Chương 106: The New Great Sage's Scheme

The air in the mayor's office at the city hall was somewhat oppressive.

The curtains were drawn tightly shut, blocking out the annoying winter sun and the occasional shouts from the square.

Jimmy Walker sat behind that large desk.

His complexion was better than it had been a few days ago.

Sitting opposite him was his new special advisor, Francis McGuire.

McGuire took over the position after Charles Deira's arrest.

McGuire is a bald man in his fifties who wears gold-rimmed glasses and looks like a university professor, but he is actually the most skilled "firefighter" in the Tammany Association when it comes to handling public relations crises.

McGuire looked at Walker and said, "Mr. Mayor, the worst is over."

Walker sneered, "It's over? Didn't you read the newspapers these past few days? That damned rabbit is still running around everywhere."

McGuire shook his head and explained, "That's literature, Mayor. The fervor of literature is finite. People might cry over characters in a novel, but they won't starve for them. Anger is a high-energy-consuming emotion; no one can stay angry forever."

Walker put down his cup and asked impatiently, "So what's your suggestion? Keep playing dead? Hide in this office until the next election?"'

"No. Playing dead will only stop the bleeding, not turn the tide. We must fight back, but not with violence, not even with the law. Kennedy is wielding the big stick of 'justice,' and if you confront him head-on, you'll only get beaten worse."

Hearing this, Walker tapped the table in frustration.

"Stop beating around the bush, Francis. Just tell me what to do."

McGuire took a gold-embossed invitation from his briefcase and placed it on the table.

It was a beautifully printed card with the New York City coat of arms and a line of cursive text.

Epiphany Charity Ball Epiphany, celebrated annually on January 6th, is a festival commemorating the advent of the Triune Church after the birth of Jesus.

Walker paused for a moment.

He picked up the invitation and frowned.

"It's an annual tradition. But what's the point? You want me to go dancing? Those unemployed workers outside are waiting to see me party. Holding a dance now is like offering my neck to Kennedy."

McGuire gave a knowing smile: "If it's an ordinary dance, of course it's suicidal. But what if it's a fundraising dance held to help unemployed workers?"

McGuire continued, "We can announce that all proceeds from the ball's ticket sales, as well as the auction results, will be donated to food banks and church charities in New York. We will be inviting the wealthiest people in all of New York."

"If they don't come, he doesn't care about the poor. If Kennedy attacks this ball, he's obstructing charity and disregarding the lives of workers for political gain."

McGuire's voice was soft, but every word carried weight.

We must strip Kennedy of the cloak of morality and put it back on ourselves.

As long as the ball is a success, as long as the Plaza Hotel is brightly lit, and as long as those celebrities are willing to attend, it proves that you are still the master of New York.

Walker's eyes lit up.

He understood.

This is not just a ball; it is a display of power.

People in this circle are also snobbish.

Following the arrest of Dilra and other events, many people were watching and felt that the Tammany Association was no longer viable.

If we can bring everyone back together now and demonstrate this unity under the spotlight, then all those previous rumors will fall apart on their own.

Walker then asked, "What do you think Kennedy will do?"

McGuire smiled confidently: "What can he do? Call us hypocritical? Call us a showman? Sure. But once the money is donated, his insults will sound sarcastic. Ordinary people are very realistic; they want real bread more than that fictional rabbit."

Walker stood up, walked to the liquor cabinet, and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

He drank it all in one gulp and felt a warm feeling in his stomach.

That long-lost confidence returned to him.

Walker turned to McGuire and said loudly, "Go and make the arrangements. Make a big splash. I want all of New York to know that Jimmy Walker, though a playboy, is a kind-hearted man."

McGuire nodded and stood up to leave.

He stopped when he reached the door.

"Also, Mr. Mayor, you'd better dress simply for the ball. Don't wear that diamond brooch."

Walker laughed: "Don't worry, I'll wear last year's old suit. I'll play this role well."

At the same time, at the headquarters of The New York Herald.

Arthur has just finished a meeting about the expansion of the printing plant.

He returned to his office and rubbed his temples wearily.

Patrick was sitting on the sofa, holding a document that had just been delivered.

That's the latest announcement from the city hall.

Patrick saw Arthur come in and handed him the documents.

"They've made their move. The Epiphany charity ball. The guise is to raise funds for unemployed workers."

Arthur took the document, quickly glanced through it, and smiled.

"A brilliant move. Using charity as a shield and bread to win people's hearts. Looks like Walker has a new ally; that idiot Dila wouldn't have come up with this trick."

Patrick was somewhat worried: "Some people in the union are already wavering. Some have heard rumors that as long as there's no trouble, the city hall will provide relief food. If this dance goes ahead, our 'Rabbit Movement' might fall apart."

Arthur walked to the window and looked at the street outside.

Indeed, the crowd of protesters was thinner than in the previous days.

When people are hungry, dignity often gives way to survival.

This is human nature, and we shouldn't be too critical.

Just then, Isabella walked in, looking rather grim. She said to Arthur, "I just got a few phone calls. They were testing me, asking if we wanted to go to the ball."

It is said that Walker is using all his resources in high society to force everyone to take sides.

Arthur nodded.

"It's an open conspiracy. He's betting I won't dare to sever the facade of 'charity.' If I continue to attack him with anger, I'll turn into a destructive madman."

"So what do you plan to do? If we don't speak up, it's tantamount to condoning his whitewashing. If we speak up, we'll fall into his trap," Isabella continued.

Arthur did not answer immediately.

Arthur sat back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the table.

He already had a plan in mind.

Arthur stood up and walked to the typewriter.

He rolled up a piece of white paper inside.

"We're not attacking charity. We're even praising charity. We're going to interpret this ball in a completely new way. I'm going to tell Walker a story, a story about how farm animals learned to wear clothes."

Isabella seemed to have guessed something and asked, "You're going to write a fable?"

Arthur placed his fingers on the keyboard.

Arthur said, "It's not just a parable. I want everyone who goes to that ball to feel like a dressed pig the moment they walk into the Plaza Hotel."