Chapter 16: Chaos in Chicago (2) — "The Thousand Cockroach House"
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The joys and sorrows of people are not mutually understood. On the same night, some were committing arson and murder, others were trembling in fear, while some were engaged in a “fishing” game. After placing several elder “uncles” of the gang under house arrest, Donald summoned the younger generation of each family in their name.
At this moment, the limitations of the Irish gang’s clan-based organizational structure became apparent. Without their leaders, several families had essentially turned into loose sand, almost fully at Donald’s mercy. Following the advice of Logan and Richard, Donald pinned his hopes for cooperation on the younger generation—they were peers of Donald who, unlike the power-hungry elders who refused to step down, had no chance to take control otherwise.
Unlike the old guard who scoffed at Donald’s blueprint, the younger generation was deeply fascinated by his vision of modernizing the gang’s organization. An intricately operating group with lofty goals sounded far more promising than the old-fashioned gangs. Since they had no opportunity to rule anyway, they preferred to ally with Donald.
Of course, there were dissenters who even tried to rebel on the spot. No problem—just swiftly throw them in with the elders, then replace them with the next young member from their family. As long as there was one family representative, they wouldn’t be excluded from the new Irish gang, making it easier for Donald to win hearts and minds.
Thus, the meeting concluded successfully amid an atmosphere brimming with hope. The family representatives highly recognized Donald as the new Irish gang’s core leader, promising to jointly maintain the hard-won harmony and unite around Donald to create a new future.
Meanwhile, Logan, eyes gleaming, witnessed what he called a “historic moment” in Chicago’s underworld and swore to make a gangster film someday, fully capturing this “great beginning.” Donald held high expectations for this idea, maintaining excellent spirits throughout and even flawlessly reciting the few awkward “modern phrases” Logan taught him.
Logan chuckled to himself while inspiration flooded in, prompting him to draft tomorrow’s editorial—no, rather, a scathing opinion piece:
“This is no natural disaster; it is a human calamity, a catastrophe ignited by gangs seeking illicit profits!”
“Is it just a few distilleries burning? No! I can almost hear the dangerous currents of alcohol swirling in countless underground moonshine workshops—if you see one American cockroach indoors, it means there are a thousand hidden ones behind it!”
“The flames reveal that Chicago has already become a gigantic breeding ground for criminal cockroaches! Beneath the city’s fabric, nests of vermin writhe in the shadows, dragging our city toward the abyss of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871!”
“Why does our state government turn a blind eye? This must be a systemic problem. I cannot help but ponder deeply: this is paralysis of the entire governance structure, corruption, and incompetence of public institutions!”
“How many such ticking time bombs still lurk in Chicago?”
“Citizens, immediate action is imperative! Mobilize all forces to thoroughly investigate every suspicious corner of the city, dig deep to root out every cockroach nest!”
“We must expose those gangsters threatening public safety and every corrupt official shielding them to the fiery justice of the law…”
The article was written in one breath—expressing the exhilarating satisfaction of wielding the pen as a public intellectual’s tool for exposing evil! Meanwhile, Richard, who had slipped in to read it, was speechless: “If my calculations are correct, most of the larger Italian moonshine distilleries have already burned down.”
“Across Chicago, aside from the Italians’ distilleries which are somewhat substantial, the rest are at best home workshops brewing for personal consumption. Where are these ‘thousands of hidden American cockroaches’ coming from?”
“You’re just spouting nonsense and deliberately stirring up trouble! And don’t forget, you were just advising the gangs on reforming themselves—half a gangster yourself!”
“I’m not! I’m not! Stop talking nonsense!” Logan adamantly denied, thrice over.
He was just a modest newspaper owner who loved his profession. His connection to the O’Connor family was due to blood ties, but what did the gang behind the O’Connors have to do with him?
Donald, increasingly eager to recruit Logan and Richard to assist him, thought: ...
...
