Chapter 17: Chaos in Chicago (3) — Crook Against Crook Against Crook?

“The Sun Times really is quite a good newspaper,” Al Capone remarked in high spirits.

“But just a few days ago, you were calling The Sun Times a worthless rag run by Irish fools,” Ralph Capone said, puzzled.

Al Capone choked on his words, glaring at his older brother. “That’s called having a progressive outlook. The Sun Times has been a huge help to us, got it?”

At first, Al Capone hadn’t paid any attention to the newspapers at all.

Of course not—he was busy hacking people up and setting fires; who had time to read the papers and babble nonsense?

After a series of sudden attacks, he had reduced Johnny Torrio, the Mafia boss, to barely one of his strongest lieutenants.

At the same time, he had successfully infiltrated several of Johnny’s breweries, even resorting to explosives to burn them all to the ground.

By then, even a fool could see what was happening.

Johnny Torrio had realized that Al Capone had betrayed him.

And that was the most dangerous moment for Al Capone.

Even after being progressively weakened, Johnny still commanded formidable power; if he counterattacked desperately, Al Capone would certainly see bloodshed.

Al Capone was ready for that outcome.

Unexpectedly, after The Sun Times barked like a mad dog, stirring public sentiment, things took a curious turn.

Protests and marches meant little to Al Capone—he never cared for such things—but when politicians got involved, it was a different story.

Yes, Johnny Torrio had bought off some corrupt officials in the state government, and the Chicago police force was part of his network from top to bottom.

But it was useless!

The widespread fear caused by Al Capone’s violent acts, amplified by the frenzied media hype from The Sun Times and others, attracted different politicians who pressured the police department and even the state government.

Under this pressure, Johnny was closely watched.

After all, he was the Mafia boss, and he held the majority shares in the breweries.

Al Capone suddenly found the situation growing interesting.

He was the one killing and burning, yet Johnny was the one taking the blame.

Even Johnny’s “protective umbrellas” feared that any move from him would spark greater panic, so they kept the tightest surveillance on Johnny, applying maximum pressure.

So Johnny knew Al Capone was the culprit but dared not act.

The best part was, Al Capone had not broken the Mafia’s unspoken rule of not betraying one's own through cooperation with the authorities.

All those politicians and police were drawn in by the media's uproar—what did that have to do with him?

Now Johnny could only strike back at Al Capone through the Sicilian Alliance.

The Sicilian Alliance was the American Mafia, more precisely a puppet organization launched by the New York Mafia to quell disputes among Italian gangs in America, but it held no real power itself.

Michael Morlo, the alliance’s chairman, had already contacted Al Capone, urging him to reconcile with Johnny.

Laughable. Who in their right mind would believe Johnny would ever make peace with him?

Al Capone, in turn, persuaded Michael Morlo: Johnny was on the verge of becoming Chicago’s public enemy number one; it would be best for the Chicago Mafia if Johnny stepped aside.

With Al Capone swearing to God that he would not harm Johnny, Michael Morlo’s stance softened.

Given Michael’s prestige, it was quite possible Johnny would yield.

What was expected to be a long, drawn-out conflict became one-sided after the newspaper’s uproar. Shouldn’t Al Capone praise The Sun Times?

“Too bad it’s an Irish fool’s rag, but newspapers can be useful,” Al Capone deeply realized that at certain moments, having a newspaper to guide public opinion was invaluable.

“We Italians still need to run our own newspaper,” Al Capone told Ralph.

Ralph frowned bitterly. “None of us know how to run a paper!”

Better not rush into it like before, when Al Capone impulsively started one and it became a laughingstock in the underworld.

Al Capone had thought of that too, his face darkening slightly. “Yeah, no rush this time. We can’t be hasty.”

He had come to see clearly that matters of civilization were different from shooting and killing.

Violence required speed and urgency, but civilized affairs demanded one know how to put on a show—he was referring to how The Sun Times managed to package its shameless face as a moral standard.

As for now? Now it was time to savor the sweet taste of impending victory.

...

With a bright future ahead, Al Capone confidently placed a million-dollar order with the Honored One.

“Han Solo” also placed a large order with Canadian liquor merchant Raymond.

