Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 111 The Incompetent Mayor

The Irish assassin expressionlessly drew his knife, wiped the blood off Harrison's wool coat, and then took his wallet, gold watch, and silver-plated Colt revolver.

Having done all this, the assassin disappeared into the weeds and thick fog.

At the same time, in Malin County.

In Mrs. Marlene's farmhouse, in its brand-new Victorian-style house, Lawson stood by the window of the second-floor study, gently swirling the whiskey in his glass.

He glanced at his pocket watch.

"It really was a good show."

Killing Harrison seemed like the stupid thing only a madman would do. It was insane and utterly irrational.

This is tantamount to stirring up a hornet's nest, and it will anger political forces in San Francisco and even the entire state of California.

But in Lawson's calculations, this move was well thought out.

This seemingly insane assassination is precisely the first cornerstone on the road to a new order, and the most cost-effective step.

Harrison, a cunning old fox who has been entrenched in officialdom and the underworld for decades, is too greedy and too shrewd.

He's like an insatiable hyena; throw him a piece of meat today, and he'll bite your hand tomorrow. He won't hesitate to tear anyone apart for money and power, including his allies.

More importantly, his deep-seated arrogance and prejudice against Chinese people made him an absolutely uncontrollable bomb.

Lawson could buy him off for a while, but he could never control him.

As soon as the Chinese Youth Association's influence touches the gray areas he controls, this old bastard will immediately turn on them and use the law and bullets to drive the Chinese back into that dark can.

"Instead of racking your brains to train a rotten old dog,"

"Why not just cut him off and make room for the new guy?"

Killing Harrison would inevitably cause political turmoil and social panic in California.

However, this is exactly what Lawson wanted.

He not only wanted to kill Harrison, but also to add fuel to the fire of this chaos.

The old order must be completely shattered and ground to dust before he can establish his own order on this ruin.

Harrison is dead, and the position of police chief is now vacant.

Ultimately, this position requires someone who is absolutely loyal to you.

"I think Qingshan is quite suitable."

The idea was so absurd it was almost laughable.

A Chinese man in America in 1878?
How could a "yellow-skinned monkey" who isn't even a citizen and can't even testify against white people in court become the police chief of San Francisco?
This is even more fanciful than letting a pig run for president.

Lawson's smile grew increasingly dangerous.

But aren't the rules of this world meant to be broken?

"What if all those who oppose it are killed by Irish thugs and Mexican drug addicts?"

"What if the mayor and council members of San Francisco were desperate, kneeling on the ground and begging Aoyama to come out and take charge?"

He wanted to make fear the only law in San Francisco, and he was the one who enacted the law of fear.

……

The next morning, an early riser found Harrison's body in the mud outside the city.

The news ignited San Francisco like wildfire.

A police chief, a man of great stature, was stabbed to death on his own turf and stripped of all his belongings.

Reporters flocked to the scene.

The flashbulbs kept going off, forever freezing Harrison's swollen face on the front page of the newspaper.

The coachman, who had been knocked unconscious in the alley, also woke up. He only remembered being hit on the back by a drunken Irish vagrant, and then he knew nothing more.

"The Irish!"

The word hovered over the city.

Martin, the editor-in-chief of the San Francisco Chronicle, had his mistress stolen by a drunk Irish alcoholic at his favorite pub a couple of days ago, and was also punched in the face.

He was seething with anger.

Now, the opportunity has come.

Martin himself penned the front-page editorial, using the most inflammatory language:

“From savage thugs to shameless murderers, this city is being held hostage by a bunch of potato vendors from Emerald Isle. They steal our jobs, urinate and defecate in our streets, harass our women, and now they dare to turn their knives on our guardians of the rule of law. These Catholic bastards are completely out of step with civilized society. How long must we tolerate these walking powder kegs?”

The report shocked the entire city.

That's terrifying. It wasn't some nobody who died; it was the police chief. Is San Francisco really that chaotic?
Anger and fear quickly escalated, and citizens openly condemned the Irish community.

White citizens began spontaneously attacking Irish laborers who were passing by, and the windows of several Irish pubs were smashed.

The chaos in San Francisco infuriated California Senator Crestwood.

This political tycoon, who was busy courting Eastern financial groups in his campaign for the next federal president, stormed into the office of San Francisco Mayor Samuel Black.

"Samuel!"

Crestwood slammed the Chronicle onto the mayor's desk.

"Look at your city! Is this the jewel of the West Coast under your rule? That idiot Harrison died in the mud, and this will be in the national newspapers, making my allies on the East Coast question my ability to control the West Coast! Where do you expect me to put my face?"

Mayor Samuel Black hurriedly stood up and weakly explained, "Senator, it was just an accident!"

"An accident? In my political landscape, there are no accidents, only incompetence!"

Senator Crestwood wields far more power than a mayor could.

He not only controls the California legislature, but is also the Republican kingmaker on the West Coast. All important federal appointments in California must be approved by him.

Mayor Samuel was nothing more than a respectable puppet that he had put on the stage.

I don't care what method you use!

Crestwood pointed his cigar at the mayor's nose and said, "I'm giving you twenty-four hours to immediately appoint Deputy Mayor Barkley as police chief and have him catch the murderer and hang him. I don't want to hear New York bankers discussing San Francisco's security problems at next week's fundraising dinner!"

Deputy Mayor Barkley was also a lackey planted by Crestwood next to the mayor.

"Yes, sir, I'll take care of it right away!"

Samuel Black bent over in humiliation.

Crestwood snorted and gave him a sarcastic look up and down. "Keep your pants down, Samuel, and keep your pretty wife in check. Don't make me deal with your dirty business at a time like this."

After saying that, he left the office without looking back.

Barkley followed the senator, swaggering off to the police station to take up his post, without even saying hello to the mayor.

