novelhk Page 66
Page 66
"That means persuading the Chicago Police Department to send a statement to the USA Boxing Association before 1 p.m. regarding Victor's alleged involvement in sexual services..."
Max grabbed the cell phone, his tone firm and resolute: "This is Max, Joe. Tell Ubelman that by 1 p.m. he needs to convince the Chicago Police Department to send a statement to the USA Boxing Association and the Hilton Hotel in Colorado Springs regarding Victor's alleged lack of involvement in sexual services."
The statement also indicated that it would pursue legal action against ESPN reporter Max Wilson for his personal actions that defamed the Chicago Police Department's impartiality and competence in law enforcement.
"That's no problem."
"Furthermore, Congressman Ubelman needs to persuade the Chicago gangs not to get involved in this matter!"
"Understood!"
"be careful."
"Thanks for reminding."
After thanking him, Old Joe asked, "Is Victor there?"
Max handed the phone to Victor.
"Uncle Joe, I'm Victor."
"I'll put the negatives in Frankie's hands. He's trustworthy and will send them to you for me."
"Thank you, Franky is my older brother."
“It was my fault, don’t blame me. If I can’t get out, take Michael and Ethan by boat to Canada, where they can go home.”
"No, Ubelman will help us."
"Viktor, don't believe in trying to figure out those dirty politicians using your own methods!"
“Uncle Joe, Ubelman is just a nobody who was pushed to the top. He’s not that ruthless. Otherwise, he wouldn’t still be indulging in low-level interests. He’s a very safe person.”
“Victor, we need to have a way out before we talk about anything else.”
"Thank you, Uncle Joe."
"You little bastard, you're just like your dead father!"
Rain dripped from Old Joe's hat brim, leaving dark marks on the steps in front of Victor's apartment.
The sound of the key being inserted into the lock was almost drowned out by the sound of the rain.
Old Joe moved with the practiced ease of someone returning home—in a sense, this was indeed his territory.
"39527..."
Old Joe read the numbers aloud, his fingers moving precisely across the safe's dial.
With a click, the metal door opened.
The contents of the safe were even more fascinating than he had imagined.
The photos of Senator Ubelman and that girl named Veronica are works of art—the kind that could ruin a politician's reputation.
Old Joe's rough fingers gently traced the edge of the photograph as he pondered what to do—even though Victor had said the other person was a fool, Old Joe couldn't believe it.
"Film negative..."
He muttered to himself and pulled a small paper cutter from his inner pocket.
The blade flashed a cold light in the dim light.
Old Joe laid the negatives flat on the coffee table and precisely cut out two images.
He tucked half of it into the lining pocket of his custom-made suit, and cleverly slipped the other half between the pages of a book titled "How to Please a Rich Woman."
"This is really bad, Victor."
Old Joe spoke to the empty apartment, his voice laced with sarcasm.
He stuffed the photo into a pre-prepared manila envelope, glanced around the apartment one last time, and gently closed the door, the mop behind him wiping away his footprints.
The Chicago government building looked particularly gloomy in the rain.
Old Joe stopped at the street corner and lit a Camel cigarette.
Smoke swirled in the damp air, blurring his sharp eyes.
A deep voice came from the shadows. Franky—Old Joe's eldest son—stepped out of the back seat of a black Cadillac.
Even in the dim light, you could see that he looked exactly like Old Joe and had a sharp jawline.
Old Joe didn't say anything, he just handed over the book "How to Please a Rich Woman".
When Frankie took the book, their fingers touched briefly—it was their only farewell.
"To the Hilton Colorado Springs Hotel, addressed to Victor."
Old Joe's voice was like sandpaper scraping, "Victor's matter might implicate you, so you need to be careful."
Frankie nodded, his lips pressed into a tight line.
He knew this wasn't the time for discussion. The rules of the mafia family were simple—the father spoke, the son carried out.
Security at the government building was laxer than Joe had expected—perhaps due to Joe's close-fitting and obviously expensive suit.
The guard casually rummaged through his briefcase, squeezed the bulging manila envelope, and didn't even glance at it, perhaps because of the handwriting on it that read "To Ubelman".
But Old Joe sneered inwardly: 'This is the protection that taxpayers pay for'—in America, people blame the government when things don't go their way.
By the time Old Joe found Ubelman's floor, the heavy rain had briefly stopped, and the afternoon sun was shining obliquely through the tempered glass curtain wall, casting geometric patterns of light on the gleaming marble floor.
The air in the government building was filled with the aroma of expensive sandalwood incense mixed with caffeine, and the gilded words "Member's Office" on the walnut door at the end of the corridor gleamed coldly in the shadows.
"I'm sorry, sir, Congressman Ubelman is in a meeting. You need to make an appointment..."
