Ch.75Ch.6 – Tinker. Tailor. Soldier. Lady. (1)

# May 24, 1929. 3:54 PM

Southern Cathedral

Pollard City

Abasina glared at me with narrowed eyes. She stuffed a sandwich into her mouth until her cheeks bulged. Sister Maria, unable to watch any longer, poured her a cup of milk, but Abasina didn’t even look at it. While Crayfield and I fidgeted uncomfortably, Abasina swallowed her sandwich, drained the milk completely, and began interrogating me.

“So. Was it nice? Of course it was! A date with a wealthy Mafia female executive on a windy cliff. Meanwhile, someone else was clutching bedsheets between these gloomy, moldy wooden boards! Sandwich? I know how to eat sandwiches too! I know how to go on picnics too!”

Sister Maria, who had been listening quietly, tilted her head.

“That’s jealousy, Mother Superior.”

Abasina, of course, snorted.

“Jealousy? Huh. Jealousy is envying others. I don’t envy Aurora one bit. That woman has no feelings for our Beast. Right, Beast? You didn’t have any feelings either, correct?”

Before I could answer, Crayfield subtly kicked my shoe. A signal to keep quiet.

“Just a purely professional relationship. A temporary business partnership, right? That must be it.”

Suddenly, Crayfield grabbed my arm and stood up abruptly, forcing me to awkwardly rise from my seat as well.

“Oh my, look at the time! We have an appointment with an important client that I completely forgot about! Assistant, let’s go! I apologize, Sister!”

Abasina slammed the table as if to say “not a chance.”

“Beast. Let’s have a little chat in the courtyard. Mr. Crayfield, go out and buy more sandwiches!”

Sister Maria poked her head out from the hallway again.

“I want one with beef patty.”

Crayfield released my arm and dashed out the door. I gazed after him desperately, but he just gave me a thumbs-up and quickly headed for the parking lot. The sound of the car leaving the cathedral grounds was disheartening.

“Follow me.”

Abasina grabbed my arm and walked ahead, making it look less like I was following and more like I was being dragged.

Fortunately, it was a quiet afternoon after Mass, so the cathedral courtyard was empty. Abasina pointed to a wooden bench. As soon as I sat down, she sat beside me on my right and pinched my arm hard.

“That’s mean. Really. How could you do that?”

Abasina pouted and turned her head away sharply.

Well, this situation was entirely my fault.

The story begins with a phone call I received after lunch today.

“I’m finally released from probation, so come visit! Let’s talk! Bring Mr. Crayfield too!”

I called for Crayfield, who was wrestling with a nail on the landing. A nail was firmly embedded in the hallway wall halfway up the stairs, and no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t come out. It was evidence that another change had occurred in the world. When I told him about the phone call, Crayfield put down his tools and started the Ford.

“Since we’re meeting after such a long time, shouldn’t we bring something to eat?”

That made sense. Remembering my meal with Aurora, we stopped by a bakery in the city center and bought sandwiches. The atmosphere was pleasant as we engaged in comfortable conversation in the annex building’s reception room, sharing bread. It remained that way even when the conversation shifted to 13th Avenue and the East Coast.

The incident was quickly being forgotten among people. Of course, this was due to the intervention of Catherine Scully from the Federal Security Bureau. She initially focused on cover-ups and media control, but realizing it was beyond that level of containment, she changed her approach.

Soon, the media was pushing sensationalist reports about “how civic groups, interest groups, and city hall were viciously stabbing at each other.” They claimed these groups were using the 13th Avenue and East Coast incidents as weapons in political warfare. In the process, Arthur Black’s leadership as mayor stood out. Boldly, he appeared at a radio press conference and shed tears.

His long lament was about how Pollard Island had fed the eastern United States, and now he hoped America would do something for Pollard in return. He apologized for the tragedy, disciplinary actions were taken against those responsible, and he choked up when mentioning that he had lost Mike Chase, his longtime friend and political companion.

“He was corrupt and took bribes from plumbing contractors. But still, he was my friend. I miss the time we spent together so much.”

And then he naturally moved on to why they couldn’t prevent the East Coast fire.

“Pollard lacks basic police and fire equipment and manpower. When the tragedy on 13th Avenue occurred, almost all of the city’s resources were deployed there, so we couldn’t stop the East Coast fire in time. If the Massachusetts state government provides some subsidies, I will tear down those old warehouses and open them to the citizens of Pollard.”

The reluctant state government, under “promises of strict management and supervision,” issued demolition orders and covered the costs for the old buildings. This was due to subsequent reports about Pollard’s poor financial situation and the state’s minimal support. Manpower wasn’t a concern; there were plenty of workers who would come running for even small amounts of money.

Thanks to this, Pollard Island regained its vitality. Outsiders flocked in, and people, logistics, and money circulated again. The 13th Avenue and East Coast incidents became a familiar narrative to people, just another vague story that faded away. The city trying to save on budget, incompetent bureaucrats, political debates—these were stories people had heard to the point of fatigue, and they eventually faded from public interest.

In the end, Catherine Scully won. She gave the public fatigue through excess and overload, and used that fatigue to censor the incident. Meanwhile, nonsensical and unscientific stories about sixteen suns, buildings eating people, or fog grabbing people were forgotten. They were of no help in securing city budget or attacking the city’s incompetence.

