America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 170 Hello, Chicago

Hoover's "soft blockade" strategy had previously been invincible in information warfare.

But he miscalculated one thing.

During this extraordinary period of the Great Depression, public distrust of the government and authority has reached its peak.

Three days later, Hoover's strategy completely failed and had serious adverse effects.

When several large bookstores followed the hints and hid "The Grapes of Wrath" under their counters and told customers it was "out of stock," a rumor about a "banned book" began to circulate wildly in the streets and alleys.

"Have you heard? Washington is afraid of this book."

"Why are you afraid?"

"Because it describes how they stole our money! OBI won't allow it to be sold! It's a real banned book!"

Nothing can boost sales more than the message that "the government doesn't want you to see it".

This book instantly transformed from a social novel into a symbol of identity, a silent symbol of resistance.

In Chicago’s underground bars, in Detroit’s car factories, and even in Washington’s taxis, people began trading the newspaper in private.

Do you have that? The one about grapes.

This even became a secret code.

Isabella cleverly exploited this situation. She printed a small note in the corner of the newspaper: "Due to unforeseen circumstances, this book may be out of print at any time. Please keep it safe and pass it on to your neighbors."

This line of text is simply adding fuel to the fire.

Hoover sat in his office, listening to sales figures from various branch offices, and in a fit of anger, smashed his favorite ink bottle.

He originally intended to trap Arthur Kennedy in poverty, but the latter broke the deadlock by selling inspirational quotes.

He originally intended to stifle the book in its infancy, but ended up elevating it to legendary status himself.

Hoover looked at Arthur's route on the map; the line had already crossed Indiana and was heading straight for Illinois.

"He's heading to Chicago. That's Al Capone's territory, and the place with the most intense strikes in the country. If he can get in touch with the union leaders there—"

A hint of murderous intent flashed in Hoover's eyes.

"Since we can't win the propaganda war, let's try another approach. Notify the Chicago bureau and tell them that Arthur Kennedy is an extremely dangerous man. If he gets involved in any gang fights or union riots there—I wouldn't mind seeing a stray bullet autopsy report."

Indiana, Route 66.

The snowstorm finally stopped, but the sky remained a pale, leaden gray.

That Ford pickup truck was on the road again.

Before leaving Harrison Estate, Russell Harrison personally escorted Arthur to the door.

The state senator looks much better now than he did a few days ago.

"You saved my political life, Arthur. Those farmers now see me as a hero against Wall Street."

Arthur smiled. "Sometimes the difference between a hero and a villain is just a book. In this era, whoever can explain suffering holds power. I'm lending you that right; don't waste it."

Russell patted Arthur on the shoulder and said with concern, "You're going to Chicago? It's a powder keg right now. Al Capone runs the city, and although he's currently imprisoned in Moamanson Prison in Philadelphia, his influence hasn't been eradicated. In Chicago, bullets are more effective than votes." Russell cautioned.

"It's alright. I don't think I'll have too much trouble with Al Capone's gang there. Besides, General Grant's soldiers will be willing to protect a spokesperson like me."

Arthur pointed to the list given to him by General Grant on the passenger seat.

"Washington will soon be bustling. I'm going to add fuel to the fire."

The pickup truck drove onto the highway.

The further west you go, the more desolate the scenery becomes. Abandoned farms and broken-down cars are everywhere along the roadside.

Occasionally, you can see groups of people dressed in rags, carrying their bedding rolls, walking westward in the cold wind.

That was the real Jode family.

Arthur didn't stop the car. He couldn't save everyone now; he could only deal with the people who created the problem.

There was a traffic jam ahead when we were almost at Terrehot.

A group of farmers whose land had been confiscated by the bank are protesting in front of a giant grain warehouse belonging to "Tatung Agricultural Trust Company".

Dozens of private detectives in black uniforms, carrying batons, blocked the entrance, and tensions were high between the two sides.

The farmers were shouting slogans, but their voices sounded weak and powerless in the wind of the open field.

The private investigators wore mocking smiles, as if they were about to make their move at any moment.

Arthur suddenly became interested and stopped the car.

Then, he rummaged around in the back seat for a while and pulled out a bulky field megaphone that looked like the kind used by the US military.

He bought it on the black market in Indianapolis; it's powered by dry cell batteries and has amazing power.

Arthur rolled down the car window, mounted the megaphone on the window frame, and pointed it at the group of farmers being driven away and the arrogant detectives.

"Hey, feed."

The amplified sound test exploded like thunder, instantly drowning out all the wind and noise.

The dozens of private investigators were startled and quickly covered their ears.

All eyes were drawn to the dilapidated pickup truck.

Arthur cleared his throat and began to recite a passage from the Declaration of Independence, adding extremely scathing annotations.

"All men are created equal," except for those who owe exorbitant bank loans and have had their ancestral land taken away!

The sound echoed across the plain, making the metal sheets of the granary hum.

"They have been endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." Behold, those with batons! They are taking away these rights!

"They are also children of poor people, but for a daily wage of two dollars, they have to drive away their fellow human beings like dogs!"

Those farmers seemed to have heard the bugle call to charge.

Following the rhythm of the loudspeaker, they roared in unison and charged towards the detectives, driving them away in a panic.

Arthur was very pleased that he could not only amplify his voice through the newspaper, but also do so in real life.

He put away the megaphone, and before the private investigator could react, he stepped on the gas and sped away.

This was just a minor incident.

Two days later.

A hazy patch of smoke appeared on the horizon, and huge chimneys stood like a steel forest, obscuring half the sky.

That's Chicago.

The Windy City, the city of sin, the heart of industry, the meat grinder of the American labor movement.

Arthur parked the car under the signpost leading into the city.

He touched the shotgun under the passenger seat.

Although both are big cities, if New York is known for killing with pens, then in Chicago, perhaps guns are the real solution.

The first name on General Grant's list seems to have some connection to the underground world here.

Hello, Chicago.

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