Ch.25Request Log #004 – Justice of a Bygone Era (7)

While still holding the knife edge to his neck, I rise and turn up the volume on the radio drama.

Whether or not the radio detective knows he’s dealing with a real detective confronting a washed-up third-rate journalist in this underbelly, he continues showcasing his brilliant deductions.

“…Therefore, the culprit is you! All the evidence…”

Walter Moss couldn’t easily recall which article I was referring to. If the Clichy president knew about it, he’d pay extra to have him fed to the fish in the waters off Long Island.

He was a man who despised the very smallness of elves. Small things can be ignored. Things that can be ignored can be casually forgotten. That’s why he hated them.

I wait for the radio drama dialogue to continue. There would be some rather unpleasant sounds for a moment, but I couldn’t disturb the neighbors.

“How did you figure it out, Eric Blingkerton! I guess they don’t call you a great detective for nothing…”

The stupid dialogue drags on. Not bad. Anyway, I shouldn’t forget my client like this. I press my knee onto his chest, gradually making it harder for him to breathe.

A rope would be better for killing, but this method is better for leaving a lesson. People don’t die even if they can’t breathe for about three minutes. Since he’s still breathing somewhat awkwardly, it’ll take even longer.

Instead of saying anything, I quietly wait while pressing down on his body with my knee. Though his neck isn’t being strangled, I watch as he instinctively grabs his throat and chokes as if suffocating, then I remove my knee.

I removed my foot so he could speak, but he was only focused on breathing. I stomp on his chest once.

“Answer.”

The third-rate journalist, trembling from head to toe, nods. His expression was pleading for me to stop because he remembered, but the direction of his gaze was strange.

He was glancing under his desk. I reach under the desk and feel around. Right, a person who listens to this cheap detective drama wouldn’t have nothing hidden here.

I check the gun tucked into a holster attached under the desk. The gun was almost new, but the safety was on and it wasn’t even loaded. Even if he had drawn it in time, I would have been faster.

“Quite prepared, aren’t you? Answer.”

After confirming there are no bullets in the chamber, I remove the magazine, throw it away, and toss the gun onto his face.

As the gun flies toward his face, the journalist briefly closes his eyes, then starts shedding thick tears as if even opening his eyes is frightening.

His lips tremble as they open. He seemed to remember properly.

“Today, today you came because of the article in the evening paper, r-right? I mean, even if the tone was a bit harsh… *cough*… the content…”

Should I really leave no marks? Apology letters usually turn out decent even when there’s no real remorse, but my assignment wasn’t just to get a letter.

He probably wouldn’t report a man whose face and name he doesn’t know. And even if he did, what difference would it make? I had connections with the police anyway, so it didn’t matter. I never revealed my client’s name.

I wait again for dialogue from the radio drama. It seemed the detective in the radio was also finishing up his business. I’m almost envious.

“…At that moment, the detective’s kick sliced through the air. The evil and diminutive goblin-blooded criminals screamed and fell…”

It was ridiculous. Even if the mother is a goblin and the father is human, the child is born with a human’s build. These days scriptwriters don’t even do their research.

Anyway, matching the artificially recorded goblin screams, I grab the third-rate journalist by the hair and drag him toward the desk. He’s dragged along while waving his hands.

“Wait, wait, wait just a minute…!”

I smash his face into the desk drawer. His nose wasn’t particularly attractive to begin with, but now it was a mess. I check his mouth to see if he bit his tongue in shock. It was fine.

The radio drama still featured someone claiming to be a great detective kicking away, while this ill-tempered third-rate journalist grabbed my wrist that was holding his hair.

“I’ll, I’ll reflect on my actions! If you want me to write an apology letter to that reporter, *gasp*, I’ll do it, I will…”

I didn’t need someone who puts sincerity in an apology letter or reflection in a written apology. Writing is a skill, not a matter of the heart. I smash his face once more, matching the screams from the radio drama.

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll write the letter anyway, and you need to learn separately what happens when you write that kind of article. Sometimes things have an order, friend.”

I check his face, now bleeding profusely from the nose. This should be enough. Just having someone break into what should be the safest place—his home—and do this to him should be lesson enough.

I pull his bloated body back and sit him in his writing chair. His shirt was soaked with cold sweat, and his entire face had long been wet with tears and blood. I throw him a towel hanging nearby.

“Consider yourself lucky, friend. If you had upset my client a bit more, I would have come without wearing this.”

