America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 174 Underground Mayor

Arthur Kennedy stands in front of an abandoned cannery in the "Backyard" slum.

This is a warehouse abandoned by the Amor Meat Company a few years ago.

Arthur received a mysterious intelligence report: Pier 33 was being watched by the police, but it could provide refuge for veterans.

"Is this our palace?"

Big Mike Monahan was leaning on an iron bar, looking at the dilapidated building.

Behind him, dozens of ragged veterans were shivering. Most of them had been "picked up" by Arthur from the nearby village of Hoover.

"It's better than sleeping in a pile of newspapers. Mike, we need to turn this place into a fortress. Nail the windows shut, leaving only firing ports, I mean, ventilation shafts. Clear out the ground floor for dormitories, and the second floor for the command post."

"What nails? We don't even have any nails," Big Mike said with a wry smile.

"Besides, this land belongs to that person. What if Netti knew we'd taken his warehouse—"

"He already knows. The letter delivered to Pier 33 yesterday was his work."

Although Arthur is not short of money.

But in Chicago, you can't just wave money around. Here, money has to go through the channels of power to become a resource; otherwise, it's your death warrant.

"I'll go find him now." Arthur turned and walked toward Pikachu.

"You stay here and don't let anyone in. If anyone causes trouble, tell them this is the temporary office of the Veterans Mutual Aid Association."

Arthur drove away from the slums and onto the brightly lit Southern Michigan Avenue.

It only takes twenty minutes to get from the "backyard" to Southern Michigan Avenue.

But in those twenty minutes, the scenery outside the window seemed to have transformed into a completely different country. The dilapidated shacks and garbage heaps were gone, replaced by gleaming shop windows and gentlemen in overcoats.

Brand new cars were parked on the roadside, and neon signs were just lighting up in the evening light, their red, green, and yellow colors illuminating the sidewalk in a dazzling display.

We've arrived at the Metropolitan Hotel.

This is Frank Nettie's palace.

A twelve-story building with beige stone exterior walls, uniformed doormen standing at the entrance, and a huge neon sign overhead.

Netti chose this location for his headquarters because it was impressive, eye-catching, and clearly demonstrated to everyone who owned the land.

Arthur came prepared; he first went to a jazz club called "Green Mill" across from the hotel.

This is Nettie's favorite place, and the social center of Chicago's underworld.

Here, the judge and the hitman drink the same moonshine, and the police chief and the madam discuss tomorrow's weather.

Arthur pushed open the heavy oak door, and a wave of heat mixed with the lazy melody of a saxophone rushed towards him.

On stage, a Black band is playing Dixieland jazz.

The audience was surrounded by smoke; the men wore double-breasted suits, and the women wore fringed skirts.

Nobody cares about a stranger unless that stranger looks like a problem.

Arthur found a corner of the bar and sat down, ordering a "Chicago Special," which was actually just industrial alcohol diluted with lemon juice and water.

"Two dollars." The bartender was bald and had a fierce look in his eyes.

Arthur tossed down a five-dollar bill.

"No need to look anymore. I want to ask you something," Arthur said in a low voice.

"Will Mr. Nitty be coming tonight?"

The bartender stopped wiping the glasses. He looked up and sized Arthur up and down.

"Who are you? A police officer? Or a spy from the North District?"

"I'm a writer." Arthur pulled a copy of "The Grapes of Wrath" from his pocket and placed it on the bar.

"You can call me Kennedy."

The bartender glanced at the book. It was a hot book in Chicago lately; even illiterate bumpkins like them had heard of a guy named Kennedy who dared to criticize bankers.

"Mr. Nitty doesn't receive guests here. If you want to die, turn left and there's a police station. If you want to live, finish this glass of horse piss and get out of here." The bartender pushed the book back.

Just then, the club's door was suddenly kicked open.

Several men in trench coats, carrying submachine guns, rushed in. The music stopped abruptly, and the guests screamed and scrambled under the tables.

"No one is allowed to move!" roared a man with typical Irish red hair who was leading the group.

"This is a routine check by the North District gang! We're looking for a traitor named Tony!"

He is one of George Moran's men.

Arthur squinted.

Chicago's gangs can be roughly divided into two parts: the South Side is dominated by the Italian gangs led by Al Capone, while the North Side is dominated by the Irish gangs.

By this time, the gangs in the North District were no longer in power.

How dare they directly intrude into the core area of ​​the Southern District Gang?

This doesn't make sense. Unless—these people aren't from the North District at all!

The red-haired man's gaze swept across the entire room, finally settling on the bar area.

"Hey, you pretty boy." The gun was pointed at Arthur. "You look unfamiliar. Put your hands up."

Arthur slowly raised his hands, but he felt no fear. Instead, his mind was racing.

This guy's acting is terrible, why don't we give him a try?

"Don't be nervous, Irish brother. I'm just here for a drink. And to find a reader for this book."

Arthur pointed to the books on the bar.

The red-haired man paused for a moment, then walked over and glanced at the cover.

"The Grapes of Wrath? That book about how we Irish people were bullied?"

Arthur lowered his hand and even took a sip of his wine. He had already figured it out; no Irish gangster ever claimed to be bullied.

"That's right. If Mr. George Moran knew you were pointing a gun at an Irish writer who speaks for the Irish in a place like this, he might not be happy."

The red-haired man hesitated.

Just at this critical moment, the door to the private room on the second floor opened.

A thin man in a camel-colored overcoat walked out. He had a cigar between his fingers and was followed by a dozen gunmen.

Frank Nyty.

"He's running wild on his turf and wants to know if I'm happy? Tell Moran that if he dares to send people to my place to cause trouble again, I'll blow up all of his beer trucks."

The red-haired man's expression changed as soon as he saw Niti, and he immediately gave the order.

"withdraw!"

The North District gang members quickly withdrew, just as suddenly as they had arrived.

A deathly silence returned to the club.

Nettie stood by the second-floor railing, his cold gaze fixed on Arthur.

"You're that writer?" Nettie flicked his cigarette ash. "You've got guts. If those Irish lunatics had pulled the trigger, you'd be riddled with holes."

"They won't." Arthur looked up at Nettie, thinking to himself, "Do you think I can't tell that man is one of your men?"

"Come up." Nettie turned and walked into the private room.

"Let me see if I can exchange your book for some wine."