America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

After the call ended, the office was silent.

Isabella pushed open the door, holding a newly printed proof. Seeing Arthur's expression, she put the proof down, walked to the table, and asked, "What happened?"

Arthur told her what had happened.

After listening, Isabella remained silent for a moment, then asked, "Do we have any other options?"

"I don't know." Arthur rubbed his temples.

"The AFL needs three months to apply for a permit, and even if they do, they can find other reasons to delay. Both community centers have withdrawn; they don't dare to confront the city hall. We don't even have a place to rehearse now."

"What about the union's other venues? The AFL has many branch offices, and they may also have small auditoriums."

"They're all the same." Arthur shook his head.

"As long as it's a formally registered public place with a fixed address, the city hall can find a reason to intervene. They'll inspect fire safety, building safety, and dig up all sorts of obscure regulations. If they want to cause trouble, they can always find one."

Isabella thought for a moment, then turned around, her back to the window, looked at Arthur, and said seriously:

"Then let's find an informal one."

"What do you mean?"

"Find places that the city hall can't touch. Find places that aren't officially registered, or places they would never even think of using for rehearsals."

Arthur looked up at her, a glint in his eyes.

"This kind of place is hard to find. It also needs to be big enough to accommodate our small team and a simple set. It also needs to be relatively safe and not too remote."

Just then, the phone rang.

Arthur glanced at Isabella and reached for the receiver.

"Hey Arthur, I'm Patrick."

A familiar voice came from the other end of the phone; it was Patrick O'Reilly.

The last time he attended a banquet in the Central Garden, it was Patrick who was waiting outside with more than thirty dockworkers to support him.

"Uncle Patrick, what's up?" Arthur asked.

"I heard there was a problem with your rehearsal space," Patrick said.

"The news travels fast," Arthur said.

"A man named Dos Passos came to me about this, but he doesn't know we know each other. I think I can help."

"How can I help?"

"We have a basement at the dock that used to be a warehouse, but it was vacated and is now basically unused. You can rehearse there."

Arthur was silent for a few seconds. He didn't agree immediately.

From the Central Garden to the later match against Scapen, Patrick has been taking risks for him. Now, having to provide the venue again will undoubtedly bring him even more trouble.

"Uncle Patrick, this will get you into trouble," Arthur said seriously.

"Troublesome?" Patrick laughed.

"Arthur, when have we dockworkers ever been afraid of trouble? Besides, the situation at the docks has changed."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked. He sensed that Patrick's words had a hidden meaning.

"Frank Scarpen, you remember him, right?" Patrick asked.

Arthur certainly remembered. The dock foreman who colluded with the Tammany Association, the head of the Brooklyn Dockworkers Union.

When the New York Daily News last time accused Arthur of colluding with the dock gangs, Scapon organized two hundred workers to protest at the New York Daily News building, which almost turned into a violent clash.

After that incident, many people suspected that Scapon deliberately incited violence in order to cause trouble for Arthur, escalate the situation, and give the city hall a pretext to intervene.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's finished." Patrick's voice carried an undisguised satisfaction.

"After the incident at the New York Daily News, the workers went back and realized something was wrong. They went there to demand an explanation, not to vandalize the newspaper office. Scapon was the loudest shouter in the crowd, almost pushing the situation out of control."

"Many people feel they've been used by him, and the workers no longer listen to him. The dockworkers in Brooklyn are now working for me."

Arthur understood that the power structure at the docks was changing.

Frank Scapon lost the workers' trust by using them for political purposes and attempting to create trouble. He was no longer the foreman who commanded a large following.

Patrick, on the other hand, earned prestige by consistently standing by the workers, acting with discretion, and protecting them in crucial moments. Now, Patrick has become the new leader of the dockworkers, at least in his area.

"So you can make the decision now?" Arthur asked.

"Pretty much. At least I'm in charge of that basement. It's usually just a pile of junk, but it'll be usable after a little tidying up."

How big is that basement?

"It's enough for your rehearsals. And it's very quiet. The dock is noisy during the day, but the basement is pretty soundproof. Once the door is closed, the outside noise is much quieter."

"Okay. When can we go take a look?"

Patrick suggested, "How about tomorrow afternoon? I'll be off duty tomorrow at noon, so I'll be free in the afternoon. I'll take you to see the place, and if you like it, we can finalize it."

"Okay. See you at the usual spot at the pier tomorrow at 2 PM."

"No problem," Patrick agreed readily.

After hanging up the phone, Arthur put the receiver back in its place and let out a long sigh. He felt his tense shoulders relax a little.

"We've found a place," he said to Isabella.

"Where?"

"The basement of the dock. Provided by Uncle Patrick, at the dock where they worked."

Isabella frowned slightly.

"The dock? Wouldn't the conditions there be too... I mean, it might not be suitable for rehearsing a play. It might be damp, or it might smell."

Arthur smiled, a smile that carried a sense of determination.

"Even the worst conditions are better than nothing. Besides, think about it, rehearsing at the docks, rehearsing among the workers—isn't that exactly what we want? Who is our play for? It's for these ordinary people. Rehearsing where they work might help us find that authentic feeling."

Isabella thought for a moment, her brow unfurrowed, and she smiled.

"You're right. And the dockworkers are very united; they protect their own people."

After saying that, Isabella returned to the practical issue:

"We have the venue, but time is tight. I'll go with you to check it out tomorrow afternoon, and if it's suitable, I'll let Lawson and the actors know immediately. We need to start rehearsals as soon as possible; we can't delay any longer."

Arthur looked at Isabella with unwavering determination:

"That's right! The city hall wants to drag things out with procedures, but we're going to be fast. Before they find the next regulation or send out the next inspector, we'll put on a show."