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Central Park and the Small Aircraft – Part 04

Around the same time, at a street corner in Little Italy.

It was a bright summer morning, sunlight glinting off the pavement.

Restaurants and cafés lined the street, their signs splashed in red, green, and white. The air was thick with dust, grease, and the mouthwatering smell of food.

Kazuya Kujou rounded the corner on a black bicycle, balancing a suitcase in one hand while skillfully steering with the other.

“First day as a newspaper reporter. Let’s do this!”

He skidded to a stop in front of a large restaurant at the crossroads.

Pulling a note from his pocket, he glanced up at the sign. “If what he told me yesterday is true, this should be Nicholas Sacco’s place.”

The sign read: Roma Café.

One of Little Italy’s oldest establishments, it was a third-generation family-owned restaurant. Its cheerful sign hung over the sidewalk, and the rich aroma of tomato sauce wafted through the air.

Kazuya hopped off his bike and peered inside. The place was buzzing—tables packed with customers, steaming pizzas, heaping plates of spaghetti, and bowls overflowing with fresh salads.

Kazuya scanned the place for a tall, young Italian man but came up empty. “Maybe his family lives upstairs,” he muttered, looking up at the second-floor windows.

The building’s white stucco exterior had four simple wooden windows. Two of them were open, white curtains fluttering in the breeze.

He listened carefully. A young woman’s voice drifted down.

“Ah! By the waters of Babylon, I stand frozen. Dreaming not of Zion. Dost thou know the dreams of dawn?” She was reciting poetry at full volume.

Kazuya tilted his head quizzically then called out, “Excuse me! Good morning! Is Nico there?”

“In the season of Purgatory! Oh, the radiance of thy breasts, my love!”

His voice was drowned out. Baffled, Kazuya thought for a moment, then hatched a plan.

Standing tall, hands on his hips, he bellowed, “Ni-cho-las! Are you there?”

“Ah, my eyes are ablaze! Flying through the twilight of Eros… Huh?”

The woman’s voice cut off abruptly.

“Who’s… there?” A head popped out of the window.

Wild, butterscotch-colored hair tumbled down in thick waves. A tall, young woman with honey-colored eyes, a sharp nose, and full lips stared down at Kazuya.

He tipped his bowler hat and bowed politely. “Good morning, mademoiselle.”

The woman leaned against the window frame, clutching a small book. She was gaping at him.

“My name is Kazuya Kujou,” he said. “I’m working for the Daily Road starting today.”

“What?!” the woman exclaimed. “So, you’re the…” Her voice was as theatrical as her poetry. “The savage, bloodthirsty, dangerous Oriental with a slightly indecent vibe?”

“Uh… pardon?”

“Ah!” She snapped her book shut, her face burning with anger. Crossing her arms, she called into the room, “Hey, Nico! Little Italy’s biggest liar, wake up! Your story doesn’t add up. That Kujou boy you were talking about is delightfully civilized. And he’s so kind, he even came to pick you up.”

“I-I never lied to you.” A groggy male voice drifted from the second floor. “It’s true, Rebecca. He’s bloodthirsty. Yesterday, at the office, while I was feeding pizza to a cat, he showed up and just swallowed the cat whole! He didn’t even cook it, or anything. He just ate it raw. I swear. So… I’m going back to sleep. Zzz.”

“Hey! Nico?”

“I’m not… lying.”

Kazuya stood below, cheeks puffed out like a blowfish, his face darkening from displeasure.

Soon, a tall young man with a similar grumpy face emerged from the restaurant.

With messy hair and a scruffy beard, he wore a lime-green open-necked shirt and brown polka-dot pants, paired with white leather shoes. He held a warm slice of pizza in one hand, licking it with the tip of his tongue.

“Sup!” He cast a sideways glare at Kazuya.

Rebecca hurried out behind him, shouting, “You forgot your camera!” She slung it around Nico’s neck. He flashed a charming smile and whispered something to her.

Rebecca gave Kazuya a worried glance, nodded, then rushed back inside. She turned around once to bow deeply to him once more.

Kazuya watched her go. “Hmm… okay.” He collected himself. “Good morning, Nico. Was that your sister? I have a sister too.”

Nico eyed him cynically. “I don’t have a sister. That’s my cousin Rebecca. She’s brilliant. Loves poetry and literature. Best writer in Little Italy.” He looked down, stretching his long arms while still avoiding eye contact. “Man, having a mysterious Chinese boy as a partner sure ruins a perfectly great job.”

Kazuya’s face turned grim. “What did you say?”

“Whoa, is that a bike?” He jumped onto Kazuya’s old black bicycle. “I’m riding it,” he declared, pedaling off.

“Hey, wait!” Kazuya scrambled after him.

Nico zigzagged through the crowded streets of Little Italy, dodging pedestrians and cars. People shouted angrily as they leaped out of his way. He kept gaining speed.

Crash!

He tumbled to the ground.

“Ah geez.” Kazuya ran over, righting the bike. He knelt down to inspect it. “Thank goodness. It’s not broken.”

Nico sat up, crossing his long legs. “You’re supposed to check out your partner’s condition first!”

“Huh? Sorry, but my partner, for now, is this bike,” Kazuya shot back.

“What?! I don’t think I’m getting along with you.”

“Right back at you. I hate you.”

A horn blared. They’d been surrounded by cars, carriages, and pedestrians.

“What are you doing?!”

“Move!”

“Get out of the way!”

