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Chapter 65 Jackals
The air in Pittsburgh always carries a distinctive rusty smell.
To build the heart of this industrial empire, engineers leveled Grant Hill.
They removed millions of tons of earth and rocks, filling in gullies, just to make room for power and capital.
Grant Avenue stretches through this man-made canyon.
It cuts through the heart of Pittsburgh, connecting skyscrapers, bank headquarters, and courthouses to form the city's spine.
Under the cover of night, at the heart of this major artery, crouched a gigantic stone beast.
Pittsburgh City Hall.
This is a neoclassical building constructed in the early 20th century, made of massive granite blocks.
Towering Romanesque arches and heavy stone columns.
When the designer built it, he wanted to express not only beauty, but also majesty, a sense of oppression, and an unshakeable order.
It lies quietly on the banks of the Three Rivers, like a silent Leviathan.
Over the past century, countless politicians have come and gone through that heavy door.
Some are fat, some are thin.
Some are greedy, some are idealistic.
Some rose to prominence here and went to Washington; others were disgraced here and went to prison.
The building doesn't care.
At this very moment, Martin Cartwright is sitting in that office on the third floor.
Perhaps next year, or ten years from now, it will be Leo Wallace sitting there.
But for this stone beast, the two names are not essentially different.
They were all just temporary tenants.
Only this building, this massive bureaucratic machine, is the eternal master.
It has its own breathing rhythm and its own digestive system.
It devours taxes and dumps documents.
It operates in the darkness, emitting a low hum, sustaining the heartbeat of this city of 300,000 people.
Cartwright sat at the heart of the behemoth, looking up at the crystal chandelier on the ceiling.
He ran his business in Pittsburgh for over a decade.
He rose from a prosecutor to a district councilor, and finally sat on the seat of mayor.
He always thought of himself as the city's chess player.
He thought he and Morganfield were equal allies, and that he had a place in the eyes of the bigwigs in Washington.
Now he understands.
In their eyes, he was no different from that brat Leo Wallace.
They are all consumables, pawns that can be discarded at any time, and bargaining chips used to balance interests.
Morganfield chose neutrality, while Washington chose to withdraw.
Everyone made a rational choice.
Only he was left to die.
If he loses this primary, he will lose everything.
There will be no more mayoral titles, no more retinues, and no more sycophantic businessmen.
Even those he had offended, those who had dirt on him, would swarm him like vultures and tear him to pieces.
The prosecutor will revisit the files that were suppressed, and the media will expose his family's assets.
This is not about winning or losing an election.
To be or not to be.
A long-lost feeling crept up my spine.
That was fear.
But then, fear transformed into something else entirely.
Something cold, hard, and bloody.
Twenty years ago, Pittsburgh didn't have the glass curtain walls it has now; it was full of coal dust and rust.
Back then, he wasn't called Mayor; people on the street called him "Hammer Martin."
He remembered how he walked into that underground union, filled with the smell of smoke and violence, all by himself, slammed his loaded pistol on the table, and forced the union leader, whom even the police dared not mess with, to sign a compromise agreement.
He remembers how he used every means at his disposal to kick his competitors out of the game one by one.
The person who can sit on the mayor's seat in this steel city is definitely not someone to be trifled with.
In recent years, however, he has been wearing expensive custom-made suits.
She learned to hold a glass of champagne at a charity gala and put on a polite fake smile for the camera.
They learned to solve problems without bloodshed using complex administrative procedures and obscure legal rules.
He disguised himself as a respectable politician.
He almost forgot that he was a jackal who had crawled out of a pile of corpses, a beast that had bitten off countless throats.
Since the rules no longer protect him, then he should tear them apart.
Since dignity cannot bring victory, then let's not be dignified.
Cartwright's gaze fell on the telephone on his desk.
He stared at it, and after a few seconds, he made up his mind.
Cartwright walked back to his desk and pressed the intercom button.
"Get Miller, O'Malley, and Reed to my office right now."
Half an hour later.
Three men walked into the mayor's office.
Police Chief Dave Miller, a burly man with a menacing face.