I point to the mask covering my face. Covering one’s face is preparation for being reported. Showing one’s face means not worrying about being reported, and there’s only one reason not to worry.

It’s fortunate he didn’t have to kiss a .45 caliber bullet, given there was a gun in the room, and that a colleague who came to his home after he didn’t show up for work wouldn’t find him dead from an “accidental fall.” He nods in understanding.

“Got it? Then bring some clean stationery and a pen. Apology letters should be handwritten. Typing them feels too stiff. Shows lack of sincerity too.”

I scan the room for other guns. Such people rarely hide more than two guns, but if I didn’t want to end up with a bullet in my head after all this talking, I needed to be careful.

He retrieves a stationery envelope from among the paper envelopes messily piled on his desk. It’s ivory-colored paper, elegant but not too formal. He listens well.

He apparently didn’t even know the name of the journalist who wrote the article he had criticized. Only after sorting through several letters of complaint from the pile of letters stabbed to the desk with a cheap knife does he begin with “To Ms. Leafman.”

His handwriting trembled due to his shaking hands. I grab his hair from behind. There was no need to smash his face into the desk again. It would be troublesome if the nice stationery became unusable.

“You should write neatly. You’re a journalist. If your hand trembles like that, it looks like someone forced you to write it. Right?”

Only then did he grit his teeth and write the letter without his hands shaking. With effort, anyone could improve. A hymn to humanity.

He seemed to want to finish with one page, but watching my reaction, he continues writing two, then three pages. His writing skills weren’t bad—he wasn’t a journalist for nothing.

He seemed to show some genuine remorse, writing about how his article might negatively affect others… he even wrote about things I didn’t particularly care about.

Whoever this reporter favored by the Clichy president is, they’ll be pleased to receive this. After slowly reading through the three pages, I hand them back to the third-rate journalist.

“Not bad. Don’t tear up the letter after I leave, friend. I’m going to report to my client today, and if things aren’t handled as reported, it becomes troublesome for both of us. Right?”

The third-rate journalist nodded desperately. I turn off the radio, remove seven .45 caliber bullets from the magazine I took from the gun, then toss the magazine back to him.

Now I just need to report back. This was a job that took several days for once. As someone who always gets paid by the day rather than a fixed fee, I preferred jobs that were thin and long like this.

Returning to my car and starting the engine, I look up at the second floor of the house. He seemed too afraid to even look out the window, so I start the engine with peace of mind and leave the residential area.

I remove the mask only after completely leaving the residential area. First, I’ll go home to report, then head to a bar. I stayed completely dry while working, so I could let loose now that the job was done.

I check the mailbox of my office-cum-home that I’m properly entering after several days. There were no request letters. I open the door to room 708. Sitting at the office desk, I make a phone call.

Once again, the connection tone changes several times. Calling from New York to that downtown area where the Clichy president was located required a lot of patience.

After the connection tone continued for quite some time, the Clichy president finally answers. He knew this was an embarrassing matter, so the area around this phone was always quiet.

“Husband here. The job is done, and I told him to send the letter himself tomorrow. It took 4 days to handle, and expenses weren’t much besides food and gas. Add the cost of this long-distance call I’m making… you can send 90 dollars. Will you send it from the Clichy Corporation in New York again?”

The Clichy president didn’t doubt my work. I didn’t deceive him either, as it was easier for me to do the job than to lie to him. That was the extent of our relationship.

“I’ll do that. I trust you, you know. Since he was the kind of person who wrote such articles, you can think of it as a contribution to society. Anything else?”

“You’re not going to pay extra for my social contribution. No, nothing else. I’ll hang up now.”

That’s the end of the job. I didn’t want my time choosing which bar to go to tonight to be interrupted by work. I leisurely take out my wallet and spread out the bar invitation cards inside.

Two Face was quite nice, but today I wanted to go somewhere even more comfortable than Two Face. Two Face was comfortable, but… there was still some uneasiness with the bartender.

I’ve been to Arachne too often lately. They say a normal person would have been sick from spider venom by now, so I should wait a few more days before visiting again. The Arachnes were quite friendly.

Then Valhalla would be good. It was a bar run by Valkyries who were sent to America almost like exiles to pay reparations after disagreeing with the German God-President. It wasn’t bad at all.

The Valkyries who said they preferred the people here to their compatriots back home who just complained about being stabbed in the back were quite friendly, and the madam was quite charming. The mead was excellent too.

