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The Residents of Cranberry Street – Part 02

“Hmm?” Kazuya glanced up.

“Late last night… a prison… escape…”

“Oh, great,” Kazuya said. “A dangerous criminal is on the loose. Just what we needed right after arriving here. Better stay alert, Victorique.”

“A gang of bank robbers… The Kid & D’Artagnan Brothers… armed with machine guns and dynamite… vault-crackers… public enemy…”

“A bank robbery?” Kazuya frowned. “Well, at least that has nothing to do with us. It’s not like we’ll be visiting a bank anytime soon.”

“Because we are penniless,” Victorique declared with an odd sense of pride.

Just then, they heard the sound of footsteps running up the apartment stairs. Kazuya straightened, listening closely. Moments later, the door flung open, and a red-haired girl burst in.

“Good morning! It’s me, the caretaker from last night. Remember?”

She paused, blinking at the peculiar scene: Kazuya, seated upright at his makeshift desk, writing something, and the petite beauty, sprawled out on it like a cat, rolling from side to side while listening to the radio.

Kazuya stood up and greeted her. “Good morning.”

The caretaker plopped a bag of bread and a bottle of milk onto the desk. “All right, here’s my deduction.”

Victorique lifted her head. “Deduction?”

“Yep! My guess is you two are struggling without chairs. Am I right?”

“Oh, well done. You’re like a great detective.”

“In that case,” she continued, “there’s this old-timer nearby giving away furniture and dishes. They sent out a notice saying, ‘I don’t have much time left, so if anyone young needs something, come take it.’ The address… is just a block over, on Orange Street.”

She began sketching a crude map while Kazuya nodded attentively. “That’s very generous of them. We need chairs, at the very least. We don’t even have pots or dishes yet.”

Mid-sketch, the caretaker stopped, her attention caught by the radio. The news continued its broadcast.

“A survivor from an old bank robbery gang escaping, huh?” the caretaker said, intrigued.

“Are bank robberies common?” Kazuya asked.

“Not anymore. You rarely hear about them these days. But forty or fifty years ago, they were everywhere. Back then, bank security was lax, especially in the sticks. The economy was rough, and a lot of immigrants struggled to find work. Some youngsters ended up turning to crime—bank robbery, specifically.”

The caretaker resumed sketching. “My grandpa used to tell me that famous bank robbers used to look stylish and cool. They wore fancy hats, smoked cigars, donned sharp suits, and drove the latest cars. They’d storm into banks across America, spouting cocky one-liners while firing off machine guns. Even the women in the gangs were glamorous—fancy dresses, high heels, and drenched in perfume like they were going to a party, tossing dynamite. It was like the movies.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, but it all ended about forty years ago. They were rounded up, and the whole bank robbery craze just stopped overnight. Anyway, here’s your map.”

“Th-Thank you.”

“Hmm. This Kid & D’Artagnan Brothers name rings a bell. They were big about fifty years ago. A mix of Black and white guys, maybe three or four or five of them. They were famous for being bold and good-looking. Real celebrity criminals. They started out in some rural town—Kansas, maybe—and worked their way up to big-city banks. Their final hit was on the Federal Reserve Bank in New York. There was a huge shootout, and all of them were killed. Wait, if someone escaped, that means there was a survivor. But they’d be super old by now. Well, that’s all in the past, so who knows?”

Victorique had quietly sat up and was listening to the conversation. Her light green muslin dress puffed out delicately. Sitting like a rounded ball of frills, she took out a gold lizard-shaped pipe and began smoking it languidly. Thin purple tendrils of smoke curled toward the ceiling.

The radio broadcast switched to financial news. “The economy is on the rise, fueling a strong bull market. Stock prices on Wall Street continue to climb.”

The caretaker snorted. “Bull market, huh? Must be nice. Meanwhile, we’re over here barely scraping by.”

Then, she gestured toward the bread and milk she’d brought. Stepping closer to Victorique, she whispered proudly, “Today’s on me.”

“Hmm, milk,” Victorique said softly.

“With sugar.”

“Sweet, huh?”

Victorique, quick as a hungry cat, snatched one bottle and opened it, gulping it down. Kazuya approached curiously.

“And this is Jewish bread.”

“It’s shaped like a tire,” Victorique remarked.

“Yeah. There’s a salty one with olives and a sweet one filled with grape cream.”

“I’ll take the sweet one.”

“Here you go.”

“Pfft!”

“What’s wrong, Kujou? Did the milkman poison you?” Victorique asked.

Both women turned to see Kazuya coughing, his eyes watering as he held the milk bottle.

“N-No. I just wasn’t expecting it to be this sweet.”

The caretaker headed for the door. “They deliver unsweetened milk too. Fresh bottles every morning. Around here, breakfast means milk and…”

“Tire bread,” Victorique said between bites. “Delicious.”

“Exactly! Add some hard-boiled eggs and stewed turnips, and it’s a real feast.”

