Chapter 45 - Not Sure When I’ll Be Back

Chapter 45 - Not Sure When I'll Be Back

The reason I came to see the gunsmith wasn't just to get my gun modified.

A silencer and a scope.

If anyone suspected that those two items were used in the Newtown Creek warehouse murder case, wouldn't the first place they'd look be the black market where such equipment is sold?

Of course, there isn't just one or two guys like the gunsmith in Manhattan.

You can find them in East Harlem, the Lower East Side, Chelsea, Hell's Kitchen, and the Tenderloin, too.

But the gunsmith got hit?

That could only mean information got leaked.

The most suspicious is Tanner...

"Ugh..."

"Damn bastard... he broke my arm."

When I reached the mouth of the alley, I spotted them—one, two... five men crawling on the ground.

With an incredulous laugh, I pulled up my scarf and stepped into the alley.

As I approached, the guys lying there looked up at me and flinched. They quickly turned their heads to avoid my gaze. They were the same punks who hassled me before.

"Out of the way. Unless you want to get stepped on."

Like the parting of the Red Sea, they squirmed and pressed themselves tightly against both walls.

At the far end of the alley, I went down the stairs that sat lower than street level and knocked on the iron door. A short while later.

Clack.

A hand-sized slot opened in the center of the iron door.

A pair of eyes, deeply wrinkled, stared straight at me.

I let out a faint chuckle, and then the gunsmith's dry voice came through.

"You should've come a minute earlier."

"I ran into them on my way here."

"Did they recognize you?"

"Well, who would know, unless you told them?"

"You need to know something to say it. I don't know. I don't know anything."

Clunk.

The door swung open, and the gunsmith slid out, climbed the stairs, and looked down the alley.

"Bunch of blockheads, crawling around like sick chickens."

He clicked his tongue, shoved me inside, and shut the iron door.

"Who was here before me?"

"Rilo Delucci, the Navy Street Gang's gunman. An assassin known as Big Sleep."

"Were they looking for me?"

"Not exactly—you, but the person who bought a silencer and scope. Of course, I said I had no idea."

"Thank you."

"No need for thanks. If I sold out a customer's information, I'd be out of business that very day. Besides, how could I hand over one of our own to those Italians."

The Gunsmith spoke casually, then pointed to a small tea table.

"Have a seat."

As I was about to sit on the hard wooden chair, I noticed a pair of eyes watching me through a crack in the slightly open door. In the dim basement, only the eyes glinted.

The old man must've noticed too, as he glanced at the door with me.

"What's that kid doing? For the record, she's actually the one who wanted to see you."

"Grandpa?!"

With a sharp voice, the door snapped shut.

"So shy. You never know how much time this friend's got left—Hazel, you should ask all the things you're curious about while you can. Don't regret it later."

"..."

It seemed Hazel was thinking the same thing. As if it were her last chance, she opened the door again, and this time stuck her head out.

Just like the first time I saw her, her neck and entire face were wrapped tightly in cloth.

"They say you killed twelve people with sniper shots at the New Town River Warehouse."

"That was thanks to the silencer and scope."

"Still, that's not something just anyone can do, even with those. I heard you only used a single Springfield. Is that true?"

"I forgot to buy two silencers and two scopes."

"I thought so. That's what makes it even more incredible."

Hazel wasn't asking ordinary questions—she was doing things like calculating the exact number of bullets used.

"You fired twelve shots, so that means you had to reload at least twice with a stripper clip. But you didn't miss a single target in between. How did you decide whom to shoot?"

"The guards, the ones who stood up, the ones who tried to scatter in panic, the ones crawling, the ones hiding behind tables?"

"…You're saying you caught all of that in those fleeting moments and hit every target precisely? That's impossible."

"Believe it or not. I'm not interested in convincing you."

I pulled out a piece of paper, folded several times, from my pocket and handed it to the Gunsmith.

The Gunsmith's eyes sparkled as he unfolded the paper I handed him.

"This is a silencer blueprint. But… the chamber is double-layered? And the inside… is spiral-shaped?"

"It staggers the escaping gas in stages, and the spiral guides the gas flow. The noise should be reduced compared to now. At least, in theory…"

Just then, Hazel suddenly burst out of the room and held out a silencer she'd been gripping.

The difference from the previous model was…

"…It's spiral-shaped?"

