Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 130 A Fair and Upright Scheme

town Hall.

Aoyama submitted the appointment report for the new deputy director.

"Li Ang."

An English-American assassin, who ranked first among the whites in the assessment, the ruthless character who broke Barkley's henchman's knee in the melee.

“Very good.” Mayor Samuel signed the appointment letter without even looking at it.

The office door was kicked open, and Barkley rushed in.

“Samuel! You’re insane! This isn’t proper procedure! The appointment of a deputy must be approved by the city council…”

Samuel gave a cold laugh.

"Barkley, wake up, you fucking idiot! Those city council guys, some are dead, some have fled! In San Francisco now, I'm the city council!"

He grabbed Barkley by the tie and pulled him in front of him:

"Your backer, Crestwood, is dead! You dog, you should have gone to hell with your master long ago! Chief Qingshan is saving this city, and you, you fat, stupid pig, all you know is procedures?"

“You bastard…” Barkley was terrified by Samuel’s madness.

“Get out, Barkley.” Samuel released him and straightened his collar. “Get out before I change my mind and have Chief Aoyama use the procedure to hang you on a lamppost.”

Barkley walked out of City Hall, looking dejected.

The sunlight shone on him, but he couldn't feel any warmth.

Barkley suddenly stopped in his tracks.

He felt someone was watching him.

The Latino boy shining shoes on the street corner, the gentleman reading the newspaper, even the Chinese policeman who just smiled at him and passed by.

They... they...

An uncontrollable fear surged from his tailbone to the top of his head.

There was no place for him in this city anymore.

He wasn't fired.

He was hunted down.

Barkley didn't go home; he didn't even dare to go to the bank to withdraw money.

He rushed to the train station and bought the first train ticket to leave San Francisco.

That afternoon, the San Francisco mayor's office received news that Deputy Mayor Barkley had resigned due to illness.

He went to Sacramento, the capital of California.

He vowed that he would come back, he would...

The Globe and Chronicle published an unprecedentedly long interview with San Francisco Police Department Chief Aoyama, as well as a detailed report on the unprecedented public assessment.

The black-and-white photograph shows a group of strong, muscular men.

Whether Chinese or white, they were either rolling and fighting in the mud or aiming their guns at the shooting range.

The sweat and mud on their faces were clearly visible, and their eyes were as sharp as those of wild wolves.

Director Qingshan, with a stern face, stood on the high platform, arms crossed, looking down at everything like a hawk.

This report was like a boulder thrown into the pond of public opinion in California and even across the United States, creating ripples.

It was far more turbulent than Lawson had anticipated.

East Coast.

Inside the Boston Financial Club.

"A damn Chinaman? Became the police chief of San Francisco?"

A banker with a seal mustache nearly jumped out of his expensive Spanish-imported leather chair: "Are those California bumpkins crazy?! They let a yellow-skinned monkey manage white people? God, what a regression of civilization!"

A railroad tycoon calmly put down his newspaper: "You just found out, Henry? It was reported in the papers a few days ago. You should see what he did. Open assessments, eliminating mediocrity, meritocracy—God, that's civilization. And damn efficient."

"You call it civilization to let a heretic ride on a white person's head?"

The railroad tycoon flicked his cigarette ash, which landed precisely in the crystal ashtray: "Henry, our civilization is built on profit. San Francisco is now the safest city in the entire United States, bar none. I received a telegram last week from my agent saying that all the thugs, hooligans, and gangsters there have fucking vanished overnight. The streets are so clean that ladies can go shopping without bodyguards."

The banker snorted, clearly unconvinced.

The railroad tycoon continued, "And this Chief Qingshan, unlike those foolish predecessors who only knew how to send people to extort money from shops, gave the citizens a sense of security. A sense of security that reassures capital. I don't care if he's yellow or white, as long as he can protect my warehouses and railroads from being blown to bits by those Irish bastards, he's a good chief. I've already had my secretary prepare; next month, I'm going to San Francisco in person to investigate. The investment environment there sounds better than ever before."

The same scenario is playing out repeatedly in New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia.

