[b]Atlanta[/b] Jim Sledge stood in the shadows of a parking garage near the Georgia state capital. He'd been there for nearly an hour now, quietly watching and waiting for his contact to show up. He'd called the lieutenant governor's office from a nearby payphone and talked quickly to whomever answered. The rest of the capital's workers and politicians headed home soon after five, but Jim saw the light of the eighth-floor office stay on well after everyone was gone for the day. The plan he and Reed worked out was dependent on this part. If tonight's meeting didn't work out, they'd be forced to take another approach. The senate race was down to the wire and if any changes were needed they would have to be made fast. How this meeting went could decide the outcome. Sledge adjusted his thick glasses and squinted when he saw the car pull in from the street. A long, black car cruised through the garage before idling a few feet from where he stood. Jim got into the back of the car and found the man he was looking for waiting for him already. Lieutenant Governor Ashley McCall stared at Jim over his reading glasses. McCall had curly black hair with flecks of white in it and a long, skinny frame that led to many jokes around Atlanta about him being a scarecrow, all full of straw and no brains. "Well you got my receptionist all riled up," McCall said as he pulled his reading glasses off. "But your choice of language got my attention. I debated if I should come or not." "As I imagine you would. You're a good man, but when someone promises you the governor's chair you come running." "Speaking of that." "Ash, I am a man of vision. The vision I'm seeing is Ashley McCall as Georgia governor in 1980, being reelected in 1982 and 1986. Six years of governor until... Senator McCall? You never know, they say Preston Marbury has a bum ticker. Or maybe something higher? Cabinet post? Maybe even higher. That's what I'm seeing Ash, but how it turns out depends on how this conversation goes." McCall chuckled. "Hamp wins this Senate election, I become governor by default. He resigns and I'm in the big chair. Two years worth of experience as governor heading in '82 means I win the Democratic primary in a landslide and the general election? Son, this is Georgia. There's Democrats or nothing at all." "Solid thinking, Ash," Sledge nodded. "But Taliaferro winning that Senate race and you taking over makes you look weak. Everyone in the state knows what he's doing, Ash. He's gonna go to Washington and set you up here in Atlanta as his puppet." McCall started to protest, but Jim cut him off. "Doesn't matter if it's true or not, all that matters is what people think and what they say. You've been dependent on Hampton all your political life. For god's sakes, he's your father-in-law. You know what they say about you behind your back, Ash, about how you married into, how you're dumb and just Hamp Taliaferro's little lackey. Hamp himself jokes about you, says getting you elected as lieutenant governor was only because he loves his daughter so much. The end result of all of this will be you taking over the governorship no later than this time next week. Hamp has been a political force in this state for decades, but he's gotten too complacent. He's had his time. You're young and you are the future of this state. Your future is very bright if you play along. You want to be your own man, don't you Ash?" McCall struggled to find a response. He fiddled with the hinges of his glasses and mumbled to himself. "But... I got my wife and kids to think about. He's my father-in-law." "Nobody will know," Jim assured. "What I'm going to ask of you is minor and just between us. If you help me out, I have promises from people that your subsequent gubernatorial campaigns will be successful." "Who is promising?" Jim held his hands out, palms facing outward. "Ash, I'm not going to say... but put two and two together." McCall sighed and looked down at his shoes. Jim saw him working his wedding ring up and down his finger in an unconscious tick that was as effective as any words McCall might have spoken. After what felt like five minutes, McCall looked up at Jim. "God help me, what do you need from me?" Jim gave him a sympathetic smile. He found that an understanding smile made traitorous behavior go down better. "I need the governor's itinerary for the next two days, as well as the names of the state troopers that are part of his security detail." ----- [b]Sun City, Arizona [/b] Bart Marston placed the back of his head against cool concrete wall and closed his eyes. The dimly lit, concrete corridor was in the basement of the Lucky Gent Casino, as far away from prying eyes as possible. Even with the door closed and the concrete wall between them, he could hear the squeals from the man inside. Nobody worked over card cheats quite like Chuck Waters. Bart clocked in at five foot ten and Chuck towered over him by at least a full six inches. Big and mean with a buzzcut so close his blonde hair looked almost white. Everybody on the strip knew Chuck and knew not to fuck with him. The metal door swung open and Chuck walked out with a pair of bloody rubber gloves on his hand and sweat beading down his forehead. His suit coat was off and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past the elbow, revealing a USMC tattoo on his forearm. He flashed Bart a smile and shot him a wink. "Come on in, Bart. I think he's ready for your talk." Bart lit up a cigarette and followed Chuck inside. There were just two features in the small concrete room. One was a small table that had the contents of someone's pockets -- wallet, keys, change-- resting atop them. The other feature was a large wooden chair like the kind they used for the electric chair. It was bolted to the floor and had thick leather straps to bind whoever sat there in place. Strapped in was a bloody pulp of a man who Bart saw a half hour ago, being shoved into the room by Chuck and two members of the Lucky Gent's staff. Chuck pulled off his rubber gloves and let them fall to the cement floor while Bart smoked and rifled through the contents on the table. He picked up the beaten man's wallet and pulled his driver's license out to read. "Luverne, Minnesota," he said, blowing smoke from his mouth as he spoke. "Spent some time up there during the war, cold as hell." Bart turned and stared at the beaten man with a soft smile. He made sure he held the driver's license up so the man could see it through the dim lighting and his swollen eyes. "I'm going to keep this, Mr. Davis. So I know who you are and where you live. Sorry for me partner's roughness. You see, Mr. Davis, the Lucky Gent Casino does not take kindly to card cheats and neither does he." "I didn't cheat," Davis spat, spitting out blood and saliva as he babbled. He slurred as he spoke. Bart figured that was because he was missing so many teeth. "I-I-I- use a mathematical system. It's not--" "It's cheating," Bart said in a dull tone, saying what he had said to countless cheaters before. "Not legally, but it's cheating. You're a card counter, and Sun City does not like card counters. Card counters have to be smart guys, right? A smart guy like you doesn't need his fingers and toes to count and that's good. It's good because you're going to be missing at least a whole hand's worth of fingers if you ever step foot in this casino, or any Sun City casino again." Bart pulled back his suit coat, revealing the revolver on his hip and the badge beside it. The badge was a gold star with the words Sun County Sheriff engraved on the top and sergeant at the bottom. Chuck walked to his suit jacket on the floor and picked up his own badge, showing Davis that he too was a sheriff's deputy. Bart tossed the license back on the table and stepped forward to make eye contact with the man. "Go back to Minnesota, Mr. Davis. I'm sure Luverne is a nice town and I can assure you that Sun City is not. It's a cruel town that has no place for you. You're too smart, and Sun City hates smart men. You've got twenty-four hours to leave town. Remember that I know your name. I call around the hotels in the city and discover you haven't checked out at the end of those twenty-four hours, my partner and I are going to hunt you down and bury you alive out in the desert. Understood?" "I'll leave," Davis sobbed. "Just don't hurt me, don't hurt my family." Bart patted the weeping man on the shoulder and turned to leave with Chuck behind him. Two of the Lucky Gent's goons were already waiting outside the room with smirks on their faces. He couldn't remember their names, Tony or something like that. The mob guys always had the same damn names and goofy ass nicknames. "Always the talker, Marston," one of them said. "Just like daddy," the other chortled. "Always talking, talking, talking. What's wrong? Afraid of getting your hands dirty?" Chuck stepped out into the hallway, sliding his suit jacket on over his massive arms and shoulders. Bart resisted the urge to throw a fist at the two smartass goons and instead pointed back to Chuck. "When I got a guy like that, why would I need to get my hands dirty? I'm the brains and he is the brawn." He left Chuck behind to deal with tweedle dee and tweedle dum and made his way up to the casino floor. The Lucky Gent's motif was all Wild West. Croupiers dressed in black and white suits with waistcoats, sleeve garters, and bowlers, the cigarette girls dressed like cowgirls. The strip club in the back of the casino featured dancers wearing gold star pasties on their breasts and nothing much below it besides a gunbelt. Bart ignored the sights and sounds of the casino and headed for the door. Nigh on midnight and the Sun City Strip was in full swing. Tourist gawked at the bright lights and big casinos while the suckers moved from joint to joint to try and hit it big. Bart got into the unmarked car he and Chuck used and got behind the wheel to await his partner's return. He hated this city. It was all bullshit with gold dust sprinkled on top. He hated it because it took people's money and left them nothing. He hated it because his father loved it so much, and he hated it because this goddamn city was his birthright. The Marstons were one of the first families to settle in Sun City in the late 1800's. Bart's great-grandfather ran a general store, his grandfather owned a saloon and was the city's third mayor, and now his father was a United States Senator. Rod Marston wanted the same life for Bart, but he told him to go to hell and took a job with the SCSD. Even as a cop he felt his old man's presence. Bart made sergeant two years after joining the force and would have made lieutenant before he left to fight in the war. He came back and got offered a job as squad supervisor in homicide. He instead requested his current detail, working in the three-man Intelligence Unit. It was a shit job with meathead Chuck Waters as his partner and a lush like Captain Randall as supervisor. Bart requested the post because he knew if he stayed in a regular bureau like homicide or narcotics he would rise against his will. The old man would assert pressure to see him make rank. He wasn't happy when Bart joined, but he said that if he wanted to he could be sheriff by the time he was forty. Bart