America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 171 Big Mike

Chicago doesn't believe in tears; Chicago only believes in pork, steel, and machine guns.

Upon entering Chicago, Arthur Kennedy smelled a certain odor.

That was the smell emanating from the United Livestock Exchange, located in the south of the city.

This massive slaughterhouse, covering one square mile, handles millions of livestock every day.

In an era without strict environmental laws, the smell of fermented blood, burnt pig bristles, and cheap whiskey mixed together to create the unique body odor of 1930s Chicago.

Known as the "Butcher of the World," this place is the industrial heart of the United States and the largest meat processing center in the country.

Sinclair described the hellish scene here in his famous novel "The Jungle," but that did not stop it from continuing to operate day and night, turning cattle and sheep from the Great Plains into canned food and immigrants from Europe into waste.

Arthur parked the car in a run-down neighborhood outside the pens.

The buildings here are haphazardly crammed together, lacking any planning. Black sewage flows through the streets, mixed with melted snow and fragments of unidentified animal entrails.

Groups of unemployed people squatted by the roadside. Most of them were immigrants of Polish, Irish, or Lithuanian descent.

Unlike the homeless people in New York who have numb eyes and only know how to line up for porridge, everyone here has a fierce, wolf-like nature in their eyes.

In Chicago, if you show weakness, you'll be stripped naked and thrown into Lake Michigan in the next second.

Arthur pressed his hand to his chest; the list General Grant had given him was in his inner pocket.

First name: Michael Monaghan, nicknamed "Big Mike".

A former sergeant in the 42nd Rainbow Division, he participated in the Second Battle of the Marne and was awarded the Silver Star. After retiring from the military, he worked as a foreman at the Amor Meatpacking Plant and was also an underground leader of the Chicago Veterans Mutual Aid Association.

Arthur got out of the car and bought a pack of cigarettes at a newsstand by the roadside.

"Any new newspapers these days?" Arthur asked casually, his gaze sweeping over the colorful magazines on the shelf.

The newsstand owner was a typical old man from Eastern Europe. He glanced at Arthur, saw that he was dressed fairly well, and pulled out a crumpled copy of the New York Herald from the bottom shelf of the counter.

"Two dollars. No bargaining." The shopkeeper held up two dirty fingers.

Arthur raised an eyebrow: "Two dollars? The price listed is five cents. Even with shipping, that's forty times more."

"That's the price in New York. In Chicago, this is a banned book. The police department's Red Squad is confiscating this thing."

The boss spat and looked warily toward the street corner.

"Want to read *The Grapes of Wrath*? This is the price. If you don't want it, get lost and don't block my business. This is a special edition; I heard it even includes a copy of the author's handwritten letter."

Arthur laughed, tossed down two dollars, and took the newspaper that he had actually written himself.

"Red Squad—" Arthur chewed on the word.

This is the Chicago Police Department’s infamous Special Operations Unit, ostensibly tasked with combating anarchists, but in reality, it’s the private henchmen of major capitalists.

They are known for their brutality, often storming union rallies without warrants and breaking strikers' legs.

Arthur tucked the newspaper into his pocket, walked through the muddy streets, and arrived at an underground tavern called "Butcher's Hook".

This is a typical "blind pig" bar, which is an illegal place to sell alcohol during the Prohibition era.

There was no sign at the entrance, only a heavy oak door and a peephole.

Arthur knocked on the door three times in a specific rhythm.

"Who is it?" a rude voice came from inside.

"A friend of Fairbanks," Arthur uttered a code word known only to veterans.

Fairbanks refers to Douglas Fairbanks, the movie star and a promoter of war bonds for World War I. But among veterans, the name carries a sarcastic connotation.

The small window in the door was opened, and a pair of bloodshot eyes scrutinized him.

"Come in. Don't cause trouble."

The door opened. A wave of heat, mixed with the strong smell of cheap gin, sweat, and barbecue, hit me.

The tavern was filled with smoke, and dozens of burly men in greasy work clothes were drinking.

Most of them were burly, with calluses and scars on their hands from years of wielding knives.

Some people were playing poker, while others were whispering among themselves.

When Arthur, a stranger dressed in a clean trench coat and with the face of an "East Coast intellectual," walked in, the entire pub fell silent instantly.

Dozens of eyes shone on him like searchlights, filled with scrutiny and hostility.

"Did you take the wrong road, pretty boy?"

A bald man, as strong as a brown bear, who was sitting at the bar, turned around.

He wore a blood-stained leather apron, and a horrific scar ran from his brow bone to his chin on his right cheek—a souvenir left by a German bayonet—making his smile look particularly sinister.

This person should be Michael Monahan. Big Michael.

Arthur walked straight through the crowd to the bar.

The burly men didn't move aside; instead, they intentionally or unintentionally bumped into him with their shoulders.

Just as Arthur was about to be hit, he seemingly casually turned to the side, not only avoiding the impact but also using his elbow to nip a nerve in the other person's neck.

The burly man who had tried to provoke him felt a numbness in his arm. Before he could react, Arthur had already slipped past him like an eel.

"Bang!"

Arthur slammed the two-dollar copy of the Herald newspaper onto the bar counter in front of Big Mike, then placed an unopened bottle of premium bourbon whiskey on top of it. This was his "gift" from Indiana.

"I'm looking for Michael Monahan. General Grant said if I want to find someone to fight in Chicago, or someone to have a drink without methanol, I should come here and find a sergeant named Big Mike."

Upon hearing the name "General Grant," Big Mike's eyes flickered. It was an instinctive awe of his old superior, but he didn't immediately show friendliness.

"Grant is a good old man, but he's gotten senile and is hiding in his manor playing with a hunting rifle."

Big Mike grabbed the bottle of whiskey, twisted off the neck as easily as unscrewing a soda cap, and without even using a glass, tilted his head back and gulped down a large mouthful.

With a satisfied sigh after the strong liquor went down his throat, Big Mike exhaled: "Good liquor. But this won't save your life. Why would he send a pale-faced clerk like you here? What are you doing?"

A reporter? Or Hoover's spy? If the latter, I can turn you into sausage stuffer right now.

The surrounding workers laughed maliciously, and several men surrounded Arthur, holding empty bottles or sharp boning knives, blocking his escape route.

"My name is Arthur Kennedy."

Arthur ignored the people who had gathered around him and instead pointed to the newspaper on the table.

"I wrote this book."

>