The New York Times editorial sourly commented that this was the lingering poison of the California Gold Rush, a betrayal of noble Anglo-Saxon traditions, and worried that it would open Pandora's box.

More local newspapers, especially those from the lower classes who have long been oppressed by local police, began to ask questions in a completely different tone:

"Why can San Francisco do it? Why can't our high-ranking, fat councilors do what a Chinese person can do?"

"We've had enough of those drunkards who just collect protection money on street corners! We need a San Francisco-style assessment! Let's kick those bastards out!"

"Even the Chinese know how to govern a city, so what are our councilors doing? Are they playing cards in City Hall?"

A peculiar wave began to sweep across the country from west to east.

People may still despise or even hate the skin color of the Qing people, but they cannot resist the allure of the order and justice that Qingshan exudes.

Green Mountain, no, it's Lawson, who used an impeccable scheme to greatly boost his national reputation!

San Francisco, the jewel of the West Coast, is attracting capital and attention from across the United States at an unprecedented pace.

In stark contrast to the vibrant new atmosphere in San Francisco, the docks of the Northern Pacific Coast Railroad (NPC) in Sausalito were in complete chaos.

Aaron Bryant, the newly appointed manager, felt like he had stepped into a manure pit.

"damn it!"

Aaron swept all the documents off the table, the bottle of dark blue ink arcing desperately through the air before crashing against the wall, the stain completely merging with the already messy inventory list.

"That damned alcoholic ex, what a mess he left behind!"

He clutched his already thinning hair.

He felt ten years older after only three days in office.

This is not a job for a human being!
There are so many things to do, I don't know where to start.

The accounts didn't match, the cargo manifest was wrong, the arrival time of the two cargo ships was inexplicably delayed, and the dockworkers' foreman happened to be sick. Those damned Irish coolies were surprisingly efficient at slacking off, and their beer-drinking speed was top-notch.

The worst part is that he's always bothered by all sorts of ridiculous little troubles.

One thing after another, not even giving his mother a moment to catch her breath.

"Mr. Bryant!"

A warden disguised as a suicide squad member burst in: "It's terrible! The key to Warehouse B seems to have been dragged away by rats last night and fallen into the sea. That warehouse is full of top-quality furs waiting to be loaded onto the ship! If the shipment is delayed, we'll have to pay a huge sum of money!"

"what?"

Aaron's blood pressure spiked immediately.

The key was dragged away by a mouse?

What kind of fucking reason is that?!

He had barely finished yelling, and before he could even think of a solution, another dispatcher peeked in through the door: "Manager, another collection notice from Rustam Bank has arrived. They say if the payment isn't received this week, they'll trigger the default clause and freeze our accounts..."

"Get them out! Can't you see I'm busy?! Get out!"

Aaron grabbed the heavy brass inkwell from the table and slammed it against the doorway.

The inkwell smashed a deep dent into the door frame.

Individually, none of these problems are fatal.

But they're like a swarm of damn flies—small, yet capable of driving a person insane.

Aaron Bryant was completely submerged in this ocean of trivialities casually arranged by Lawson.

He was overwhelmed and exhausted, like a bull trapped in a cage.

He began to miss the days of having afternoon tea in San Francisco and flirting with his female secretary.

Just as Aaron was on the verge of collapse at dusk, a knock on the door sounded, neither too loud nor too soft.

"Come in! Damn it, what bad news is it now! Is the sky falling or has Jesus appeared to us?!" Aaron roared without looking up.

The person who came in was a middle-aged man of medium build with a shrewd look on his face.

He was a squad leader on the docks named Mick O'Donnell (Death Squad).

"Sir, you look exhausted after a long day."

Unlike the others, Mick didn't panic. Instead, he held up an unopened bottle of whiskey and said, "Warm yourself up first. These bastards deserve to be taught a lesson."

Aaron was stunned. He looked up suspiciously and sized up Mick.

Mick deftly unscrewed the bottle cap and handed it over: "I've already had the guys break the lock on Warehouse B and found the best locksmith to replace it with a new one. The key is here."