He was a henchman promoted by Cartwright and controlled the violent machine of Pittsburgh.
Tom O'Malley, the finance director, is a lean, balding accountant.
He controlled the city hall's purse strings and also held the tax secrets of countless businesses.
Campaign manager Scott Reed, a young strategist.
They looked at Cartwright sitting behind the table.
The mayor did not turn on the main lights; only a table lamp on the desk was lit, casting a shadow that obscured half of his face.
"Sit down," Cartwright said.
The three sat down as instructed, sensing the unusual atmosphere.
The mayor was usually very talkative and full of bureaucratic arrogance.
But today, the mayor was as quiet as a stone.
"Washington has abandoned us."
Cartwright's first words immediately changed the expressions of the three men.
"That old fox Morganfield is also planning to watch the show."
Cartwright took a box of cigars from the drawer and tossed it on the table, but he didn't light it; he just fiddled with the sharp cigar cutter in his hand.
"Gentlemen, the situation is clear: our escape route is cut off."
He raised his head and glanced at the three men in front of him.
He reached into the drawer, took out a black notebook without any markings, and gently tossed it onto the desk.
"Smack."
The sound was very soft, but in the quiet room, it sounded like a gunshot.
Director Miller's eyelids twitched suddenly, his gaze fixed on the notebook, his Adam's apple bobbing laboriously.
The financial manager, O'Malley, turned deathly pale instantly, while Scott Reed sat stiffly in his chair, cold sweat trickling down his temples.
Cartwright didn't need to speak.
They instantly understood the subtext of Cartwright pulling out the black notebook: if the ship sinks, the captain will not drown alone.
The air in the room seemed to freeze, and the three men looked at each other in bewilderment.
They saw the same fear and the same realization in each other's eyes.
They originally thought Cartwright was a toothless old lion who could be discarded at any time.
But now they discovered that the old lion's claws were still sharp and were firmly gripping their throats.
What's even more frightening is that the mayor they had been mocking in private was now displaying such a desperate, all-or-nothing determination that it gave them the illusion that perhaps this madman could win.
Working for him might mean death; betraying him means death right now.
Cartwright keenly noticed the fear in their eyes.
Fear is a double-edged sword. If pushed too far, even a cornered dog will jump over the wall, and a desperate person will resort to desperate measures.
What he needs is a pack of hunting dogs that dare to bite, not a pack of mad dogs that are always thinking of biting their owner.
Cartwright leaned back, his entire body sinking into the shadows, softening the taut lines of his face slightly.
"But, gentlemen."
His voice became low and hoarse.
"I'm not the kind of person who likes to drag my brothers down with me."
"We've worked together for eight years. I know your difficulties, and I remember your contributions."
He reached out and took the black notebook back, but instead of opening it, he tossed it back into the drawer.
With a bang, the drawer closed.
The sound made the shoulders of the three people opposite them relax simultaneously, as if a huge burden had been lifted off their shoulders.
"I don't want you to create miracles, I just want you to fight with all your might."
Cartwright's gaze swept across the three men's faces before he gave his final promise.
"Use all the resources at your disposal to fight this war. Forget the rules, forget the consequences, just win."
"Even if you tried your best, we still lost in the end..."
He paused for a moment, a resolute glint in his eyes.
"This fire will only burn me."
"I will make sure you leave cleanly."
"But the premise is..."
Cartwright leaned forward, his eyes flashing with malice.
"I want to see that kid's blood on your teeth."
"Mayor, what should we do?" Chief Miller asked in a deep voice, his hand instinctively reaching for his waist, even though there was no gun there.
Cartwright placed the cigar cutter on the table, making a crisp metallic clanging sound.
"From today onward, forget the rules of Washington, forget the media's comments, forget the so-called legal procedures."
"The four of us have only one goal."
"Destroy Leo Wallace, at all costs."
Cartwright stood up, walked around the desk, and stood in front of the three men.
He scanned the three people one by one with an almost scrutinizing gaze.
