America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 175 Blues Rock

The soundproofing of the top-floor suites at the Metropolitan Hotel is astonishing.

The jazz music outside turned into a dull bass, like an echo from another world. The room was filled with the smell of expensive Cuban cigars.

Nettie sat on the leather sofa, fiddling with the book "The Grapes of Wrath".

"Well written. Especially the part where the Jode family's house is razed to the ground by a tractor, and the old man is holding a shotgun but doesn't know who to shoot." Netti closed the book.

"This reminds me of when I first came to the United States. Back then, we also wanted to fight, but we didn't know who to fight, so in the end we could only fight our own people."

"So now you know who to hit?" Arthur sat opposite him, showing no politeness whatsoever.

"Of course. I'll beat up anyone who gets in my way." Nettie threw the book on the table.

"Speak up, Kennedy. What are you doing here on my turf instead of enjoying your royalties in New York? If you're here to find material, I can have someone take you to the bottom of Lake Michigan to see how cement shoes are made."

"I'm here to discuss business."

Arthur took the guitar out of his guitar case.

"Business? Are you a writer or a busker? What business can you have with those two? I have the best jazz band in all of Chicago. If you want to show off your skills, I can have them accompany you. Five cents a song, and then you can go back to New York," Nettie mocked.

"Yes, they are." Arthur adjusted the strings.

"Writers sell words, singers sell their voices; they're essentially the same. And the business I'm going to discuss with you today has nothing to do with what I'm selling, but rather with what you need."

"What do I need?" Nytti leaned back, spreading his hands on the back of the sofa, looking like he was all ears.

Two bodyguards stood behind him, their hands in their pockets, their eyes fixed on Arthur's every move.

"I know you're in trouble right now. The police department's Red Squad is demanding more protection money from you. And Moran from the North District is trying to cut off your supply lines."

Niti's eyes sharpened instantly, and his hand instinctively reached for his waist.

"You investigated me?"

"No, I just read the newspaper, and I can read the secrets between the lines."

"You need to launder your money. You need a legitimate, disciplined, and fearless team to help you move those inventories out or hold onto those territories. And I happen to have five hundred of those people."

Netti sneered, "You mean those veterans feeding pigs at the Union Pens? They don't even have guns, all they know is begging."

"Don't be impatient, give me a gun, let me sing you a song first, this is also the heartfelt wish of the veterans."

Arthur suddenly changed the subject.

Nettie paused for a moment, then waved to his bodyguard to hand Arthur a loaded revolver.

Arthur took the gun and placed it on the guitar case as a makeshift percussion instrument.

Arthur's fingers began to dance across the strings.

This time, he used the "Blues Rock" technique from [Guitar Master].

Blues already existed in 1930, but blues rock had not yet taken shape.

He pressed the strings with his left hand, while his right hand, while strumming the strings, rhythmically struck the heavy pistol, producing a "bang!"

A metallic clanging sound.

"I have a home in the South District, and a cross hangs on the wall."

But all I had in my pocket was a gun and a phone call from the devil.

Hey boss! You've watered down your drink!

Hey, police station! You've got no conscience!

Hey, Irish guys in the North End, don't point a gun at me.

We're all in the same boat, you can kill me and you'll never become rich.

The Virgin Mary looked at me and asked, "What are you after?"

I said I only care about having a meal and a piece of clothing.

I hope that someone will bury me after I die, and that someone will think about me after I am buried.

The Virgin Mary laughed and said you were asking for too much.

These days, being alive is a bonus, and dying is a saving.

The gun in your pocket is your Holy Grail.

The song you're singing is your Mass.

Oh, merciful Virgin Mary~

Arthur's song wasn't just for Nettie; it was for all the gangsters in the box. There were about 20 of them.

Multiple people.

This music strikes straight to their souls. These people, who live on the edge, are actually filled with fear and emptiness. And Arthur's blues is the perfect outlet for these emotions.

The song ended.

Arthur slammed his hand down on the strings, and the pistol slid across the violin case, emitting a final, crisp metallic sound.

The system notification appeared promptly.

[A deep resonance with the target's emotions was detected.]

[Added 18 new followers.]

[Current task progress: 100/100.]

[Mission Reward: Firearms Proficiency]

After a few seconds, Nettie began to applaud.

"Great song. It's fucking great." Nettie stood up and clapped.

"I always thought only black guys could sing blues, but I never thought a white Irishman like you could sing it too, and even added something else to it."

Arthur put away his guitar: "A new way of singing." Arthur put the guitar back in its case, picked up the pistol, twirled it in his hand, pointing the muzzle at himself and the grip at Nyddy.

"Here you go."

Nettie took the gun and handed it to the bodyguard behind him. He watched Arthur close the violin case, fasten the clasp, and then asked, "Do those veterans listen to you now?"

"Listen to me. If you're willing to provide them with food, trucks, and even obsolete old weapons—they'll become your strongest line of defense in Chicago. And, nominally, you'll be a patriotic philanthropist."

"Philanthropist—" Netti chewed on the word, a playful smile appearing on his lips.

"I like this word. It sounds expensive."

Netti walked to the safe, opened it, and took out a thick stack of cash.

"Here's ten thousand dollars. It's not a lot, but it can buy a lot of potatoes and beef in Chicago these days." Nettie tossed the money to Arthur.

"Also, I'll have someone send a hundred old blankets to the warehouse at the joint pen yard. As for the guns—"

Niti paused for a moment.

"I can't give you the gun directly. The FBI will start tracking me. But I can tell you something."

"What news?"

"Moran in the North District has a shipment that will pass through Cicero Town tonight. It's supposedly some hardware parts. If your men can intercept that shipment—that's your skill, not my concern."

To use someone else to do one's dirty work.

Arthur knew exactly what Nettie was planning. But he had no choice. He needed guns, and robbing the North Side gang would not only get him guns, but also serve as a pledge of allegiance to Nettie.

"Deal. However, I need to use your name to hold a concert."

"A concert?"

"Yes. This very weekend, in the open space at the United Pens. I'm going to let all of Chicago know that these veterans aren't trash, they're men of dignity. And Frank Nitete is their sponsor."

Niti smiled.

"You're a madman. But I like madmen. Go do it. If anyone tries to cause trouble, mention my name."