Ch.269Request Log #022 – Small, Simple, Trivial Tasks (3)

# A Few Weeks Before Christmas

There’s always plenty of work a few weeks before Christmas. People—especially those with problems requiring a detective—offered their highest fees in early December.

Those searching for missing family members would offer triple or quadruple the money if they were found within three weeks, and those with seeds of strikes to crush or competitors to deal with wanted their business finished before Christmas.

Perhaps it was because I wasn’t devout, but I never quite understood how that cold-blooded divinity, said to have existed since the beginning of time, could be born on that day. It was a meaningless day anyway, except when Sarah called.

Christmas at the Dunham house was quite lavish. Back when there was no need to separate the cafe and bar, they would set up a tree in the middle of Two Face, and people could enjoy a hearty dinner and take food home.

It remained the same even after Sarah’s parents left. It had become more of a Two Face tradition than a family one, but the place was still quite busy on that day.

She was someone who could win the goodwill of many people and was willing to share what she had earned. Still, last year was the first time I’d gone since the Great War.

The turkey I had forcibly chewed through as a child to fill my stomach wasn’t as tasty as I remembered. I suppose I’d become comfortable enough to enjoy only the fatty meat near the skin.

As I was lost in these bland recollections, someone knocked on the door. I checked the time briefly. It was 6:30 in the morning.

Too early for a client to leave home and seek out a detective. The height of the hand suggested either a human or a predominantly human hybrid.

I rose leisurely from my desk and headed for the door. I could hear the sound of shoe tips tapping impatiently on the floor. It was urgent. Not that the business they wanted me to handle was urgent, but getting inside was.

So who could it be? Most of my clients didn’t consider hiring a detective something to be ashamed of.

Now that even Gremory was no longer embarrassed, I could say no one was. I opened the door. A rather neat man in a suit stood before me.

He was dressed ordinarily. His hair was combed along his hairline and neatly fixed with wax. He wasn’t wearing glasses, but the way he kept blinking as if his focus was off suggested he normally did.

His suit was a plain light brown, and the deliberately rough texture was visible. It was the kind of clothing labor activists from the Industrial Research Association often wore. They were pencil-pushers who couldn’t afford to look like pencil-pushers.

Since he wasn’t holding a book, he probably wasn’t from the Industrial Research Association. Or he was trying not to appear so. Since he wasn’t a client yet, I was happy to analyze him. I opened the door and let him in.

The air inside was acrid with cigarette smoke as usual, and the cold, damp December wind was seeping in through the window I’d left open for ventilation. The client shivered once.

“Is this the Husband Detective Agency? Ugh, it’s freezing… The cigarette smoke is fine, but please close the window. I’d appreciate it.”

Normally, clients don’t say “I’d appreciate it” except when entrusting work to a detective. He was someone with ingrained manners. Likely from the Industrial Research Association.

The Industrial Research Association won over workers with respect. They didn’t help them; they stood beside them. Even when supporting strikes, they didn’t raise their heads in judgment but stayed and documented.

But now, he hadn’t brought anything identifying himself as part of the Industrial Research Association. It was strange for someone from there to seek out a detective who specialized in breaking up unions. I smiled and directed him to a chair.

“You obviously knew this was the place from how it’s set up as an office. Yes, it is. Please, sit down. Should I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“I’d appreciate that. I’m not in such a hurry that I can’t enjoy a cup of coffee.”

Despite fidgeting outside the door, he became relaxed once inside. He didn’t want others to see him visiting a detective. Almost certainly from the Industrial Research Association.

I pushed aside the curtain, put water in the kettle, and returned. After looking around the office once, he began speaking in that good-natured voice again.

“It seems quite well-equipped for something you say is just ‘set up.’ Ah, let’s talk about the job after having some coffee first. Is that alright?”

