Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 135 Declan's Letter
San Francisco, Nob Hill.

Smoke filled the living room of Patrick O'Malley's mahogany villa.

The cigar was almost burning his fingers, but he didn't notice.

FUCK! These junior reporters from the Globe and Chronicle dare to threaten him!
"Mr. O'Malley."

Jesse smiled and said, "We're not here to interrogate you, but simply to fulfill our newspaper's duty to verify information. After all, verifying this information is quite serious."

O'Malley's eye muscles twitched incessantly. He glanced around the room and saw several Irish-American entrepreneurs who, like him, wielded considerable influence in San Francisco, now looking increasingly grim.

Just ten minutes ago, they were laughing at Mayor Samuel's idiotic plan to build sewers in Ireland, calling it a waste of taxpayers' money to gild the Irishmen's backsides.

“I’m telling you, Patrick.”

His friend, Connor Fitzgerald, who owned three canneries, gestured: "FUCK, you guys didn't see that new pretty editor at the Sentinel, that woman in that tight business suit, she was practically begging to be stripped naked right there. I told her the advertising fee was negotiable, but she had to learn how to verbally present her proposal first..."

A burst of unrestrained laughter exploded in the room.

Even after the housekeeper informed them, the reporter from The Globe and Chronicle insisted on seeing him immediately.

"The Globe and Chronicle? What kind of bullshit is that?"

Fitzgerald was the first to speak up, his breath reeking of alcohol as he sprayed it directly into Jesse's face: "That old bastard Henderson sold the newspaper, and I heard it's now under that Chinese guy's control, right?"

He deliberately prolonged the pronunciation of the word "Chinaman," which drew another round of laughter from his companions.

"What's wrong? Is it because your new yellow-skinned monkey boss doesn't have money to pay salaries?"

Another entrepreneur, Maguire, chimed in sarcastically, "Sending two lowly bastards like you to solicit advertising sponsorships?"

"Seeking sponsorship? Connor, you're being too harsh."

Maguire exclaimed exaggeratedly, "Look how sincere the Sentinel is! The boss personally brought his beautiful young editor, who had just come of age, to do public relations. Her mouth, tsk tsk! And the Globe and Chronicle only sent two guys? FUCK, no sincerity at all, get out!"

The boisterous laughter rang out again; they reveled in this condescending humiliation.

This is their privilege as members of San Francisco's high society, the pleasure they buy with money and violence!

Jesse and his companions maintained their smiles throughout, simply waiting quietly for the group of bloated, fat men to finish laughing.

Jesse then pulled out several letters and a stack of documents.

"Gentlemen, we understand your sense of humor perfectly, but we're not here today to solicit advertising sponsorships. Our newspaper has recently received several letters concerning you gentlemen."

O'Malley scoffed, "Your newspaper has changed its business now, making a living solely from collecting garbage?"

Jesse ignored his sarcasm and unfolded a letter, placing it on the coffee table: "It seems to be addressed to you, Mr. O'Malley."

O'Malley glanced at the letter, his maniacal laughter freezing instantly, shattering!

It's Declan!

That Celtic Fist gang leader, the son of a bitch who extorted 60,000 silver dollars from him by pointing a gun at his head during the riot and then disappeared!
They all knew this guy had fled California.

How dare he still write a letter!

O'Malley, panting heavily, suddenly picked up the letter and examined it closely.

"Thank you, my dear Mr. Patrick O'Malley, for your generous donation of sixty thousand eagles to buy weapons during my most difficult time. As agreed, we broke into the warehouses of those three silver tycoons, James, McDonald, and Vlad. I've had the silver moved to the usual place you designated; we're even. May my fellow Irishmen prosper!"

Your old friend, Declan.

"Shit, Goddamn it!"

O'Malley was so angry that he jumped up and down on the spot, shaking the crystal chandelier: "This is a frame-up, this is fucking slander! That son of a bitch Declan, I'll wring his neck with my own hands!"

"Patrick, calm down!"

Fitzgerald also came over for a look, and the moment he saw it clearly, he sobered up instantly!

"Jesus, fucking, Christ..."

Several other entrepreneurs also gathered around, and then stood there dumbfounded.

"The Silver King, James, McDonald..."

Maguire's throat trembled: "FUCK, if those old guys find out..."

They have now foreseen their own doom!
On California's west coast, everyone knows that those three silver kings suffered heavy losses in the riots!

The warehouse was almost emptied, and it is said that nearly one million dollars were lost. Those three old guys have gone mad and are offering a reward of 100,000 dollars to find the mastermind behind it all, alive or dead!

If this letter is published...

If those three enraged bulls believed that they, the Erz merchants, were accomplices of Declan and the masterminds behind this monstrous robbery!
That would be disastrous! War would break out!

A revenge campaign that will stop at nothing and fight to the death.

Those three old guys will use all their political power, financial connections, and even the thugs they keep in private to crush their shipping company, cannery, bar, everything!
"Gentlemen, please calm down."

Jesse pushed up his glasses and slowly took out another document.

“Mr. O’Malley, we certainly understand your excitement.”

He spoke so kindly and understandingly, yet he pulled out a second knife.

"However, we also visited some of your neighbors around your villa, and they provided some very interesting testimonies."

"For example, the respectable Mrs. Abernathy on the street corner, she swears to God that on the night when the riots were at their worst, everyone saw a large group of Celtic Fist thugs carrying several chests that looked like they were full of gold and silver swaggering out of the front door of your villa."

O'Malley's pupils dilated violently; he could even hear the blood rushing to his brain!