Upon receiving the order, Raymond grew extremely curious.

“I heard Chicago is cracking down hard on bootleg whiskey lately. Doesn’t that affect you at all?”

After delivering this million-dollar whiskey order, Raymond casually asked “Han Solo” that question.

Yes, he already knew “Han Solo’s” liquor was being smuggled into Chicago.

Those in this business had to understand the market a bit.

“Han Solo” wore an inscrutable expression, seeming disdainful of the question.

Raymond was not embarrassed. Shrugging, he continued, “As far as I know, quite a few people in Chicago have started smuggling whiskey from Canada, though none of them buy from me.”

“But you know, I do have some connections here in Canada, so I’ve been keeping an eye on their trading times and smuggling routes.”

Raymond smiled innocently. “Consider it a little gift from me—you might find it useful.”

“Han Solo’s” pupils contracted slightly as he stared at Raymond for a long moment, then revealed a faint smile. “I like interesting people like you.”

“Gift accepted!” Raymond politely handed over several sheets of paper.

“Hope it helps you.”

Only after escaping “Han Solo’s” piercing gaze did Raymond breathe a sigh of relief.

He could never quite figure out this major client.

The orders from “Han Solo” kept growing larger, so much so that Raymond bought a distillery in Canada just to supply him.

Though he respected client privacy, with such large volumes, he should have been able to glean some information—like the times the warehouse was emptied or tire tracks near the storage facility—to estimate the client’s capabilities or manpower.

But there was nothing.

The whiskey in the warehouse seemed to vanish into thin air.

Ha! How could that be?

The only explanation was that “Han Solo” was backed by a big organization, one even more capable than Raymond imagined.

This invigorated Raymond’s spirit.

The business was growing, the payments were generous, and it required little effort from him—such high-quality clients were rare.

He dared not hope to monopolize Chicago’s bootleg market, but if he could claim the largest slice, he could make easy money.

Especially with Chicago recently cracking down on local distilleries following fires, he saw even greater opportunity.

In this way, those Chicago smuggling gangs who didn’t buy from him became, to some extent, his rivals.

Though he called it a “gift,” he had spent considerable effort probing these “competitors”—planting agents with Canadian peers and bribing border officials.

“Now it’s just a matter of seeing how capable this mysterious big client really is.”

“Even if they only cut off one or two rival smuggling routes, it could free up some market share.”

“A big gang bold enough to expand smuggling under these conditions should understand what I mean,” Raymond thought to himself.

...

“Han Solo” understood Raymond’s meaning—the only problem was, he had no big gang, just himself.

After reviewing the “gift” Raymond left, he smirked, “Those who make it nowadays aren’t innocent bunnies at all.”

Though bootleg liquor wasn’t like some light “free trade goods” that a couple of people could transport, making channels hard to trace—bootleg liquor was a bulky commodity, and it was difficult not to leave some clues in transport or storage.

Some less capable smuggling groups even asked suppliers to help with transport.

But that wasn’t Raymond’s client!

The fact that he had managed to obtain customer information from his peers made this guy even more interesting than “Han Solo” had thought.

And he had no idea how big “Han Solo’s” appetite really was.

“Han Solo” never intended to take just a slice of the pie; he wanted to monopolize the Chicago market.

Originally, he planned to use the spatial backpack’s transport capacity to support Donald and Al Capone, uniting Chicago’s bootleg market under one rule.

Now, with Raymond’s “gift” of nearly a million dollars’ worth of whiskey, “Han Solo” felt ready for a high-level commercial war.

—Once these whiskeys were successfully smuggled into Chicago, they wouldn’t be sold as original products; at minimum, they would be blended, diluted, repackaged, and then return tens of millions in profit!

“That won’t do. That’s letting bad money drive out good.”

“I can’t let the American booze lovers be harmed by these crooked merchants! The interests of the American people must be protected through my hard work.”

“Han Solo” proudly puffed out his chest.

...

Night fell over Chicago’s Chinatown.

Though Chinatown’s residents were all Chinese, it didn’t mean the area was completely cut off from the outside world.

On the contrary, due to its aura of mystery, some peculiar customers would frequent certain shops.