The office door closed.

Samuel Black's humility vanished instantly, replaced by a ferocious expression.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"

That old bastard Crestwood and that damned lackey Barkley dared to openly transfer power right in front of him, showing no respect for him as mayor!

Samuel Black, seething with rage, returned to his mansion on Nob Hill with a grim face.

He kicked open the bedroom door and saw his young and beautiful wife, Penny Black.

Penny was sitting in front of her dressing table, admiring her doll-like face.

She was twenty years younger than Samuel, with skin as white as milk, and was a gift given to a bankrupt banker as payment for a debt.

"What are you looking at?"

Samuel's anger finally found an outlet: "Even you look down on me, don't you?"

Penny glanced at him in the mirror, her expression indifferent. That look instantly ignited Samuel's fury.

"You bitch!"

He rushed over, grabbed Penny's hair, dragged her down onto the carpet, and then pounced on her like a bull.

"I bought you! I'm the one who gave you the life you have now, how dare you look down on me?"

He frantically tore at Penny's silk nightgown, burying his face in the crook of her neck and panting like a wild beast.

Penny's eyes were empty. She didn't resist, not even scream, letting him vent his desires on her.

Her lifeless compliance infuriated Samuel more than her resistance; it was like punching cotton, getting no response whatsoever.

Damn it, even crying or arguing with him would be better than this.

In his anger, Samuel's actions became increasingly violent, but his body shamefully betrayed him.

He hadn't even taken off his pants when, with a sudden, violent shiver, it was all over.

"Fuck!"

Samuel got up, panting, and took two big gulps of wine.

Penny then got up and continued to straighten her torn nightgown with a blank expression.

She walked to the dressing table, picked up the silver comb again, and began to comb her disheveled blonde hair.

Finally, she cast a look of utter contempt at her reflection in the mirror.

That look seemed to say, "You're so pathetic."

Then, she turned and walked out of the bedroom.

"Ahhhh!"

Samuel was absolutely furious.

The more he thought about it, the angrier and more frustrated he became.

He suddenly stood up, put on a cloak, a top hat that covered most of his face, and a black velvet mask.

He needed to vent; he needed to regain the feeling of being in control, even if it was something he bought with money.

He slipped out the back door and boarded a carriage that was already waiting.

The carriage wound its way through mud and garbage, leaving the wealthy area and plunging into the Barbary coast.

Finally, the carriage stopped at the back door of an inconspicuous tailor shop.

Samuel walked in with his head down.

Although his face was covered, the brothel manager clearly already knew his preferences and greeted him obsequiously: "Sir, you've arrived. Everything is ready."

The manager led him through the corridor and opened the door to the innermost private room.

The private room was dimly lit, and there was only one muscular young man inside.

……

“Damn it! Ah!”

Barkley's eyes were bloodshot: "On my first day as this shitty director, you guys made me sit naked on the senator's fireplace and roast me?"

The police chiefs present were all seasoned veterans who had spent half their lives on the streets, but at this moment they all lowered their heads and dared not utter a sound.

Harrison's death was not only the loss of a boss for them, but also a blatant humiliation.

A police chief was stabbed to death in the mud, and the murderer is still at large.

This is equivalent to someone urinating on their face.

"I don't care what methods you use!"

Barkley continued to roar, "I don't care what you do, I just want to see an Irish bastard's neck snapped by a rope before sunset! Do you bunch of idiots understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

The sheriffs roared in unison.

"Get out!"

The sheriffs filed out, among them Patrick Monroe, whose face was the most somber.

He was a tough-guy descendant of Germans, six feet tall, with fists like cured hams.

His loathing for the Irish was as deep and genuine as his loathing for cheap whiskey.

"Fuck the Irish pig."

Monroe spat a thick wad of phlegm into the spittoon in the corner: "They're like rats in the sewers, they multiply fast and die fast. Their doghouse should be burned down!"

He selected ten of his strongest men—young, hot-tempered, and eager to prove how tough their badges were with the blood of others.

"Listen, you boys."

Monroe stood at the police station entrance: "We're going hunting, not questioning people. Pry open every door, smash the jaw of every fucking talkative person. Run over anything in our way!"

The raid on the Irish settlement was less a search and more a brutal armed invasion.

"boom!"

The first door was smashed open by two young police officers, the cheap pine wood door panel shattering and scattering everywhere.

"Police! Don't fucking move!"

Officer Casey, who was also half Irish, was eager to wash away the shame and rushed in first.

He grabbed an old man who was sitting at a table drinking porridge. The old man was so thin that he was just skin and bones.

"Where is the murderer? Tell me!"

"I...I know nothing, sir."

Just as Monroe was about to say something, Casey's baton came whistling down.

"Ah! My legs!"

The police baton slammed hard into the old man's kneecap.

"You old geezer!"

Seemingly enraged by the scream, Casey lashed the old man's shoulder with her stick again: "I'm asking you a question!"

Monroe stared at the old man lying on the ground, clutching his leg and convulsing, frowned, but said nothing.

Casey's approach was very effective.

From the doors next door came screams of women and children, and suppressed curses from men.

"Well done, Casey."

Monroe said indifferently, "Keep asking until he remembers."

This tacitly approved command was like opening the gates of hell.

The officers completely unleashed their inner beast.

They kicked open another door, and a shirtless man inside had just jumped up when he was knocked to the ground with three batons and then brutally beaten.

A woman was huddled in a corner holding a baby when another police officer walked over with a smile, ripped off the cross of the Virgin Mary from her chest, threw it on the ground, and crushed it several times.

“You Protestant bastards, the devil will take you!” the woman screamed in Gaelic.

"What the hell are you saying, you bitch?"

The officer grinned maliciously and slapped her to the ground.

(End of this chapter)