I walked leisurely to the office chair and sat down. I pulled open the drawer and, as if taking out a notebook, grabbed the handle of the revolver that had once belonged to the late Blingkerton detective, holding it comfortably under the desk as I asked:

“That’s fine with me. And beyond that curtain is just the kitchen and bedroom, so it’s neither more nor less than what it appears. Didn’t you also come disguised as someone not from the Industrial Research Association? So we’re both pretending. What business does the Association have? At this hour, stomping your feet outside as if you don’t want to be seen…”

I pointed the barrel of the revolver at him as he stood up from his seat. I waved the barrel up and down twice, indicating he should sit back down. He sat again. I continued:

“A union-busting detective can’t help but be nervous. Given what we do in the early morning that shouldn’t be seen by others, I have to assume you’re here for an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

He already had his hands up, showing his palms. The fact that he hadn’t immediately drawn and fired, leaving me with a hole in my head, meant he wasn’t carrying a gun. Even if he had one, he couldn’t draw and fire now.

Besides, with two hours still remaining until sunrise, it would have been better to pick the lock and enter rather than gambling on whether the detective would be awake at this hour.

Yet this man had disguised himself as a client and come all the way here. There must be some reason, but the relationship between a person’s honesty and a .44 caliber bullet was like that between fish and lemon.

The client from the Industrial Research Association, still with his hands raised, spoke. Perhaps remembering that this was an apartment packed with people like a chicken coop, there was some boldness in his voice. A revolver couldn’t be fitted with a silencer.

“I, I really came to request a job! It’s just that, if rumors spread that people from the Industrial Research Association were hiring detectives, it would damage the Association’s image, so I came in disguise! It’s, it’s about breaking up a union…”

“So now you’re not just creating and supporting unions, but also hiring detectives that you so despise, the kind capitalists use, to destroy them? The Idealists are starting to seem a little less arrogant.”

I mocked him leisurely. This was just routine work anyway. Even when it came to breaking up unions, most cases could be resolved through dialogue. Not that such dialogues were often pleasant or positive.

It was common for foreman John to have a bad relationship with production line manager James. Even if they became union leader and union member, that relationship wouldn’t change.

If John became a hardliner, I’d visit James and persuade him to become a moderate so his colleagues wouldn’t be beaten to a pulp by hired thugs. People who believed themselves to be saviors were quite amusing.

If John became a moderate, I’d whisper a few words to James: “Did you know that bastard John is actually a company stooge? He’s trying to create a puppet union.” That was all it took.

What mattered was personal feelings, not clear evidence. They hated the word “evidence” to begin with. When asked to provide evidence, they’d respond with, “What? Do we look like cops to you?”

Unless the workplace had exceptionally close relationships, it wasn’t difficult to split them into two or three factions. Then I’d just need to get one faction to compromise with the company.

Those who had been mediating would naturally side with the company, leaving only the hardliners. If the union leader was worn down, I’d bring in hired muscle for suppression.

If he was inexperienced, I’d get the family’s address from the company president, visit them, and relay that the company had hired twice the usual number of thugs, so they should go stop him immediately. Families were usually easily frightened.

Then about 80% of cases would naturally subside. The faction leaders who compromised with the company would lose trust, and if the hardliners were suppressed, they’d be fired and end up on the streets, or if they gave up in the end, they’d also lose trust.

For the remaining 20%, I didn’t take the job. These were cases like genuine uprisings against intolerable company actions, or situations that had garnered public attention.

This Industrial Research Association guy must have come to me assuming I knew at least this much. By the time I’d organized my thoughts, he was covering his face, red with shame, and spoke:

“That’s, that’s not it. Things have become quite complicated. Originally, we were helping to form a union. And we succeeded. But… the mob tried to get involved. They approached us saying it would be better to make good friends early than to be beaten to a pulp by hired thugs and end up on the streets.”

So this was about the Italian mob? I placed the gun on the desk, but kept the handle pointed toward me.

“So, you want to smash the union that’s joined hands with the mob and nurture a new one?”

“No, no. The union leader was at least a thinking person. He flatly refused, saying it was better to have his head bashed in by company thugs than to be known for hiring the mafia. Our Association even moved the union leader’s family to our joint housing for safety. But…”

Unions are profitable. Before the Italian mob gained power, their main business was making a living through extortion. At least the union leader seemed wise.

This was quite ideal so far. Even though they had formed a union, it wasn’t enough to fight the company, and if the factory owner had yelled that he’d fire everyone the moment they formed one, he would have mentioned that fact.

But it was neither. What could it be if it was neither? I slowly went through the options. I let him continue talking.