The fire at the distilleries was brought under control by the early hours of the morning, preventing further spread. After the 1871 Great Fire, rebuilt Chicago had learned many lessons, investing heavily in firefighting infrastructure. Coupled with calm winds last night, the widespread panic that once could have burned down the city again was avoided.
Yet, while the fire was controlled, the anxious hearts of the people were far harder to contain. Especially the next day, newspapers large and small reported extensively on the blaze: front pages filled with photos of charred ruins, chaotic scenes of zero-cost purchases, and endless casualty lists...
Then, the Evening Sun released a special edition!
Its front page was entirely photographic. The first image was a panoramic view: in the foreground, a boiling sea of flames and twisted collapsed factory frames; in the distant background, the city’s twinkling lights and high-rise silhouettes swayed slightly in the heat haze, evoking the terror of the firestorm.
Compared to other papers, which could only capture the ruins after the fire was out, the Evening Sun’s photos were so “hot” that people whispered if the newspaper had sent someone to start the fire.
Regardless, the adage “seeing is believing” made the subsequent editorial all the more convincing.
“Distilleries,” “gangs,” “inept state government”—every person frightened by the fire found a target for their blame in Logan’s pen.
The term “houseful of cockroaches” was strangely misleading yet instantly understood, etching itself into the minds of Chicagoans and igniting the city’s pent-up fear and rage.
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The people of America in this era were not the steel-willed Americans a century later.
A hundred years hence, a top-three American metropolis could burn and the federal government remain unruffled; the Americans unaffected, the victims emotionally stable—a fire of freedom, democracy, and civilization.
But the Americans of today were not so.
A few fires that did not spread had the streets, alleys, and trams of Chicago burning with the same sentiment:
“Investigate thoroughly! Expose those damned gang bootleggers and their protectors!”
“We need a mayor who can protect Chicago! A mayor who can exterminate the cockroaches lurking in the shadows!”
At this moment, the savvy and perceptive must step forward.
Pastor Edward’s gaunt frame trembled with fury, his fingers nearly crushing the Evening Sun in his grip!
That newspaper was the shame of his life; that “physical combat with a prostitute” photo nearly ended his life!
After discharge, seeing the Evening Sun unabashedly publish obscene novels and photos, which only grew bolder amidst waves of criticism, Pastor Edward once believed God had abandoned His people.
Such blasphemy against the Lord could not be allowed to persist.
He cursed, prayed, and pondered... until he understood: this was his lifelong enemy.
He must bring down this sinful newspaper to enter heaven without regret; this was God’s greatest test for him.
Thus, after recovering, Pastor Edward made no public criticism in the papers.
Not to avoid confrontation, but to gather strength for a fatal blow to this shameless publication—
He was collecting public petition signatures to sue the Evening Sun in federal court!
But unexpectedly, a fire exposed the resurgence of the evil alcohol trade!
Every wrinkle on Edward’s stern face twisted with extreme anger.
If the Evening Sun was the demon he sought to defeat in his latter years, alcohol was the devil he had already conquered in his youth!
His honor and reputation were elevated the moment Prohibition was enacted.
So he would never allow this devil to rise from the ashes!
As for the Evening Sun’s “houseful of cockroaches”—in the pastor’s eyes, it was just dog-eat-dog.
“Oh, ignorant lambs! Don’t be fooled by Satan’s whispers!”
The fire? He saw not incompetence in governance, but divine punishment sent by God to chastise humanity’s impure desires!
With this in mind, Pastor Edward decided to obey God’s will, postponing his campaign against the Evening Sun to first channel the lambs’ fury to judge the city’s indulgence of the devil in the cup!
Incidentally, he would also restore his waning authority after the previous march.
So, that afternoon, a massive procession gathered, marching toward the ruins of the distilleries in the South Side.
The crowd echoed Pastor Edward’s calls:
“Purify our city!”
“Let sunlight shine into every corner harboring the devil!”
