Ch.157Act 2: Ch.10 – Long Live the King (9)

“Hey, what the hell are you cursing about? Fuck? Is this how you talk after I’ve shown you proper hospitality? You’ve got some nerve!”

But Crayfield was staring at me blankly, not paying attention to Aurora.

“What’s wrong? What’s the problem?”

“This… son of a bitch… really has no boundaries…”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Assistant. Think about it. What did he say at Arkham Reservoir? ‘I’ll make all the preparations I can in advance so I won’t be humiliated if I lose.’ Not his exact words, but something along those lines. That’s why he made Emma that way.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you think Emma was the only one that drugstore bastard ‘pre-adjusted’ or ‘customized’?”

The pain in my solar plexus intensified. I was certain now. It was a wooden splinter, no, a sharp branch. It was squirming inside me.

Emma wasn’t the only one the drugstore had ‘adjusted’ in advance.

The fog covering Pollard.

The Great Depression.

He even made us drink the water from the western reservoir of Arkham, mixed with who knows what.

And now he wants Aurora as a sacrifice.

Because she’s the owner of this theater, can control the stage, and could tell us to get out immediately even at great financial loss—she’s someone who could ruin his delicate design.

“He plans to remove anything that gets in his way.”

I hadn’t thought before speaking. I realized it as the words left my mouth.

Knock, knock. Aurora silenced me and Crayfield with a look.

“Come in!”

A muscular man with white gloves and a closely shaved head bowed respectfully.

“Miss. The distinguished guests have arrived. The journalists are here, and the performance team has arrived. The conference room is ready.”

“Alright. I’ll be out.”

“And the clergy from the Southern Cathedral and other guests have arrived as well.”

“Get everything ready and keep it under control. You understand me? Check the candy and toys for the kids and make sure all the spares are out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The muscular man quietly left. As soon as the door closed, Crayfield questioned her.

“What’s this about kids and the Southern Cathedral?”

“A surprise show.”

Aurora glared at Crayfield.

“Arthur Black, the mayor, and the performance troupe made a request. They wanted to hold a charity performance and circus for the slum children, and they’d like the Southern Cathedral people to attend too. It seemed harmless, so I agreed.”

Abashina. Father Michael. And the other nuns. The caretakers of the slums. They’re all gathering at the theater.

If it were just them, it wouldn’t matter. The problem is the children. Innocent children who know nothing. Vulnerable beings who could be used as leverage against the Southern Cathedral people if necessary.

Despite planning all this, setting up the board, and arranging everything for his perfect performance, the Doomsday Clock still reads 1. The destruction meter on the outskirts also points to 1.

He has complete control of the situation. Through underhanded methods.

He intends to finish his performance even if it means manipulating everything in Pollard.

“Alright, Aurora. Neither my assistant nor I know exactly what’s going to happen. But we do know where it’s happening, where the eye of the storm is. Right here. The Trieste Theater.”

“Looks like I might lose everything just one day after reopening.”

Aurora gritted her teeth. But she acted quickly. She stood up abruptly, approached her desk, and felt underneath it. The distinctive buzzing sound of an electric switch was heard, and a housekeeper quietly opened the door and entered.

“Anise. Give these two men spare bodyguard suits and white gloves. And you two, if you take off even one glove, you’ll die by my hand. No leaning on one leg. No chatting. Smoking only in designated areas, and no drinking. Maintain proper posture and don’t fidget.”

“Now we’re talking.”

Crayfield smiled, showing his teeth.

* * * * *

PM 3:00

Trieste Theater Lobby

In the center of the theater lobby was a stage large enough to accommodate a big band. It was about one and a half steps high, easily accessible to anyone but distinctly separate from the regular floor.

Aurora had prepared everything meticulously and delicately. She marked pathways with long crimson carpets and placed signs and subordinates throughout to guide people. The theater staff wore black suits, while others dressed like hotel bellboys in red vests moved about.

Not only journalists but even the distinguished guests preparing for their turns looked curiously at the staff in red vests. They saw them freely opening large doors at the back of the corridor, glimpsing the casino prepared beyond.

‘So Pollard Island has a casino too. They say the Savio family put a lot of effort into it. Quite impressive for country nouveau riche, isn’t it?’

The journalists whispered among themselves. They exchanged snickers but didn’t dare speak loudly. Among the men in black suits were bodyguards wearing white cotton gloves—members of the White Hand mafia organization.

The suit is a kind of uniform. The combination of black suits and white gloves was so striking that the faces themselves didn’t stand out much. After all, these men were merely extras, not the protagonists of today’s stage.

So no one paid attention to Crayfield with his non-prescription horn-rimmed glasses or me with my fake mustache.

Aurora’s somewhat unexpected instruction to hire us as daily bodyguards was a kind of consideration. After all, theater bodyguards wouldn’t look out of place standing anywhere inside or outside the theater and could go anywhere. It could also help hide our presence from the drugstore.

Aurora was giving us her full support. Now the ball was back in our court. Our time was limited, and the drugstore had already set everything up. As his triggers began to move one by one, the scope for me and Crayfield would narrow further.

‘We need to create variables, Assistant. And for that, we need to gather information.’

So we took suitable positions in the press conference room. Other White Hand members looked at Crayfield and me with displeasure, but true to their well-disciplined organization, they didn’t act rashly.

Amid the murmuring crowd, the big band entered with their instruments. After tuning up, they began playing quite impressive swing music—the kind that would make anyone tap their feet.