The secretary looked up from behind her curved desk, her fingers, painted with nude nail polish, hovering above the electronic calendar.
The diamond studs on her earlobes shimmered as she turned her head, like some kind of sophisticated alarm.
Old Joe's leather shoes rolled a semi-circle on the carpet, pushing a photograph across the polished tabletop.
A blurry fingerprint clung to the edge of the photograph, showing Upelman with his arm around Veronica's waist as they walked into a hotel.
The contrast between the black queen's lace skirt and the senator's dark blue suit was particularly striking under the surveillance cameras.
The secretary's breathing suddenly froze.
The pearl necklace around her neck trembled slightly with each swallow, and the capillaries that even her foundation couldn't cover started to turn red from behind her ears, until her entire face faded to a deathly pale, plaster-like color.
A faint sound came from under the desk: fingernails scratching against the leather chair.
“I think the congressman would be willing to spare some time for me.”
Old Joe's knuckles tapped rhythmically on the bulletproof glass tabletop, the second hand of his Patek Philippe watch—used long ago—under his bespoke suit perfectly matching the tapping sound.
The electronic clock at the corner of the corridor showed 12:30, and the red numbers danced as blurry dots in the secretary's pupils—Old Joe felt that the heavy rain had delayed them.
The internal telephone line was dialed all at once.
Less than two minutes after a steady narration finally broke through the crack in the soundproof door, the door to Ubelman's office was violently pushed open.
First to emerge was Klein from the security department; the encrypted briefcase in his hand made a dull metallic clang as it brushed against Old Joe's shoulder.
The Judicial Committee advisor who followed quickly lowered his hat brim, but Old Joe still recognized the limited edition Lange watch on the other man's wrist—the highlight of the charity gala auction three weeks earlier.
The secretary's voice sounded like a lark being choked.
She didn't see how Old Joe took the photos. As the automatic door clicked shut, the light filtering through the blinds shone directly onto the surface of the medal on the wall, making its gilded edge look exactly like the outline of a gallows.
Old Joe looks like an assassin, only he's always dressed in a suit and tie.
Chapter 54 I'll eat you for the rest of my life
Ubelman’s office was filled with the smell of expensive leather and cigars, a unique blend of power and money.
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but was filtered by the heavy velvet curtains into a sickly amber color, giving the entire space an unreal feel.
The senator himself stood by the window, his back to the door, his shoulders taut, like a bowstring about to snap.
He commanded, his voice laced with suppressed rage, like the thin layer of rock on the surface of a volcano about to erupt.
The moment the door clicked shut, Ubelman whirled around.
He was younger and taller than Old Joe had imagined, and his well-tailored suit accentuated his sculpted physique from the gym.
But his eyes—those bloodshot eyes filled with the panic of being driven to the brink of despair—betrayed him.
That's not the look of someone who's used to being in control.
"what do you want?"
Ubelman asked directly, his fingers nervously tapping on the $20,000 mahogany desk, his fingernails leaving almost invisible scratches on the polished wood.
Old Joe calmly pulled the photos out of the envelope and spread them out on the table like dealing cards.
Each one is more explicit and more lethal than the last.
The first picture shows a member of parliament talking with a young woman in a hotel lobby;
The second picture shows intimate contact in the elevator—it's obviously from surveillance footage.
The third image became increasingly offensive—Ubelman kneeling on the ground receiving discipline;
And the last one—when Ubelman saw the last one, his Adam's apple visibly bobbed up and down.
"There are 30 minutes left until one o'clock."
Old Joe's voice was eerily calm, like a poisoned dagger lightly slicing across skin: "The Chicago Police Department needs to issue a statement clarifying that Victor has nothing to do with any sex service allegations, and that ESPN reporter Max Wilson must pay the price for his personal actions of defaming the Chicago Police Department's law enforcement capabilities."
Ubelman's face turned from red to white, as if someone had injected ice water into his veins: "You think you can threaten a member of Congress with a few photos?"
His voice rose eight octaves, but he couldn't hide the tremor in it.
He is just a son-in-law, not a son. If these photos are leaked, then Ubelman's political career is basically over.
Old Joe smiled, a smile that made Ubelman unconsciously take a half step back, his leather shoes making a slight scraping sound on the carpet: "Not a threat, Mr. Senator. It's a deal. You do me a favor, and I guarantee these photos will never appear on the front page of the Chicago Tribune."
He paused for a moment, then said, “Think about your wife’s book club, think about your daughter’s future at Princeton.”
"What if I say no?"
Ubelman raised his chin slightly, trying to regain some dignity.
Old Joe slowly pulled a negative from his inner pocket—he had already decided this was a good-for-nothing—and placed it next to the photograph.