"I made this myself not long ago. Who are you, really? How did you come up with the same idea as me?"

"Is it wrong for me to do it too?"

Hazel, now lost for words, stared intently at the blueprint.

"Is it okay to just make this and sell it however I want?"

"Are you kidding me? If you get caught selling it on the sly, the deal's over. I plan on making a lot more of these, you know."

Honestly, I don't really care if she sells it on the sly.

The silencer is only a slight improvement in performance; due to material limitations, it's hard to expect any revolutionary advancements.

The silencer and the blueprint were actually a kind of bait.

It was a way to check out the Gunsmith's skills and also a lure to let them know what kind of person I am.

Hazel, who took the bait, reacted immediately.

"Do you have more blueprints like this?"

"Of course. Not just silencers—there are gun designs in my head that would even make John Browning cry."

Hazel let out a short laugh.

Well, who would believe it?

John Browning—the genius gun designer behind the Winchester, M1866, and Colt M1911.

To say I have the firearm mechanisms that completed modern gun technology all in my head.

"All right, then. Custom silencer production is twenty dollars."

"No problem. Make the adapter fit the M1911 and the Springfield 1903."

"It'll take at least a week."

"Just make sure you do a good job."

The old man, who had been silently watching the two of us, was tapping his finger on the table.

He seemed to be deep in thought about something.

"Is there something you want to say?"

"I already know you're not an IRA secret agent. There's no way a group that hasn't even been around for a year would have brought up someone like you."

Then he added,

"And you don't seem to be working for Tanner either. Are you just in it for the money?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Why would it be? It's just, to me, you look like someone who wants more than that. But if you keep going like this, it's going to be tough."

There are limits to what you can do alone. The Gunsmith advised me that there's a reason gangs bulk up their numbers: you need to gather allies.

"If you don't want to end up as just another competent killer, you need to build your own organization. Otherwise…"

Bang, bang, bang!

Someone started banging roughly on the metal door. The old man frowned and signaled with his eyes at Hazel to indicate a room.

She grabbed my arm with her gloved hand and pulled me into the open workshop. Thunk. As soon as the door closed, Hazel pulled an M1911 pistol out of a drawer. She quickly attached a magazine that was lying on the desk.

Clack.

She racked the slide, chambering a round, and handed me the pistol grip, facing me.

When I took it, she opened the cabinet occupying one wall.

With her hand, she gestured warningly for me not to touch anything, then closed the door.

I really shouldn't have come today. Just picked the wrong time.

Light slipped into the cabinet I'd thought would be pitch black. Maybe because it was old, there were tiny holes here and there. Through those gaps, I watched Hazel closely.

She fidgeted with a sawn-off shotgun and a pistol hidden beneath the workbench, tapping at them with her fingers.

She probably did the same thing the first time I came here.

While I was observing Hazel, the steel door opened.

"Berardo Costa. What brings you here?"

"I just wanted to see the old man—haven't visited in nearly three years."

Clang.

The steel door shut, and the man named Berardo entered. Judging by the footsteps, someone else was with him.

He and the Gunsmith tossed a few trivial jokes back and forth, then started talking weapons.

"You've got a suppressor and a scope, right?"

"...Which one do you want?"

"One that fits a rifle chambered in .30-06. Springfield M1903 or Enfield M1917?"

"I only have one for the Springfield."

"Let me see it."

Clunk.

The door opened and the Gunsmith came in with two men. Hazel kept her head down, pretending to work, tapping something with a hammer.

Through the holes, I could see that the two men were Italian, their speech rhythmic with their accent.

"Lots of customers looking for suppressors these days, huh?"

"There was one about thirty minutes ago."

"Who?"

"Rilo Delucci."

The two men looked at each other and exchanged exasperated expressions.

"First they're shooting up the place, and now this. Damn garbage Neapolitan bastards."

Judging from their conversation, they're Sicilians. Just as Gavin said, both sides were tracking me.

The men, riled up, began cursing Naples, then suddenly turned to the Gunsmith.

"You've heard the rumors too, right? About that Newtown Creek rat."

"I've heard."

"They say he bought weapons here. Suppressor and scope—you're the only one who stocks both."

Berardo fixed the Gunsmith with an accusatory glare.

As the mood shifted, the woman stopped hammering and lowered both hands under the work table.

