America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 103 You Devil (Available for Purchase 8/10)

The news spread very quickly.

The news that The New York Daily News was going bankrupt and would sell off its assets spread like wildfire across Wall Street and Times Square.

In these times when everyone is short of money, it's not easy to find a buyer who can swallow such a large asset in one go.

Most people are watching and waiting, like vultures, for the carcass to decompose completely before they peck at it.

But there was one exception.

Isabella walked into Thomas's messy office.

Behind her were two lawyers carrying briefcases and a serious-looking accountant.

Thomas looked up and saw who it was. A look of surprise flashed across his eyes, which then turned into a bitter smile of relief.

Thomas stood up without extending his hand. "I should have guessed. Mr. Kennedy isn't here?"

Isabella removed her gloves and gracefully sat on the guest chair that no one had ever dared to sit on before: "Arthur said he wasn't suited for this kind of occasion. He said he was too soft-hearted to see an old friend move, afraid he wouldn't be able to help but laugh out loud."

Thomas's lips twitched. That guy, he killed him by destroying his spirit until the very last moment.

Thomas sat back in his chair, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity: "We're selling the building and the printing equipment. The offer is five hundred thousand dollars. These are all state-of-the-art rotary printing presses imported from Germany, and the building is in a prime location—"

Isabella coldly interrupted him: "Two hundred thousand."

Thomas jumped up as if his tail had been stepped on: "That's impossible! The land for that building alone costs more than two hundred thousand! Not to mention the three production lines that have only been in operation for two years!"

Isabella pulled a document from her bag, a copy of the New York Daily News' financial statements for the most recent week: "Those were the prices from two weeks ago. The prices now are: a building surrounded by protesters every day, and a pile of scrap metal that will rust if construction doesn't start."

"Mr. Thomas, Mr. Hearst urgently needs cash to bail out his stock margin in Chicago, right?"

If he doesn't get the money this week, his losses will be much more than just this building.

Thomas's face turned deathly pale. This was Hearst's top-secret financial situation; how did they know?

Isabella didn't give him time to think, placing the already filled-out check on the table: "Two hundred thousand, cash. If you sign now, the money will be wired to California this afternoon. If you want to wait, go ask other buyers? I've already inquired, and their offers can't be any better."

Thomas looked at the check.

Two hundred thousand. This is outright robbery. It's like cutting flesh from Hearst's wounds.

But he had no choice; now that the time had come, no one else was willing to make an offer.

He picked up the phone and dialed a California number.

"Boss, Kennedy's men are here. They've offered two hundred thousand."

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, so long that Thomas thought the line had been cut off.

His palms began to sweat as he held the receiver, and his heart pounded so hard it felt like it was going to jump out of his throat.

Finally, Hearst's voice came through, carrying only one word: "Sell."

Thomas opened his mouth, as if to say something, but found that he couldn't say anything at all.

He could hear the panting on the other end of the phone; it was his boss, the once invincible newspaper tycoon, now sounding like a dying old man.

The phone hangs up.

Thomas put down the receiver and looked at Isabella. His hands were trembling, and the muscles in his face were twitching.

"You win."

Isabella smiled and pushed over a pre-prepared contract.

The contract was thirty pages long, each page a detailed list of The New York Daily News' assets. The printing press, distribution channels, office equipment—everything was listed.

Isabella's voice was as gentle as if she were coaxing a child: "Please sign, Mr. Thomas. Once you sign this, you'll be free."

Thomas picked up the pen.

He looked down at the densely packed clauses on the first page of the contract; the words seemed to come alive before his eyes.

The moment the pen tip touched the paper, he suddenly remembered two months ago.

Back then, he was the editor-in-chief of The New York Daily News, and people were coming and going in this office every day. Hearst sat behind this desk, giving orders to his reporters with great enthusiasm.

Hearst said at the time, "Give Kennedy a good thrashing! Let that arrogant brat know what happens when you mess with the New York Daily News!"

The reporters echoed loudly, rushing out like they'd been injected with adrenaline. Thomas stood to the side, watching this scene, his heart filled with pride. He felt he had chosen the right side and the right person.

two months.

Just two months.

That "arrogant brat" bought the newspaper office.

How ironic.

He signed his name with trembling hands.

After signing the last piece of paper, Thomas seemed to have all his strength drained away, and slumped into his chair.

Isabella picked up the contract, examined it carefully, and nodded in satisfaction.

Isabella stood up, looked around the office, then looked back at Thomas, who was slumped in his chair.

"There's one more thing, Arthur asked me to tell you. If you have nowhere to go, you can fill out a form in the human resources department of the New York Herald. We happen to be short of a proofreader. Of course, the salary won't be as high as the editor-in-chief's."

She paused, then added, "Eighty dollars a month. But lunch is included."

Thomas didn't speak. He just stared blankly at the blank notepad on the table, as if it contained something extraordinary.

Isabella didn't say anything more. She turned and walked towards the door, her high heels clicking crisply on the floor.

As she reached the door, Isabella stopped and turned back. "Oh, right, we'll change the keys. Your people should finish moving in by 5 PM today. Tomorrow morning, this will be..."

It's the office building of the *Vanguard* newspaper.

The door closed.

Thomas sat alone in his empty office, listening to the fading footsteps in the corridor.

The footsteps grew fainter and fainter until they disappeared completely in the direction of the elevator.

The office was eerily quiet. There was no ringing of the phone, no knocking on the door, no footsteps of the secretary coming and going. Only the clock on the wall was ticking, tock, tock, tock.

Thomas suddenly laughed.

The laughter was initially very soft, as if it were being suppressed in the throat.

Then it grew louder and louder, until it finally turned into hysterical laughter.

He laughed so hard he was doubled over, tears streaming down his face, and he was lying face down on the table, his shoulders shaking.

The laughter was shrill and desperate, echoing in the empty office.

Kennedy —

He spoke while laughing, his voice broken and intermittent.

"You devil—you devil—"

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