Yes, let’s go to Valhalla today. I wanted to see Madam Brünhild again after a while. After checking that there was no blood smell on my clothes, I leave my skinning knife and gloves behind, take only my gun, and leave the apartment.

I didn’t want to get drunk and cause an accident that Yehoel couldn’t cover up while driving, so I hail a taxi in front of the apartment. This driver was a young elf.

“Where to, sir?”

Just an ordinary driver. Sometimes there were taxi drivers who asked about your purpose rather than your destination.

“To Valhalla. You know where it is, right?”

“Of course, how could I not?”

He glances at me briefly through the rearview mirror, then shows me Valhalla’s invitation card from his wallet with a comfortable expression. Valhalla wasn’t exactly cheap.

“You seem like someone Madam Brünhild would like. I think you’ll be quite welcome.”

The car starts moving. Valhalla was in quite a bustling area, so it would take some time. I decide to pass the time by talking with the taxi driver.

“The madam likes anyone who looks a bit tough. But, it’s a bit rude to say… you don’t seem like her type.”

Elves were generally diminutive. Madam Brünhild liked strong men, and if necessary, she wouldn’t hesitate to replace a strong man with an even stronger one. She was pretty enough to do that.

The taxi driver gives an awkward smile. He seemed to know this fact too well to be offended.

“I fought unnecessarily to prove I was worth letting in. My jaw still feels stiff from being hit by the bouncer. Oh, do you know the Valkyrie called Hrist there?”

Hrist, Hrist… I usually talked with the madam, so I wasn’t sure if I’d seen her. Ah, yes. I think I remember a bit.

“Ah, right. The woman who makes cocktails with the madam at the bar, right?”

“That’s right. I mainly stay near that Valkyrie’s house while driving my taxi… After giving her rides often… well, that’s how it happened. Ah, haha. Did I skip too much?”

At least Valhalla wasn’t a place that sold people. Fortunately, this elf’s youth wouldn’t be tainted. I don’t hold back my laughter.

“It’s more natural than hearing such a detailed story from a taxi driver I just met. So, was it lucky that I happened to catch your taxi?”

“That’s right. If I got a customer going there, I was planning to end today’s driving right here and go to Valhalla myself. Ah, the way that sounds…”

After another chuckle, we head to Valhalla in silence. It was my first time having the same destination as a taxi driver. Soon we arrive at the Valhalla bar building located in the upper part of Manhattan Island.

After giving him a generous tip, I get out first. It would be strange to accompany him just because we happen to have the same destination.

Valhalla’s doorkeeper was exceptionally large. He was a human about 7 feet tall like orcs, but perhaps because Germans make one think of dwarves first, he seemed even taller.

I take out Valhalla’s invitation card from my wallet and show it. After checking the invitation card with the symbol of the charm they use, the doorkeeper opens the door. He was a taciturn man.

Valhalla is a bar shaped like a temple with high ceilings. They said they tried to make it resemble the original in Germany, but what do I know about architecture?

Gold-plated shields decorated the high parts of the walls, and pillars carved with window-like patterns supported the ceiling. The golden tree painting right in front of the entrance also added quite a bit to the atmosphere. The smell of pork served as appetizers and the alcohol smell of mead were thick in the air.

Ignoring other seats, I head straight to the bar where Madam Brünhild could be seen. The madam, wearing fishnet stockings with chain-like patterns, a short dress, and incongruously long red hair while holding a long cigarette holder, opens her tightly closed lips.

Her voice was pretty but gave me goosebumps. It was a voice that inexplicably reminded me of the Argonne Forest and the Great War.

“It’s been a while, Michael, son of William. Mead again today?”

That form of address never changes. When she suddenly asked my father’s name and I answered, she’s been calling me that ever since. According to other Valkyries, it’s a sign of respect, but it’s still foreign and strange.

“Yes, Madam Brünhild. A bottle of mead and that… whatever you call that pork dish. A generous portion, since I came straight from work without dinner.”

She nods her head and rings a rooster-shaped bell a couple of times to call a young Valkyrie from the kitchen, then relays my order. Only then does she approach me and meet my eyes with her characteristically haughty expression.

“A warrior shouldn’t go hungry. You can eat and drink until sunrise, this is Valhalla after all.”

I don’t remember much of what happened after that… but at least I was home when the sun rose. Sprawled on my bed. No matter how drunk I got, I wouldn’t have disclosed anything about the assignment.