As the song was ending, the “MC” finally appeared. The journalists, the upper class of Pollard gathered at the back, the “sponsors” of the performance, and the invitees all applauded.

The MC was a very greasy-looking man with his hair slicked back and the sides pulled up tight. From a distance, he looked like he might be wearing a Swiss roll on his head.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! I am Hildred Castaigne, the host of this press conference. I’m also a major shareholder in the W. Chambers Theater Company. Of course, among our members, I’m known as ‘the money bag’!”

He cut off his words so abruptly that people didn’t react in time. Only belatedly did they realize it was meant to be funny, and they offered scattered applause.

Crayfield pretended to check his watch while discreetly pulling out his compass—the one that points toward players when they appear. Seeing him put it back, it seemed the MC wasn’t a player, meaning he wasn’t the drugstore.

“Yes. So, our theater company boasts a history of over a hundred years! We’ve performed in London and New London, Berlin and Neu-Berlin, Vienna, Saint Petersburg… no, it’s Leningrad now! Anyway, we’ve completed performances in countless cities! And now we’ve arrived at this great island, Pollard! Pollard, Pol-lard! A strange name, isn’t it, strange!”

Only the journalists diligently wrote down his words.

“The word ‘Pollard’ means ‘to cut off’! It refers to cutting off the horns of bulls, sheep, and goats. But conversely, in gardening, it means pruning branches so that trees grow well!

What kind of island was this? Once, it was the lifeblood that fed all of America! What did Herman Melville, the great writer of our time who received recognition only after death, say in his cursed masterpiece ‘Mocha Dick’?

‘Whether America piles Ethiopia on top of Falkland or not, whether the British Empire rushes to China and hangs their flag in burning Beijing, two-thirds of this earth made of land and water belongs to the people of Pollard! For they rule the sea as an emperor rules his land!’

That’s what this island was. The people of this island are descendants of such people. Descendants of old heroes who fed and raised our fathers and mothers through wind and rain! But what about Pollard now? Whose fault is it that Pollard doesn’t hold its former status? Changes in industry? The whales dying out?

No, no, no! This is inevitable. The Lord in heaven, the stern judge, has ‘pruned’ this island! So that it may sprout larger, more proudly, more gloriously!”

“Amen!” / “Hallelujah!”

Clear mockery could be heard from the protesters outside. Even those wearing KKK hoods were clapping their hands. Bewilderment and awkward smiles crossed the journalists’ faces, but the MC, caught up in his own excitement, didn’t seem to notice.

“But the time of pruning is now over. When fertilizer is spread and sunlight shines down, Pollard will finally become a great tree. Once again, it will be the pillar supporting this country called America!

Of course! Our theater company doesn’t dare call itself light. We are merely fertilizer. Fertilizer! In all our upcoming performances, we will speak about Pollard. As we tour the world, we will proudly consider ourselves honorary citizens of Pollard! This great honor was bestowed upon us by our merciful Mayor Arthur Black! Mayor, please come out!”

The VIP room door opened. The band, which had somehow slipped into position, played a tune fit for a general’s victory parade. Soon, Mayor Arthur Black, whom I had only seen in newspapers, entered through the door. He was a very handsome man, barely in his early forties.

But his eyes gleamed with the lechery of an old man.

* * * * *

<Voice Clip Playing>

Josh Graham (Nar.)

Have you ever seen Isaiah Black? The father of Elizabeth and Mayor Arthur Black.

Crayfield (Nar.)

No.

Josh Graham (Nar.)

I saw him a couple of times when I was a constable. He looked just like a pastor. If you asked, “Hello, how are you?” he seemed like he’d answer, “Fine, I just burned three witches at the stake.”

Outwardly, he was the owner of numerous whaling fleets and the head of a prestigious Pollard family, but inside, he was a man armed with strange fanaticism. Even his strictness seemed part of his madness. Yet the scandals never stopped.

<Voice Clip Ends>

* * * * *

“Honorary citizen, huh? That’s rich. I wonder if he’ll actually pay his taxes properly.”

At the even clearer sound of mockery, I came to my senses. Fortunately, no one was looking at me, so there didn’t seem to be any problem.

But why did those words I heard while investigating the Elizabeth Lehman case come back to me now? It was inexplicable.

I need to focus. The VIPs are coming in. On the long table, there are nameplates. The first is Mayor Arthur Black. The second is Senator Annette Cole.

Annette Cole didn’t look particularly dangerous. He had artist-like long white hair, was in his mid to late fifties, somewhat short but with a nimble body, weasel-like eyes, and a distinctive protruding hooked nose.

Overall, he resembled a hungry eagle. Even his dark navy suit made him look like a walking eagle.

Soon after, the theater company members filed in. The director, stage designer, lead actors. Women, men. Old and young. Diverse in skin color and each with their own charm.

The MC introduced them one by one. Their names, roles, and backgrounds…

“And finally, the always problematic role. The male protagonist! Ah, this role has always been full of incidents and accidents. But let’s put it another way, shall we? The person who takes this role always rises to the ranks of superstar! The fact that there have been many incidents means, conversely, that there has been a lot of activity.

Let me introduce you. The supernova of Broadway, a young man who built his career step by step starting from the back alleys, a man who delivers divinely inspired performances based on his own acting philosophy! Carlo Broski! Of course, that’s a stage name, and he’s a pure American!”

He was a white man who looked just over twenty. His dark, curly hair and thick beard were striking. His blue eyes seemed kind, but his thin, long lips revealed an uncompromising arrogance.

Crayfield quickly clenched his fist three times and then released it.

That’s him.