The momentum of the march snowballed larger and larger.
Finally, upon reaching the distillery ruins, a state senate candidate was already waiting.
He shook Pastor Edward’s hand and stood before the crowd, his face a blend of compassion and determination—
“Citizens of Chicago! I deeply share your grievances! The fire last night burned the hearts of every upright citizen!”
“It revealed a bloody truth—the body of Chicago is riddled with holes, corroded by bootleggers and their protectors!”
He waved his arms as if commanding a victorious campaign:
“If the people entrust me with power, I will launch an unprecedented war!”
“A comprehensive war against every drop of illicit liquor, every distillery, every American cockroach hiding in the dark!”
Hearing the candidate use the Evening Sun’s “houseful of cockroaches” phrase, the crowd’s cheers nearly toppled the flags in the procession.
Pastor Edward grimaced.
That damned Evening Sun!
...
Shortly after the march began, reporters from the Evening Sun also arrived.
Richard, upon receiving the latest news, said to Logan with disgust, “Why is that pastor everywhere? Why didn’t he just keel over last time?”
“I don’t think he deserves space in the paper; just mention him briefly in the report.”
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“That won’t do! That pastor represents the strong demands of Chicago’s citizens,” Logan said solemnly, despite Richard’s incredulous gaze.
“We are a just and objective media—the Fourth Estate, the conscience of society! Richard, you mustn’t let personal dislike compromise our fairness and objectivity!”
You? Society’s conscience?
Hearing this, Richard calmed down.
He watched Logan, waiting to see what mischief he would stir up next.
“Even if they curse us to our faces, as long as it’s hot news, the Evening Sun will report it!”
Logan spoke with the integrity of a media professional.
“Of course, fairness and objectivity are principles, but the presentation—well, it can have a little artistic guidance.”
Richard asked blankly, “Artistic guidance?”
A strange smile crept across Logan’s face.
“Or, you could call it the ‘underworld filter’?”
Exactly—Logan was referring to the BBC’s traditional craft!
The know-it-all Logan couldn’t let the Yankees be outdone by their British cousins!
“For example, the angle.”
“When photographing the pastor, give close-ups of his facial muscles! Let those age spots and nasolabial folds dominate the viewer’s first impression.”
“And the lighting!”
“Wait until he walks into the shadows of tall buildings, or when the sky turns gloomy! Let shadows cloak half his face perfectly, with one eye completely hidden in darkness and the other gleaming with that... hmm, paranoiac nervous light!”
“Also, composition!”
“Never photograph him like a march leader!”
“Use a telephoto lens to compress the perspective, stuffing him into a corner of the frame while those holding placards and fervent old ladies fill the foreground!”
“Highlight his helpless isolation, swept up by the monster wave he himself summoned...”
As Logan said this, he slammed his hand on the table.
“Hey, I forgot to tell the reporters before—no idea if they can grasp the essence.”
“After all, there are too few talents like this; our paper desperately needs such people! Richard, you really have to figure something out!”
Richard was frozen in place.
“Fair and objective?”
He was beginning to forget what that meant!
This guy was always scheming something—he couldn’t even take a photo properly!
Please, just be a decent human once in a while!
Hearing Richard’s last lament, his mouth twitched as he said, “Honest to God, talents like you who don’t act like humans are way too rare!”
Logan shrugged.
See? He’d only learned a bit of BBC’s style and was already called inhuman.
So, just how inhuman are the Yankees!
At that moment, fresh news arrived.
Logan smiled, “I think we should give the main page to this senate candidate.”
“Why? Because he talks well?”
Richard was unimpressed.
To him, all American politicians were the same; he’d sooner believe a prostitute’s virtue than their promises.
Logan replied calmly, “Because he publicly declared he reads the Evening Sun.”
“For a politician with such insight, of course, he deserves fair and objective coverage!”
Richard nodded seriously, “You’re right! Our Evening Sun is absolutely fair and objective!”
...
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