Chapter 90
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 90
Chapter Title: Boardwalk Empire (3)
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[WILSON QUITS!]
[WILSON RESIGNS!]
[Puppet Without a Master Leaves the White House!]
Around February 1920.
Woodrow Wilson had finally recovered from paralysis to the point where he could barely move, and not long after, he announced his resignation.
While he was down, public opinion had spiraled into utter chaos beyond repair, leaving him with nothing but the reputation of a mad old man who had sold out the United States to his wife sixteen years his junior, rather than an honorable career.
"The First Lady and my secretaries merely followed my instructions, yet they're facing a barrage of excessive personal attacks. Please, direct it all at me—"
"Don't give me that crap!"
"Then why the hell did you pick a vice president in the first place?!"
"Since when does the First Lady lord over the vice president? Give it a rest!"
And when Wilson desperately tried to turn the arrows toward me, the public's reaction only grew colder.
"My fellow Americans. Though I step down from this position burdened by an indelible mistake, for the dignity of the United States and the ethics of Christian people, I implore you to support the Treaty of Versailles.
This is our first step leaping from the age of barbarism toward civilization, and for the United States to be absent from this treaty would be a profound humiliation."
"Shut your bullshit! What civilization are you leaping toward?!"
"You trying to drag us into Europe's war again?!"
And just like that, he was done.
He'd never come back from this. At that level of treatment, he was a national traitor in the eyes of the people.
When the frigid February air made white breath pour from my mouth unbidden...
My father-in-law, Congressman Curtis, paid a visit to our home.
"We’ve been meeting quite often lately, son-in-law."
"Haha, come on in."
"Where’s our precious grandson?"
"Grandpa!! Grandpa!!!"
"Oh my, oh my. Come here, let Grandpa give you a hug."
After kneading Henry, who was as plump and chewy as a rice cake, for a bit, my father-in-law glanced back at me.
"Things have been blowing over like a typhoon, so we haven’t had a proper talk."
"Hahaha..."
"Dropping by out of the blue and tossing dynamite like that at a guy with a lit fuse—what were you thinking? It worked out fine, but I nearly had a heart attack."
Setting Henry down, my father-in-law patted my shoulder firmly.
"You came back alive from Europe and raised the United States' name even higher, so as one representative of the American people, let me say it again: thank you, truly."
"No need, haha. I just did my duty."
"Of course, of course."
His face broke into a wide smile, but then suddenly he pulled me into a tight embrace.
"But can a father with a daughter really forgive you?"
"S-save me."
"I warned you, and yet you went and made my daughter cry. Let’s see if my shotgun forgives a son-in-law who’s gone to hell."
"D-didn’t you just say you were grateful?"
"That was Congressman Curtis of the United States. Charles here thinks differently."
Finally releasing me, my father-in-law dusted off my shoulder.
"Got some dust on you. Take good care of yourself."
"Yes, sir. Yes, yes. Shall we head to the study?"
To survive today, I’d need to watch my mouth.
"The dynamite you tossed my way was put to very good use, son-in-law."
"What’s the status with the Democrats?"
"They’re finished. There’s a fierce blame game raging over responsibility right now, but at least the Wilson faction is done for. They’ll sacrifice them to find a way to survive. That’s how politics works."
My father-in-law lit a cigar, and I pulled out a cigarette and stuck it in my mouth.
"This election is ours for the taking, no question."
"Indeed."
"So naturally, there’s a brutal fight brewing over the presidential nomination."
"No plans to run yourself, sir?"
"Me? I’m still a mule." (Note: "Mule" refers to a bachelor or unmarried man in context, but idiomatically fits Curtis's self-deprecating humor.)
Congressman Curtis summed up his position quite succinctly.
"To challenge for the presidency, you need a faction."
"True enough."
"I’ve got connections across the political spectrum and plenty of friends, but I’m not the head of any faction. Me running for president? Do I have some monumental achievement, or overwhelming name recognition? The presidency isn’t a game."
"So what are you aiming for this election?"
"Kingmaker. I’ll sell my political clout to whoever enters the White House."
Having this conversation in a D.C. family home was truly absurd.
"When I first saw you, I thought you were born to be a soldier. But I was wrong. You’re made for politics."
"How’s a Yellow Monkey supposed to get into Congress?"
"You’re a war hero. Start building your base now, aim for California House seat first—it’s absolutely doable."
"Still too early. I need more time."
He fiddled with his glass for a moment, then changed the subject.
"Fine. Then let me ask something else. Who should we back in this election?"
"A congressman who’s seen it all in that devil’s den of D.C. needs my opinion?"
"I know the Hill inside out, but you’ve got insight. I want to borrow it."
This was bad.
I’d just used some half-baked future knowledge; I didn’t have real insight.
Of course, I did have future knowledge.
In a few years, a guy named Hoover would win the presidency, botch the Great Depression spectacularly, and get more hate than Wilson ever did.
Then FDR, Franklin Roosevelt, would take over, lead through World War II, and cling to the presidency for decades. That’s the extent of my memory—nothing immediately useful right now.
But if I dodged here, I’d just get scolded for false modesty. Better to play along.
"Then fill me in on the current situation."
"First off, the frontrunner for the nomination is Leonard Wood."
Leonard Wood.
Former Army Chief of Staff who carried on Theodore Roosevelt’s line—the hardline interventionist arguing the U.S. must actively engage worldwide. With Roosevelt gone, he’d become the icon for the hawks.
This guy had raised his voice for U.S. war prep right after World War I broke out, even hosting military training camps.