The caretaker opened the door, looked back, and said, “Welcome to Brooklyn! Rent starts next week.”

“Ah, okay!” Kazuya replied.

“All right then. Hey, gorgeous, how about we bond over a casual game of catch some other time?” She then bolted out of there.

Victorique sat perched on the desk with little regard for manners, munching on her sweet, grape cream-filled pastry. “What’s a casual game of catch? Is it something I can do?”

“Of course! Like this. Catch, Victorique!”

Kazuya tossed a crumpled paper ball gently toward her. She stared at it, unmoving, as it bonked her square on the face. Her expression darkened instantly.

“Ah! Sorry!”

“Stand still, Kujou. Present your face so I can step on it.”

“I said I’m sorry! I didn’t think it’d actually hit you. Your reflexes are awful. Wah! Sorry! Stop swinging that hammer and milk bottle! Ow, that hurts!”

Their bickering echoed down Cranberry Street. Outside the window, two pink birds chirped.

---

On the corner of Orange Street in Brooklyn, ancient-looking houses stood in neat rows. The weather was perfect, with soft morning sunlight bathing the sidewalk, potted plants, and the green vines climbing up the walls.

A steel plate hanging from a black, bud-shaped streetlamp bore the cursive inscription, Orange Street. The scene resembled the neighboring Cranberry Street, except for the roadside trees. Here, the trunks were thick and the leaves round—orange trees.

Victorique and Kazuya walked side by side, hand in hand, along the sidewalk.

Victorique wore a long white dress with a lace-adorned blouse collar, a matching lace bonnet, and pink flats. Kazuya sported his favorite old bowler hat, a worn cotton shirt, and flannel trousers.

Kazuya stopped and pointed ahead. “There it is. That’s the house, Victorique.”

“Hm?”

“It’s really close to our place. We turn right at the first corner, then left at the next. Walk about 100 meters, and we’ll reach number 37.”

“The Druid House.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Druid… huh? What?”

“It’s written right here.” Victorique stretched up, pointing with the end of her pipe.

In front of them stood a peculiar stone gate, its design featuring two horses facing each other, rearing up on their hind legs, their front hooves touching. Beyond the gate stretched a lush garden, leading to a rare sight in Brooklyn where most buildings were multi-story apartments: a single-story house.

On a wooden plaque held by the horse on the right of the gate, it indeed said, “Druid House.”

“Wow, it really does,” Kazuya said. “Anyway, let’s ask the resident about furniture. We definitely need chairs. And pots, dishes, and… what else? Hmm.” He drifted into thought.

Kazuya, wearing a focused face, and Victorique, puffing on her pipe, passed through the strange gate.

“By the way, Kujou,” Victorique said in a deep, raspy voice. “A druid refers to an ancient Celtic shaman from Ireland.”

“Hm?”

“Did you know that the Celts created The Book of Kells, an illustrated manuscript of the Bible? It’s known as the most beautiful book in the world.”

Kazuya suddenly vanished with a high-pitched yelp. Victorique stopped in her tracks.

“Kujou, are you doing calisthenics?” she asked.

“I-I’m not!” Kazuya’s voice was muffled.

He had tripped into a hidden hole, landing flat on his stomach but with oddly perfect posture.

Silently, he got up, pulled his foot from the hole, and brushed the dust off his clothes. His expression darkened slightly.

“Ugh.”

Victorique crouched by the hole and pointed curiously. “Oh, what’s this?”

Next to the hole lay a dusty wooden plate, about twenty centimeters square. Victorique brushed it clean with her pudgy fingers, revealing some kind of text.

“Hmm, it’s in Latin. Pedem tuum edam. I will eat your foot. Kujou, this is serious! Someone left you a rude message in Latin. We haven’t met the resident yet, but they seem like an unpleasant person!”

“Why do you sound happy about that?”

Sighing, Kazuya started walking again, while Victorique skipped along behind him, practically bouncing, like some silver-frilled ball.

“What’s going on here? This house is so strange, Victorique. We just came to ask about furniture, but now I’m not sure we’ll even make it to a chair. Hey, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Maybe we should just go home. Yeah! Forget the chairs and pots. No need to deal with someone so nasty. I’ll work hard at the Daily Road and buy them with my pay. One at a time, of course. Wait, Victorique! Where are you going?!”

“Haha… Hahaha!”

Victorique darted past Kazuya, nearly stumbling as she ran ahead. “I’m in a hurry. The next mischief is calling me!”

“Huh? Wait, did you just laugh? I’ve rarely heard you laugh. You just talk smack about me every single day. Hey, wait!”

The garden had a maze of low flowerbeds, just waist-high, blooming with small red, pink, and cream-colored flowers. Kazuya watched Victorique’s head bob through the maze, her white lace bonnet bouncing with each step.

Her loose silver hair, soft and shimmering like silk, glinted gold in the morning sun. The delicate lace on her collar and sleeves fluttered in the summer breeze, like petals in motion.