"I know what you're thinking," Cartwright's voice rang out. "You want police cars to drive into the South Side construction site first thing tomorrow morning, sirens blaring, scaring the workers so badly they wet themselves. You want to freeze the Reconstruction Board's accounts immediately, so Leo Wallace can't pay next week's wages. You want to throw all that fabricated filth into every newspaper in Pittsburgh."
Director Miller grinned, thinking this was a perfectly reasonable tactic.
"Shouldn't we do this? That kid has been riding roughshod over us for too long. We need to teach him who's in charge here."
"idiot."
Cartwright uttered the word coldly.
Miller's smile froze on his face.
"That's why I get to sit in this chair, while you can only be a police chief."
Cartwright approached Miller, his finger almost poking the police chief's nose.
"Do you think sending a few police cars to harass him will solve the problem? Or do you think freezing his funds for a few days will make him submit?"
"Leo Wallace has proven he's not just an ordinary street thug."
Miller broke out in a cold sweat and instinctively shrank his neck.
"Then... what should we do? Are we just going to watch him get away with this?" Scott asked, somewhat unwillingly.
Cartwright took a deep breath.
"No."
"We must destroy him completely, but not with piecemeal tactics."
Cartwright walked back to the table, picked up the sharp cigar cutter, and slammed it shut with a sharp "click."
"We need to fight a war of annihilation."
"I want you to concentrate all your ammunition, all your means, and all your resources."
"I will not allow you to investigate fire safety today, tax matters tomorrow, and then engage in smear campaigns the day after. That will only give him time to breathe and time to find our weaknesses."
"What I need is synchronization."
Cartwright stared at his three trusted confidants, his tone chilling.
"I want to put the weight of the entire mountain on his spine in an instant."
"Even if he is truly a once-in-a-century political genius, under such immense pressure, in a suffocating situation with no chance to breathe, he would inevitably panic and make mistakes."
"If he makes just one wrong move..."
"Then he's doomed."
The three men looked at the man exuding an aura of authority and felt the oppressive presence of an old-fashioned political animal.
They nodded vigorously.
"Understood, boss."
"Go ahead and wait for my instructions."
The three got up and left.
When the office door closed again, Cartwright walked to the liquor cabinet.
It was filled with expensive red wine and whiskey, all prepared to entertain important figures like Morganfield.
He bent down and opened a locked small cabinet at the very bottom of the wine cabinet.
They took out a glass bottle without any label.
It contained strong liquor, which was spicy, cloudy, and extremely strong.
This was what he drank every night when he was a borough councilman in one of Pittsburgh's most chaotic neighborhoods.
At that time, he was fierce, cunning, and full of vitality.
He unscrewed the bottle cap and took a big gulp straight from the bottle opening.
The burning liquid burned down my throat and all the way to my stomach.
The intense burning sensation made him cough twice, but then a surge of heat rushed through his limbs and bones.
That familiar feeling is back.
That feeling of being a predator.
Cartwright, holding the bottle, was about to turn around.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a slight movement on the desk.
A huge American cockroach was crawling rapidly along the edge of the desk.
Cartwright reached out and pressed his thumb directly against the crawling insect.
"puff".
The tenacious creature burst open under his thumb, splattering juices everywhere.
Cartwright raised his hand and looked at the blurry wreckage on his thumb.
He looked down at the three-hundred-dollar Italian tie on his chest, then pressed his thumb against the tie and slashed it downwards sharply.
An ugly stain was torn into the tie, like a rip.
Beneath that stain, the dignity of a mayor and the demeanor of a politician all became a joke.
This is nothing more than a rag used to wipe away dirt.
Leo Wallace thought he had won the support of those above him and that he had the so-called "power."
That young man simply didn't understand.
In the mire of Pittsburgh, life and death are never determined by the gods above, but by the crocodiles in the mire.
Cartwright grinned, revealing his teeth.
"Welcome to the mud pit, kid."
"I'll teach you what real Pittsburgh politics is all about."
He raised the bottle again and gulped down the burning liquor.
The jackal that used to hunt in this jungle was driven mad.
He was ready to bite off the throat of any intruder.