Her left hand gripped a shotgun mounted to the back of the table, while her right held a pistol, its barrel aimed at the men. Berardo, noticing this, glared right back at her.

"Hey, try anything funny and you'll regret it."

"If you so much as twitch a finger, you'll both be dead—so what exactly am I supposed to regret?"

Wow.

"Crazy bitch."

"Old man, what were you thinking bringing in a mess like her? She starts messing with guns and she snaps? No fear, that one."

With a small sigh, the Gunsmith discreetly spread open his coat. The muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun was aimed right at them.

"There are more than three places in Hell's Kitchen alone that deal in suppressors and scopes. If you searched all of Manhattan, you'd find even more. Don't make lazy guesses—just get out of here."

"And what do you think we'll do if that's your attitude?"

"Who are you trying to threaten? Have you forgotten I'm Irish?"

In other words, the Gunsmith was telling them to make an enemy of every Irish gang in the city if they dared.

Whether any of those gangs would actually step in for the Gunsmith was questionable, but the warning seemed to land with the Sicilian guys.

"If we find even the slightest trace that rat's been here, old man, you'd better run for your life. And that goes for her, too."

Berardo ground his teeth, shot Hazel a glare, then turned his back on them. He didn't even bother to look at the suppressors or scopes.

Clunk.

The men disappeared, and the heavy metal door slammed shut behind them.

As he opened the cabinet with the intent to leave, Hazel stretched loudly, as if to relieve her tension. Without looking at me, she said,

"I don't think you should come around here for a while?"

"Yeah, that was the plan. And this gun…"

"The gun!"

You startled me.

Hazel suddenly sprang to her feet, spun around, and stared at the gun in my hand.

"If you leave now, you might bump into them. Want to shoot downstairs before you go? I picked this one up a few days ago—how about trying something new?"

Hazel tempted me, holding out the pistol.

This was the first military semi-automatic pistol introduced by the Italian manufacturer Beretta.

"A Blowback Beretta M1915?"

"Amazing. What, are you some kind of gun encyclopedia? This is a rare find in America—how did you recognize it?"

It was a gun made during World War I, when demand for pistols soared.

It uses the blowback system, with the barrel and slide moving together, making the mechanism simple. It also fires small-caliber rounds.

That's why there was no real reason to use a Beretta in the US when the more complex—and more advanced—short recoil system Colt M1911 was available.

"I'm more amazed you even managed to get your hands on this."

"Anyway, come on, let's go shoot."

Hazel, excited, tried to lead me to the shooting range, but the Gunsmith intervened.

"Why don't you hold off today and try shooting it next time? Given the atmosphere, who knows when you'll be able to come again."

Hazel, looking dejected, slumped her shoulders and turned away. She left me with a brief farewell and went into the workshop.

Once the door closed, the Gunsmith let out a sigh.

"Whew, saved some bullets there. The whole place nearly came down."

"…?"

"She's got a real wasteful streak, you know."

Apparently, if you go down to the shooting range, she'll fire off bullets like crazy.

After opening the iron door and checking outside, the Gunsmith gestured for me to go.

"You should get going."

"I really owe you one today."

"Owe me? Don't mention it. Anyway, those Italians aren't going to give up that easily. I hope we get to meet again."

Clang.

The guys crawling around the alley were nowhere in sight. I lowered my scarf and slipped out of the alley.

The ones who came looking for the Gunsmith couldn't single me out, so they just tore the place apart.

What a damn bother this is. If I want this to stop, I'll have to find a way to distract the Italians.

The best method would be to cover it up with another incident.

But what could that be.

By the time I arrived at the Tenement House on the streetcar, it was already late afternoon.

At the entrance, Leo and Marcus were having a serious conversation. Even when I approached, they didn't notice me.

"What are you two doing here instead of working? Did a gang come after us or something?"

"Yeah."

"…Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Tsk. I rubbed my face with my palm out of frustration. This would be impossible unless someone tipped them off. The most suspicious is Tanner…

"They're demanding protection money."

"Huh?"

"Those bastards—they're collecting protection money from every business on Hester Street."

Thank goodness, they're not the ones who were chasing after me. Still, it's not exactly something to be happy about.

Maybe word got out about the department store contract, because now a gang is targeting our company and demanding protection money. Ten dollars a week, no less.

"Which gang is it?"