"Oh, right."

Jesse seemed to suddenly remember something and added, "According to that lady and several other witnesses, the leader of those thugs even shouted loudly towards the second floor of your villa as he left, thanking Mr. Patrick O'Malley for his generous donation. You're truly the pride of Ireland..."

"Pfft!"

Maguire's legs went weak, and he collapsed onto the carpet. It was over, it was really over!

If mud gets into your crotch, even if it's not poop, it's still poop...

"no no!"

Fitzgerald suddenly went berserk and lunged at Jesse, even trying to strangle him: "That wasn't funding, it was fucking extortion! It was that son of a bitch Declan! He pointed a gun at our heads! It was blackmail! You bastard, I'm going to kill you!"

"Oh?"

Jesse deftly sidestepped Fitzgerald's clumsy lunge, leaving the latter to fall awkwardly to the ground.

He looked down at Fitzgerald and asked with a smile, "Who can prove it, Mr. Fitzgerald? Did you call the police at the time? Oh, I forgot, our police chief, Mr. Harrison, was probably still alive then."

Silence returned to the room.

Call the police? When the whole city is in a bloodbath, and the police chief is being slaughtered like a chicken, who the hell are you going to call the police for?
"The current fact is..."

Jesse said coldly, "Declan took money from you and used it to buy weapons. They looted San Francisco and severely damaged three Silver Kings. Whether you were victims or accomplices is irrelevant."

"Once we publish these letters and testimonies verbatim, angry citizens and Mr. James and his ilk will make their own judgments."

The words "publish in the newspaper" immediately broke O'Malley's defenses!

Once the newspaper is published, the citizens who have lost their homes and loved ones in the riots will rush into his shipping company and smash everything!
Everything is fucking over!
"no no……"

O'Malley slumped onto the sofa in a daze, muttering to himself like a fool.

No, wait!
A brilliant idea flashed into my mind!
What did Fitzgerald say when he was swearing?
The Globe and Chronicle was sold off by that old bastard Henderson, sold to the Chinese...

Which Chinese guy?
Which Chinese guy in San Francisco can afford the Globe and Chronicle these days?
Which Chinese person has such extraordinary abilities to dig up Declan's letter and the neighbor's testimony?

"Qingshan!"

O'Malley suddenly looked up.

The Global Chronicle is owned by that butcher from Qingshan!

Damn, I was almost scared to death.

O'Malley let out a long sigh of relief.

The others had obviously thought of this as well, and the living room fell into an eerie silence.

"FUCK".

Fitzgerald wiped a cold sweat from his brow and got up from the carpet.
They all understand.

If Aoyama really wanted to kill them, he wouldn't need to send two reporters to put on a show.

This newspaper will be on the table of every San Francisco resident this morning, along with their breakfast milk.

This is not a trial, but a warning, a reprimand.

Having figured this out, O'Malley quickly regained his composure.

He took out his wallet, pulled out a thick wad of US dollars, and stuffed it into Jesse's pocket.

"Jesse, is that Jesse? Good lad, you have a bright future ahead of you! Thank you so much for making this trip and verifying his identity. You are all so dedicated and responsible in your work!"

He turned to another reporter and handed him a large sum of money as well: "Take this money and have some coffee. We've seen things clearly today. We were the ones who didn't do some things well and didn't consider things thoroughly!"

Fitzgerald also realized his mistake and hurriedly chimed in, "Yes, yes, that's so inconsiderate. We old folks have been so busy lately that we forgot to pay Director Aoyama a visit. It's the biggest rudeness of all. We're such bastards!"

"Please rest assured, both of you."

O'Malley held Jesse's hand and said sincerely, "We are fully aware of this matter. We will go to Mr. Qingshan personally tonight, no, right now, as soon as possible to resolve this issue."

Jesse accepted the money without batting an eye; he was quite pleased with its thickness.

"Now that you gentlemen have verified the facts, our work is complete."

……

That evening, Patrick O'Malley and his business friends entered the San Francisco Police Chief's office with the utmost humility, reportedly bringing five checkbooks with them.

No one knows what they talked about in that office.

All people knew was that the next morning, the front page of the Globe and Chronicle featured Mayor Samuel Black's excited announcement of a grand blueprint for the modernization of San Francisco's sewer system.

Mr. Patrick O'Malley, as a prominent representative of the Irish community, devoted almost half of the second page of the report to praising Chief Greenhill's vision and wisdom, calling him the greatest chief in San Francisco in a century. On behalf of the Irish Chamber of Commerce, he generously donated $100,000 to the San Francisco Police Department to support Chief Greenhill's heroic work in rebuilding the city's security.

Mayor Samuel's policies faced no resistance overnight.

The next day, the mayor's wife, looking radiant, arrived at the police station again with light steps.

She expressed her gratitude to Director Qingshan for his selfless support of the mayor's work and warmly invited Director Dongfang to continue their unfinished artistic exchange.

"Director."

Penny's voice was incredibly alluring: "I brought some new paint today, and you'll never believe how spreadable it is!"

Qingshan beckoned with his finger.

"Really? I'm curious to see what amazing colors will be created when it meets my stiff paintbrush."

"That depends on..."

Penny met his gaze with seductive eyes: "Let's see how you, Chief, plan to delve into your writing."

Aoyama, Penny, Samuel, and Trick O'Malley all seem to have gotten what they wanted, and everyone is happy.

But some are happy and some are sad.

The one who was unhappy was Mrs. Marlene's sister, Sophia Bryant.

(End of this chapter)