“Ah, sorry.” Kazuya scrambled to his feet. “Come on, get up! Ugh. Anyway, let’s just go to Central Park.” He grabbed Nico’s arm and dragged him along.

---

Victorique stood on the sidewalk next to Central Park, accompanied by her two clients. The sudden outing seemed to have left her slightly pale.

To their left stretched an impossibly dense forest, surreal for the heart of a city. Despite the bright summer morning, the woods looked dark, as if wrapped in twilight.

“So this is Central Park,” Victorique murmured.

Kelly Sue, standing to her left, said, “Yes. It’s huge, isn’t it?”

To their right loomed a brown skyscraper, modern and simple in design. The wide entrance stood open, flanked by armed guards. Above the door hung the logo of the Federal Reserve Bank.

“And this is the government’s bank,” Victorique said.

Doug, standing to her right, nodded grimly. “Yeah. The building stained with blood forty years ago.”

The summer sunlight was blinding.

The street buzzed with activity from early morning. Cars carrying wealthy-looking gentlemen and ladies passed by handcarts pushed by impoverished families. Though they lived in the same city, the stark divide between the wealthy and the poor was unmistakable, with no one making eye contact.

Distant laughter and singing drifted from the park. Victorique’s face grew even paler. She pressed a finger to her forehead, staggering as dizziness overcame her.

There was a clattering of hooves. Groaning in pain, she lifted her head. Her dress swirled gently. Doug and Kelly Sue turned around.

From across the road, a loud and bizarre group rounded the corner, the clatter of hooves growing louder.

At the center was an old, battered covered carriage, surrounded by seven large and robust older women on horseback. The clip-clop of hooves echoed down the avenue as they spread across the road, approaching steadily. Cars around them swerved in surprise, horns blaring.

The carriage and riders came to an abrupt stop in front of the Federal Reserve Bank.

The women were all Caucasian. Their gray hair was tied up, dressed in old-fashioned blouses, long culottes, and men’s work boots.

As they dismounted, one of them asked, “Is this the Federal Reserve?”

“I’d rather see the Statue of Liberty during the day,” another chimed in. “I hear you can climb all the way to the top.”

“I want to go to the art museum. And take a sightseeing boat on the Hudson River,” said a third.

Victorique listened intently, puffing on her pipe.

The women, chatting animatedly, trudged up the bank’s steps. They asked the guards, “Which way is the entrance for tourists?”

“They seem like tourists,” Kelly Sue remarked.

Doug nodded. “The bank, the Statue of Liberty, cruising. I guess what’s familiar to us is exciting to them. Huh?” He pointed at the women. “I remember now. Those women were in this morning’s Daily Road.”

“In the newspaper?”

“Yeah, there was a group of women at Dakota House yesterday. They were so swift and energetic that people thought they were ghosts. Turns out they’re alumni from a girls’ school in Kansas having a reunion.”

“Ah, I see. And today they’re sightseeing in New York. Sounds like fun.”

Victorique, still swaying from dizziness, leaned against the covered carriage parked on the shoulder of the road. Breathing heavily, she rested her pale cheek against the vehicle.

The carriage door opened silently. A wrinkled, emaciated, and oddly long right hand—much paler than Victorique’s—suddenly appeared. It seized her radiant silver hair and yanked her inside with surprising strength.

Victorique didn’t even have time to cry out as she was pulled into the covered carriage. Outside, she could hear Doug and Kelly Sue searching for her, wondering where she went.

The carriage interior was empty. Aside from a framed pressed flower on the wall, there was no sign of luggage. The floor felt strangely soft. Victorique looked down to see it covered in red, purple, and orange potpourri. A sweet yet musty smell filled the air.

Bracing herself against the dizziness and the pounding in her head, Victorique fixed her gaze on the person sitting across from her.

“Who are you?” she asked.

It was a thin, deeply wrinkled figure wearing a white bonnet. A Caucasian, their skin was creased with age, but their features still refined. They were likely part of the group of older women, but unlike them, this person wore a beautiful gray lace gown. Unable to walk, they lay sprawled out.

Bandages were wrapped around their throat. Coarse gray hair spilled out from beneath the bonnet, hiding both cheeks. A gray lace glove covered only their left hand.

The figure pointed to the bandages around their throat, indicating they couldn’t speak. They then scribbled on a notepad and handed it to Victorique.

Potpourri is effective.

“Potpourri?” Victorique asked warily.

The figure nodded mechanically. Two eyes, buried deep within the wrinkles, gleamed brightly.

“For my symptoms? Do you know what’s causing this dizziness?” Victorique pressed.

The person wrote again: Drugs. Side effects.

Victorique stared silently at them.

A small lace bag filled with potpourri was pressed into Victorique’s hand before she was unceremoniously pushed out of the carriage. The hem of her green dress billowed in the wind.

Victorique scrambled to her feet and turned. “What was that for?!” But the door had already closed.

She pressed the small bag of red, purple, and orange potpourri to her nose. “Hmm? I do feel better. So potpourri is effective, huh?”

Doug and Kelly Sue spotted her and hurried over.

“There’s the detective!”

“We wondered where you went.”

In front of the bank, security guards and what appeared to be employees were talking. They seemed oddly agitated.

Victorique glanced at the guards, then shifted her gaze between the carriage, her clients, the bank, and the park.

“Hmm. There’s an uneasy atmosphere everywhere at once. I have a strange feeling about this,” she mused.