America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

At 6 PM on the 25th.

New York City Mayor Jimmy Walker stood intently in front of his full-length mirror, which took up almost half the wall.

"The peak lapels on this double-breasted suit are a bit too wide. You know, Manhattan voters prefer to see a lean mayor, not a fat guy who looks like he's stuffed in a sack."

As Walker spoke, he used his fingers, which had played countless pop hits, to discerningly pluck at the silk scarf on his chest.

He's a typical New York monster.

He was a Broadway darling, a songwriter, a popular patron in late-night illegal bars, and the golden rose carefully pruned and displayed on the table by the Tammany Society.

Under his rule, New York was like a meat grinder that never stopped, swallowing the blood and sweat of the poor and the special funds for municipal contracts, and spitting out the heavy gold coins in the pockets of politicians.

"Your Excellency, the tailor on Savile Row said that this width will make you appear more powerful when you give a speech."

The private secretary squatted humbly on the ground, holding a pure silver measuring tape in her hand.

"Power does not come from the collar, but from my outstanding image."

Walker looked in the mirror and flashed his signature smile that made countless female voters scream.

Just then, the heavy mahogany door to the office was pushed open forcefully.

Walker frowned. In New York, you could count the number of people who dared to barge into the mayor's office without knocking on two hands.

Frank Curry walked in. He wasn't dressed like Walker in flashy attire; he was only wearing a dark gray, somewhat dull, old suit, and his eyes were cold.

As one of the leaders of the Tammany Association, he is the city's shadow agent, specializing in handling the shady, bloody "political patching work."

"Jimmy, stop with your Broadway act. We're in trouble, and you're still figuring out sock colors."

Walker slowly turned around, sat back down behind his ivory-inlaid desk, and gestured to the chair opposite him:

"Frank, you're always so easily anxious. In this era of Prohibition, what else could be considered 'trouble' besides not having enough whiskey?"

Curry didn't sit down. He pulled a stack of newspapers from his pocket and tossed them precisely onto Walker's desk.

That was today's New York Daily News, along with several copies of newspapers from Chicago and Boston.

"Look at this," Curry said, pointing to the front page.

Walker glanced at it and read, "An honest man from Wall Street."

"It's this young man again? To be honest, his writing is very inspired, much more interesting than those economists who just repeat statistical data."

"interesting?"

Curry slammed his hand on the table, making Walker's coffee cup rattle.

"Just today, that madman Hearst ordered him to reprint this article in full in all the newspapers across the country."

"Right now, from the East Coast to the West Coast, every American is laughing at that 'Silas,' and you, this self-important mayor, still don't realize who Silas is?"

Walker squinted and began to read carefully.

Mr. Silas particularly enjoyed shaking hands with politicians in expensive suits. When a politician told him that the Brooklyn Bridge approach, which was only half-finished and then halted, was "the only way to prosperity," Mr. Silas believed him without a doubt.

He was even willing to pay a premium out of his own pocket for every brick on the approach bridge bearing the mayor's signature, because he felt it was a donation to civilization.

Upon reading this passage, Walker's face, which had always worn an elegant smile, finally began to turn ashen, inch by inch.

The Brooklyn approach bridge project was Tammany Association's biggest "cash cow" last year.

Through falsifying building material costs, employing undocumented union workers, and multiple layers of subcontracting, at least three million dollars flowed through various clandestine channels into the association's "public fund" and Walker's own secret account in Switzerland.

"That bastard, he's insulting us by name. Who leaked the information? Those subcontractors? Or those traitorous bastards in City Hall?"

Walker's voice became deep and dangerous, the lightheartedness of a songwriter gone.

"It's too late to investigate the leak now, Jimmy."

Curry stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, his eyes dark and menacing.

"That old fox Hearst wants to use this so-called 'anonymous prophet' to send our current city council to jail so that he can make room for his preferred candidate."

"Hurst..."

Walker snorted coldly.

"He still loves playing these populist tricks. Well then, let's find out who this 'honest man' of ours really is."

……

Late at night, in an illegal underground bar in Manhattan called "Red Rooster".

The air here is murky and filled with the smell of cheap gin.

Brent sat timidly in a corner booth, wearing a worn-out trench coat with a collar.

Opposite him sat a stocky man with a peculiar fierceness in his eyes. That was Fox, Frank Curry's right-hand man, an agent specializing in handling the mayor's "trouble".

"Mr. Brent, the important news you mentioned in your letter had better be worthy of this expensive glass of whiskey."

Fox impatiently fiddled with the wine glass in his hand.

Brent swallowed hard, nervously glanced around, then lowered his voice, his tone filled with the satisfaction of revenge:

"Hearst is fooling all of New York. That so-called 'veteran Wall Street insider,' that 'honest guy,' is no tycoon at all. He's just an assistant editor who can barely afford his rent, Arthur Kennedy."

Fox's hand, which was holding the wine glass, suddenly stopped. He narrowed his eyes, and a sense of pressure from his professional habits shot straight into Brent's face.

"A mere assistant?" Fox scoffed.

"You mean, the guy who scathingly attacked the mayor and the Tammany Association, driving readers across the country crazy, is just a greenhorn?"

"It's true!" Brent eagerly pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a crumpled page of manuscript that he had picked up from Arthur's wastebasket, and it contained a passage from "Mr. Silas".

Fox took the paper and glanced at it in the dim light. As someone who had long navigated the world of lies and power struggles, he instantly recognized that the manuscript was genuine.

"Arthur Kennedy..."

Fox repeated the name, a sinister smile creeping across his face.

"It seems our 'honest man' is still very 'young.' So young that he actually thinks he can do whatever he wants in New York with just a pen and Hearst's protection."

Fox pulled a thick wad of banknotes from his pocket and tossed it into Brent's arms like a beggar's gift.

"Here you go. Keep your mouth shut, Mr. Brent. If this gets to Hearst's ears, he'll find that the New York sewers are actually a pretty good final resting place."

Brent's hands trembled as he grabbed the money. Although he was humiliated, he felt a morbid pleasure deep inside.

He finally delivered that genius who was riding on his head to the mouths of those hungry tigers.

……

Half an hour later, in the mayor's office.

Frank Curry pushed away Jimmy Walker, who was still flirting with a nightclub dancer in the lounge.

"Jimmy, our 'Honest Man' has a name now."

Curry slammed the draft he'd gotten from Brent onto the table.

Walker pushed the dancer away, rubbed his slightly dizzy head, and after seeing the contents of the manuscript, he let out a burst of almost neurotic laughter.

"An assistant editor? An unknown, penniless nobody?"

Walker stood up, the drunkenness in his eyes instantly replaced by a sinister clarity.