Prohibition Act. It struck me as a law created by incompetents, and consequently, considerable obstacles were placed in our path. As the nickname
liquor
suggests, the elixir utilized alcohol as a catalyst, which meant we were rendered unable to own a large factory or procure raw materials in bulk.

However, at this point, even that hardship is a pleasant memory. As I suspected, changing blenders at reasonable intervals does seem to have been the correct course of action. Of course, blenders for whom I had no more use met with fatal accidents.

Thinking that we could continue using him for the coming mass production and that Master Szilard might require him, I made an exception for the most recent blender—the one whose brew had succeeded—and paid him a reward.

However, it may have been that he let the large sum go to his head: I hear he encountered a brigand who robbed him of both his money and his life.

Well, in the end, that was all he was worth.

The miracle is already in our hands. All that remains is to show these results to Master Szilard.

The white rat, which has regained its former shape, begins struggling against the pain of the nails driven through its feet. What a fortunate rodent. To think it has obtained eternity a step ahead of me.

Growing slightly jealous, I bring the hammer down again.

On the heels of the unpleasant noise, I hear a rapping on the ceiling of the cellar… In other words, on the floor of the room above. Ah, that’s a signal from the members. Immediately, I flip the switch. That will have illuminated the lightbulb on the first floor.

There is a short interval, and then I hear the commotion again.

Has Master Szilard come at last? What will the great man say on seeing the three dozen bottles of finished product in this cellar? Then, after that, the time for my liberation from the terror of aging will finally be at hand.

Heart leaping with anticipation, I climb the stairs and open the ceiling.

As my face emerges from the cellar, it is struck by a gust of hot, choking wind.

What is this?

On discovering the source of the rapping, I am aghast.

The shelves on the walls are aflame, and the falling debris has collided with the floor, one piece after another.

One side of the room is colored a fiery red.

Why? Why did this have to happen now? Why a conflagration, now of all times?!

There was nothing here that was flammable!

The liquor… I must haul out the liquor… Hastily, I descend the staircase, go to the crate of finished product and lift… I
can’t
! It’s heavy, and I am completely incapable of lifting the entire thing!

Even with an indestructible body, then, is my strength unchanged?

Only a little longer… Just a little longer and I will evolve into an exceptional being, and yet… Before that evolution, I remain only a stunted creature…a creature unable to lift a mere thirty-six bottles of liquor?!

Ah
Someone
Someone come to me
Anyone
!