Yeah. That ‘30-day camp’ that threw me and Marshall into hell? Wood’s handiwork. Thinking back made my teeth grind.
Congressman Curtis rattled off names like Wood, Lowden, Johnson—leading primary contenders—but sorry, none rang a bell.
Sorry, father-in-law. I’m no American history major. I’d love a piece of the action, but I really don’t know this time.
"And, uh, there’s Harding."
"Harding?"
The name oddly made me crave something sweet, like pudding. But it felt strangely familiar.
"Warren Gamaliel Harding. Former Ohio governor and senator. He’s affable and gets along with everyone—that’s his strength—but as I said, lacks real political pull."
Harding. Harding.
I’d heard it.
The legendary guy always ranking with Bush as one of America’s most incompetent presidents.
How bad do you have to be to match Hoover and Bush in votes? Point is, if he’s on that list, he must’ve been president once.
"Harding. Harding. Harding."
"What? Don’t tell me—oh hell no. Don’t say Harding’s got a shot. He’s got no chance."
My father-in-law shook his head, but I couldn’t respond—had to rack my brain.
Harding becomes president?
How to spin this?
Wait, is it this election or the next? How would I know?
After sorting my thoughts, I spoke slowly.
"Why do you think he has no chance?"
"He’s got a handsome face but no substance. Talks big like he’s got some grand cause, but it’s all empty. Spineless, flips with every breeze like a balloon. Not worth your attention."
"That sounds exactly like... the guy right now."
Too easy.
Fits my image of the ‘worst president’ perfectly.
"You said Wood’s the frontrunner, right?"
"Yes."
"But he’s got a lot of enemies?"
"A guy who once ditched the party to follow Roosevelt as the nominee? Plenty of diehard partisans hate him."
"Don’t regimes usually promise a share of power and team up with another strong contender?"
"But Wood’s policies differ quite a bit from standard Republicans."
There’s the conclusion.
"So... wouldn’t it be more appealing to prop up a puppet president who looks like anyone could control him, rather than Wood taking the top spot?"
"You madman."
Curtis chuckled in disbelief, savoring his cigar.
3 seconds.
5 seconds.
10 seconds.
"For real?"
"Sounds like a tempting deal, doesn’t it? I’ve tried a figurehead boss myself—nothing more convenient."
I grabbed hefty newspapers nearby—The Sun and New York Times—and handed them to Curtis.
"What do you think Americans want right now?"
"You asking me about public sentiment? That’s a first."
"Same reason I could take down Wilson. Dear American citizens are... just sick of it all."
Simple as that.
In a nation of rebels, the government nagging ‘let’s do this!’ ‘let’s do that!’ just pisses people off.
And it’s not just talk. Ignore it, and you get smacked.
First it was ‘you German spy?’
Now it’s ‘you Bolshevik?’
All that great ideals and morals talk, and what came back? Just corpses.
I knew it well, having gone to Europe for those very ideals and morals.
People just wanted to forget the war and all the nonsense.
But Wood kept yapping about U.S. interests and ideals, pushing to poke around in others’ backyards even more actively. No wonder he couldn’t win votes.
"So Wood can’t clinch the nomination alone. This trend will only solidify."
"Hence the pretty-boy Harding?"
"If I can see it plain as day, do you think the people gunning for president don’t? They know, but Roosevelt’s heir can’t abandon interventionism. He won’t be president."
I declared it.
My memory had no ‘President Wood.’
Stick to what I know for sure.
Wood’s no president material.
Harding? Not sure now, but he’ll probably snag it once.
My short, clear pitch left my father-in-law looking stunned.
"You don’t think too lowly of American citizens, do you?"
"Lowly? Americans are... well... ignorant, sure. But even a dumb country hick farmer knows profit from loss."
They weren’t blindly supporting Harding because they missed he was a hollow shell.
A guy flapping like one of those gas station air dolls? They like him because he won’t rock the boat with war or morals talk!
He wouldn’t outright say ‘I’ll just breathe and play poker in the White House for four years!’ but everyone knew. Harding was that kind of guy.
Curtis stubbed out his cigar in a hurry and threw on his overcoat.
"Leaving already?"
"Time is money. Gotta stake my claim before others latch on."
"No need to mull it over? I’m just a regular guy who knows zilch about politics."
"If I couldn’t tell bullshit from gold at first whiff, I wouldn’t be in this seat, son-in-law. I’ll grab a toy for the grandkid next time. I’m off."
Before I could stand, he vanished like the wind.
At least I didn’t get shot, but I still learned nothing about Dorothy’s big brother. That’s what I wanted to hear about today.
If my hunch on the Harding line was right, Congressman Curtis could extract plenty in return.
Sure, tying up with the worst president... but if he can’t handle Talulah right, he’s no politician. I trust the old man’s savvy.
Wonder what I could suck out of politics if I tapped in?
January 16, 1920.
The United States, a nation revering God, finally cast out Satan’s brew—alcohol—forever through the 18th Amendment.
Most folks raised a cheer that day.
"Now our kids will grow up in a world without booze!"
"No more drunks or criminals. We did it!"
"Opponents of Prohibition? Obvious who they are. Drive out Satan’s flock to purify this nation."
But humans are such that the more something’s banned, the more they crave it.
"Just cross the Canadian border, and we can slap on 20x margins."
"Heard my Mexican buddies are already moving. Let’s make a killing."
The U.S. had about 30,000 kilometers of borders and coastlines.
1,520 personnel to guard this endless smuggling route.
Dodging these $1,200-a-year guys to smuggle booze was child’s play.
And so, the era of gangs and the Mafia dawned.