He pulled another piece of paper from his pocket: "As for Rutham Bank, I found out that their debt collection manager drinks at the Black Gull Bar every night. This is his drink bill; he likes Scotch whisky. Maybe you could try to bump into him?"

Aaron took the bottle and took a big gulp. The spicy liquor burned his throat, but it cleared his confused mind for a second.

He looked at Mick, a hint of appreciation in his eyes: "You did a good job."

"This is all thanks to your excellent leadership, sir."

Mick smiled humbly: "You're a man of great things, a lion, unlike that drunkard of a predecessor. It's just that you're new here, and these local bastards don't respect you. You have to let them know who the real boss is."

These words struck a chord with Aaron.

That's what he thinks!
“You’re right, Mick!” Aaron felt he had found a kindred spirit. He slammed his fist on the table. “I’m the manager, I’m going to teach them a lesson! I’m going to fire those lazy bums!”

"Of course, sir, of course. But we'll have to take it slow."

Mick said, “You should relax tonight. Black Gull’s place is dirty and chaotic; you shouldn’t go there yourself. I’ll go for you, bring a bottle of good wine, and I’ll make sure it gets done. As for you, you should have a drink, really relax, and recharge before dealing with them tomorrow.”

A barely perceptible smile flickered in Mick's eyes: "I know a great place, Gypsy Kiss. ​​The girls there are wild and energetic. Especially the new one named Zorina, tsk tsk, that waist, that ass... she's simply the devil's creation, she can crush a man's soul."

Aaron's Adam's apple bobbed.

He's been holding in a lot of anger for a long time, and he needs to vent it!
"Oh? Is it that good?"

“Sir, you’ll see when you get there.” Mikey said like a seasoned pimp, “She prefers important people like you who have status and prestige. She wouldn’t even bother to look at ordinary laborers.”

That night, Aaron was half-heartedly led into a Gypsy kiss by Mick.

This is a low-class brothel located on the edge of the dock area, where the air is filled with the pungent smell of cheap perfume, beer, and the fishy odor of the sea.

Zorina, that Gypsy girl, was actually just an exotic Irish prostitute, a pawn that the assassins had already arranged.

Under the influence of alcohol and Mick's flattery, Aaron was already somewhat dizzy and felt like he was the uncrowned king of this dock.

As soon as Zorina came up, she coiled around him like a slippery snake.

Unlike other prostitutes, she wasn't eager; instead, she looked him up and down with a gaze that was three parts curiosity and seven parts provocation.

"Oh...look, this is quite a big shot."

Her fingernails traced across Aaron's chest, her eyes gleaming with a flirtatious light: "I like you, sir. You don't smell like those stinky sailors. You smell like gold."

"Haha, really? Baby."

Aaron was completely captivated. He awkwardly wrapped his arms around Zorina's slender waist, saying, "I'm the new manager of the NPC!"

"Really?" Zorina gasped dramatically, pressing her body against Aaron, and then let out a silvery laugh: "Then I'll have to serve my big manager well tonight. I hope you don't break me."

Half an hour later, Aaron Bryant was fast asleep.

Mick came in. He gave Aaron a cold glance, who was sleeping like a log.

Zorina spat on the ground: "What a piece of trash!"

"Shut up!"

Mick tossed over a heavy money bag, the clinking of gold coins ringing out crisply in the quiet room.

"Here's the money, double. Remember your job."

Zorina skillfully caught the purse, weighed it in her hand, and then took a bite. The disgust on her face instantly turned into a fawning smile: "Whatever you say, boss. Give me enough money, and I can make this pig think he's God."

Mick leaned closer to her: "I want his wife Sofia to know too. I want her to know that her husband would rather spend money on a whore than come home and touch her."

Zorina's eyes lit up: "Oh, I see, boss. This is a big job. I'm going to make him hopelessly addicted."

The next day, Aaron Bryant woke up with a splitting headache from a hangover.

But Zorina, who was beside him, gazed at him with an almost worshipful look, as if he were Julius Caesar.

(End of this chapter)