“The mafia didn’t retaliate at all. Despite the leader shouting refusal and throwing the proposal in their faces, for some reason…”

“If the union leader is stubborn, there’s no need to bother. Killing him would only unite the union members more, and if they got caught, they’d have to face the angels, so…”

The mob’s specialty of threatening families had been completely blocked by the Industrial Research Association. From the mafia’s perspective, there was no reason to take further risks just to devour a union that wasn’t that large.

“That’s right. That must have been it. But when people saw that the mafia didn’t touch a hair on anyone’s head, rumors started that despite the public refusal, the leader must have secretly gone to negotiate with them.”

Mafia members who were kind enough to negotiate after having proposals thrown in their faces, yet clean in their retaliation? Their courtesy might have been selective, but not to that extent. A bitter laugh escaped me.

The mob had done a good job this time. It must have been the work of the same mobster who had promised to catch Isaac. I didn’t know about Madam Masseria’s other branch leaders, but only that woman was that clever.

“Our union leader, whom we helped establish, was found beaten. It seems he was also subjected to insulting words like ‘informant’ and ‘enemy of the workers.'”

He shuddered once, as if it was something he couldn’t bear to imagine.

“How do you think someone would feel after being called such names when they tried their best to protect their comrades in an independent and clean way?”

Either he’d hang himself, or things would go to the worst-case scenario. If he had hanged himself, the cause and effect of the matter would have been clean, but if not… things would get complicated.

“He must have felt incredibly betrayed. So, where did he go?”

“He, he went to the factory owner. Apparently, he said something like, ‘You know I’m the union leader, right? If you lend me some muscle, I’ll leave only the docile and obedient ones.’ At least, that’s what we think.”

So he became a company stooge of his own accord. He brought it upon himself. The question was the direction of the request. Was it against the union leader who became a traitor after being accused of being one, or against those who had recklessly lynched him?

“So, do you want me to break up the company union? Or the group that lynched the original union leader thinking they were something special? Neither side seems particularly strong.”

“The Association hasn’t reached a conclusion yet. If we break up the company union, we’d be saving those who lynched an innocent person. But if we crush those guys, we’d only be doing the factory owner a favor. I’m so frustrated that I came to ask the opinion of a detective who specializes in breaking up unions. If it were the factory owner…”

“He’d want to keep the company union alive. Then you’d have to save those who did the lynching. Don’t live soaked in ideals, friend.”

It was obvious. If someone respected enough by the Industrial Research Association to be promoted to union leader had become a company stooge, the factory owner would want to keep him close.

The man from the Industrial Research Association beat his chest a couple of times in frustration. The water was boiling. I made coffee and brought it to him. He gulped it down, forgetting it was hot, and beat his chest again.

After cooling his throat with cold water, he spoke in a weakly deflated voice. This must be a situation without an answer for him. Of course, there was one. A very clean and obvious one. He thought of it too.

“Can you handle both? It would mean turning the factory owner against us, but if someone switches sides completely just because their face was ruined…”

“He obviously wouldn’t trust him that much. How would he know if the leader might switch back to the workers’ side the moment he’s publicly humiliated? If you’re suggesting I exploit that gap… don’t worry. You know this isn’t my first time doing this, which is why you came to me.”

I was used to people giving unsolicited advice about detective work by now. Since I’d pointed it out clearly, he nodded without adding more. His voice, as if seeking absolution, leaked through weakly.

“May I ask if there are conditions under which the request could be canceled? I mean… things could miraculously work out. I know the people who beat someone up thinking they were doing the right thing won’t apologize, and I know the union leader who went to the factory owner won’t come back knowing there’s no return, but still.”

He himself knew very well that such a thing wouldn’t happen. He just wanted to voice his hope. There was nothing wrong with that.

“Either I die, or you die. Or both union leaders die without me lifting a finger. Otherwise, you can cancel by paying an appropriate cancellation fee. Those are the obvious options.”

He handed me an envelope containing the advance payment. Four ten-dollar bills. He probably didn’t expect me to handle this in two days, but I decided to accept it for now.

Ah, back to the usual routine work after a while. After this job, I should ask Sarah about her Christmas schedule.

This Christmas, I might be able to rest, forgetting that it’s the birthday of that cold-blooded divinity.