Just then, a strange foreigner entered a herbal medicine shop.

Under the dim light, “Han Solo” scanned the herbal cabinets, then asked in somewhat imperfect Cantonese, “Do you have raw Sichuan aconite, cantharides, red arsenic, toad venom...?”

—Logan had to conduct much business in Hong Kong in a past life, so he learned some Cantonese, enough to communicate smoothly with locals.

The shopkeeper was first surprised that a foreigner spoke Cantonese, then, upon hearing the requested herbs, his expression froze momentarily.

Damn it! These are all highly poisonous herbs—what does this foreigner want to do with them?

“Han Solo” offered no explanation, simply tossing a leather pouch filled with U.S. dollars onto the counter.

...

“We have them! All these herbs!” The shopkeeper enthusiastically opened the cabinets and launched into a rapid-fire introduction.

Whatever “Han Solo” wanted to do, as long as he paid, he was king.

This was the most reputable herbal shop in Chinatown, with herbs imported directly from China—authentic and top quality.

“Han Solo” said nothing, merely pulled on a pair of gloves from his pocket, and casually picked up a piece of Sichuan aconite to examine.

“Good quality. I’ll take them all,” he said decisively.

The shopkeeper, still explaining, was left dumbfounded.

No, medicinal use only required small amounts—why did he want so much? Was he planning to eat it as food?

Judging by his appearance, he clearly knew the toxicity!

The shopkeeper shuddered inexplicably.

Whatever, America was full of freaks; he didn’t want to get involved. As long as there was business, he’d do it well.

“Han Solo” left heavily laden.

The shopkeeper’s guess was right: “Han Solo” wasn’t buying these herbs for food or medicine.

After gradually digesting the strange knowledge brought by the bootlegger’s disguise, Logan realized the real value wasn’t the spatial backpack, but this knowledge base itself.

Liquor could serve as both a drink and a solvent.

The knowledge base contained numerous recipes for herb-infused liquors with extraordinary special effects.

This time, Logan planned to produce a concoction called “Bewitching Wine.”

...

Another pitch-black night.

Southeast of Chicago, the roar of a convoy’s engines tore through the silence.

Just as “Han Solo” was about to emerge from the shadows, another engine’s roar suddenly thundered from the flank, screeching brakes abruptly halting the smuggling convoy!

Car doors slammed open, and a group of shadowy men jumped out, their hunting rifles gleaming coldly in the headlights.

“You mutts from the Wild Dog Gang, you’re surrounded! Be smart: leave the goods and scram!”

The intercepted convoy didn’t hesitate—gun barrels poked out the windows, firing back, “Bang! Bang! Bang!”

Gunfire erupted instantly.

Bullets screamed wildly around the convoy, sparks flying.

Shit!

“Han Solo” stared in disbelief at the chaotic firefight ahead.

What was this? Gang war within gang?

Damn it, why was the world full of these crooked characters?

Truly, the world was going downhill, and people’s hearts were no longer what they used to be!

Plus, how did this smuggling convoy leak their route like a sieve? Didn’t they have basic business sense?

“Han Solo” cursed both gangs fiercely in his mind.

Then, bang-bang-bang...

Bang-bang-bang...

The two groups actually stalemated!

“Han Solo” rubbed his forehead in utter speechlessness.

Damn, the black-on-black convoy had more men and surrounded their opponents, yet they were evenly matched?

What a bunch of amateurs who loved to play!

This Chicago gang scene was doomed!

“Han Solo’s” patience finally wore thin after this long, clumsy black-on-black farce.

With a flick of his hand, a small bottle of medicinal wine appeared out of thin air, and he took a few sips.

Putting the bottle back into the spatial backpack, he focused intently, sensing the subtle direction and strength of the night breeze flowing through his fingertips.

Good. The night wind was gentle; the night was beautiful.

With a wave of his hand, a large earthenware jar appeared before him.

He carefully pulled out the stopper, slightly tilted the jar’s mouth toward the wind.

The colorless, tasteless liquid inside steamed upward, transforming into a wisp of smoke that drifted silently away, carried softly on the breeze ahead.

...