But Abasina is one of the few beings who would listen even to such stories.

“Tell me everything you know! My intuition tells me you two were definitely at the scene.”

Knowing it was pointless to hide anything, we told her the story to an appropriate extent. The Mafia had seen where and how Crayfield and I moved, and they would gossip about it in Abasina’s entertainment district bars. Judging that honest storytelling was better than obvious concealment, Crayfield and I shared what we had experienced.

The problem was Aurora.

From the moment I mentioned that Aurora had shown interest in me, Abasina began chomping on her bread. The urging “And then?” “What happened next?” started from that point too.

Thanks to Crayfield giving me all sorts of hints—winking, poking my side, stepping on my shoe—I was able to omit all the sensitive and delicate details. But even the censored story was enough to excite Abasina.

Eventually, Abasina pressed me to tell her what happened “before she bit me,” and reluctantly, I told her about going to the cliff by the beach together. Of course, I left out the lap pillow story. At that point, Abasina aggressively bit into her sandwich.

And so, now Abasina and I are sitting on a cathedral bench, and Crayfield has unintentionally gone out to buy bread.

While I was briefly distracted, Abasina pinched my forearm again. It was gentler than before, but she twisted it slightly this time, making the pain last longer.

“So you two slept together, right?”

The hiccup that escaped was purely from surprise. I answered that I had never done such a thing. I added that if she didn’t believe me, I could offer my arm for examination. Abasina grabbed both my cheeks.

“Idiot. Fool.”

Then she hugged me tightly. Although we separated quickly—it was an open space despite being shaded, and the location was a cathedral—the faint scent of roses lingered at the tip of my nose.

“I’m glad you’re safe. You’re not hurt anywhere, right?”

Abasina gently held my hand.

“I know a little about Aurora too. Unstable, unpredictable, passionate. I was worried about why she was interested in you, or if she had hurt you, but fortunately that wasn’t the case. Still, that woman, if she considers you on her side, she’ll treat you quite well. In that sense, she still has some humanity left. More than her father, Giovanni.”

That seemed true. Aurora might be eccentric, but she didn’t appear heartless. Perhaps that’s what made her attractive to young organization members who still harbored romanticism. After all, who would serve a boss who was not only unpredictable but also cold?

“But she has ambitions too. She’ll need to show something to her followers. I hear O’Malley and White Hand are hurting and killing each other.”

That’s true. The borderlines between the Mafia groups are constantly changing.

“I don’t like it.”

Abasina sighed deeply. I asked if she couldn’t return to the front lines.

“Well, I don’t think so. The landscape has changed too much. Giovanni has lost all the old boys who were on his side. For O’Malley, it’s now or never for expansion. At this point, telling them not to fight is meaningless. It’s better to offer a deal—if you don’t fight, I’ll give you something. Do you know about Kingsport?”

I didn’t. Crayfield had never mentioned Kingsport either. There had been no related articles in the newspapers.

“The Mafia has to import goods from somewhere. You could call it their own distribution network. Among them, a large portion involves transportation by ship. Boston Harbor – Arkham or Kingsport – Pollard Island. If they go inland, they might also go to New Bedford or Providence, but generally, they go back and forth between Kingsport and Pollard. It’s a kind of laundering. But, I heard the Kingsport harbor was attacked.”

I asked who attacked it.

“That’s what’s strange.”

Abasina moved closer to me. Her voice dropped even lower, almost to a whisper.

“You know how deeply connected government officials in this country are with the Mafia, right? Whether police or city hall officials. That means they have a certain symbiotic relationship. It’s not a good thing, of course. But since the Federal Security Bureau got involved, the situation has been changing. Slowly but surely, the side of law, order, and common sense is taking the lead.”

Abasina looked around. Despite no apparent issues, she lowered her voice even more. So I had to lean my head toward her.

“The Mafia’s response has always been the same. Ignore, avoid, conceal, and cover. They saw the Federal Security Bureau as just a passing shower. That’s why the Kingsport wholesale warehouse incident doesn’t make sense. Normally, the Mafia would just remove their goods and flee. But this time, they planted bombs and blew up Federal Security Bureau agents and police officers. Well, that’s not like the Mafia.”

I asked how she knew this. Abasina laughed quietly.

“I told you before, right? That Catholicism is a worldwide bureaucratic organization. Priests and monks from that area told me what people in Kingsport were talking about.”

Abasina wrapped her arms around me and pulled me closer.

“Beast. If you don’t have any current jobs, I have one request. A suspect died at the Kingsport police station. Horribly. Please investigate that person. There’s still a lot of uncertain information, so it’s not at a stage where I can say much, but it’s important to me. Well, if we find out the details, it might serve as a negotiation card. For a ceasefire negotiation between red-haired O’Malley and White Hand.”

I replied that while I didn’t have any current jobs, I was still part of Crayfield Detective Agency, so Crayfield would need to accept the case.

“Ah. Don’t worry about Crayfield. When he hears my fee, he’ll have no choice but to let you go. Curious what it is? Quick, tell me you’re curious.”

I said I was curious. Abasina’s lips brushed slightly against my ear. Her breath made my earlobe burn.

“My fee for this case is… me.”