didn't want that. He wasn't really sure what he wanted, but he knew what he didn't want and what he didn't want was exactly what his dad was offering. So he stayed in Intelligence and worked a dead end job with no chance of promotion just because he knew his father couldn't stand it. Chuck got into the car and pulled out a small roll of bills. He counted off a few hundred dollar bills and tried to pass them to Bart. He shook his head and pushed the money back. "C'mon, sarge. I feel bad about always keeping the money Frenchie gives us." "Don't worry about it, Chuck. You got your girl and kids to think about. Besides, I'm a Marston, I'm not strapped for cash." "Ever wonder why they bring us in to work over the card cheats?" Chuck asked as Bart passed him a cigarette. "They got their own guys who can lay out a beating, so why pay us three or four scoots when they can get an in-house guy to do a tune-up for free?" "It's the badges," Bart said, blowing smoke out the window. "Frenchie likes letting cheats know that it's more than his guys who protect the casinos. He also does it because he's playing the long game. He'll keep us around for small stuff until we're needed for something real big. We're an investment, Chuckie. That's all." Chuck slipped the money back into his pocket while Bart checked his watch. "Twenty after midnight. We still got three hours to kill before our shift ends. Suggestions, Deputy Waters?" Before Chuck could answer, a roar filled the air. Two motorcycles tore down the Sun Strip at breakneck speed. The two shaggy looking men were blurs of motion, but Bart made out the logo on backs of their cutoff leather jackets. In the center was smiling, sinister-looking Mongolian on a motorcycle with a large sword raised. The patch across the top of the jacket read Horde, the patch across the bottom read California. "Those assholes," Chuck hissed. "I thought they were warned to keep on their side of the border." "Chalk it up to hearing loss, Chuck," Bart said as he started the car. "Those loud bikes mean they can't hear so good. Let's see what they're up to." ----- [b]Washington D.C.[/b] "It is now in order to consider Appropriations Bill 2601. For what purpose does the gentleman from California seek recognition?" Congressman Harlan Lewis cleared his throat and spoke into his lectern's microphone."Mr. Speaker, I ask the House to pass Appropriations Bill 2601 as reported favorably out of the House Appropriations Committee." The Speaker Pro Tempore granted and asked the clerk situated below him on the triple dais to read the bill's title in full. "Appropriations Bill 2601, a bill to appropriate monies for the purpose of foreign aid relief for the Pan-Africa Empire as it fights against the Spanish Republic." From the press gallery above the House floor, Traci Lord watched the action with amusement. There was a debate planned, but it was going to be a short one. The days of inspiring rhetoric in this chamber or the Senate was long gone. A hundred and fifty years ago men like Daniel Webster, Clay, and Calhoun could sway hearts and minds with their stirring words and turn the fate of a bill from a doubtful passage to an easy victory. That was then. Now, while a handful of congressmen and senators stood on the floor and spoke, the real deals were going on in the cloakrooms and offices far away from the debate. Today marked Traci's fifth day on Capitol Hill covering the foreign aid bill. Her first story had been published two days earlier to some interest among Congress and the reporters that covered the body. The first part of the series covered the background on the bill, background on Harlan Lewis, and the process of the bill moving through committee. "Mr. Speaker," Lewis started back. "I propose this bill to Congress because now is the time to stand upon the world's stage as the beacon for freedom against oppression. Since 1776, this nation's principals..." Traci tuned Lewis out and went back to her notebook. She'd read his full statements later in the congressional transcript and find if anything was quote worthy. Lewis was an odd case, as she discovered in her interview with him earlier that week. Congressmen from districts as safe as Lewis' often did very little besides get their districts pork barrel projects. The voters in his district didn't want pork barrel, didn't want much of anything besides keeping taxes low. It seemed to her that he was doing this simply because he could. "Now what are you smiling at?" Traci looked up from her notepad and saw an old, familiar face. "Senator Dixon," she said with a grin. "Slumming it in the House are we?" Senator Bill Dixon did a mock bow and sat down beside Traci, unbuttoning his suit coat as he sat. "I like checking up on the House from time to time. Helps me keep the Senate in perspective, reminds me that I could have it a lot worse. What are you doing here, my dear? I thought you got out of the congressional reporting game?" "They sent me back to cover Lewis' bill," Traci said in mock offense. "You mean to tell me you haven't read my first article on it?" "You work for the [i]Post[/i]?" He asked with a smirk. "That paper is part of my morning routine, nothing gets my ass clean quite like the [i]Washington Post.[/i]" Trac couldn't help but smile. "On the record, what do you make of the bill?" "I applaud Congressman Lewis for his bold step. For far too long, Congress has been willing to let the Executive Branch dictate the course of foreign policy. With this bill, perhaps the scales can be balanced." "Uh-huh," she said as she wrote down his remarks. "And off the record?" "Jackass," he replied quickly. "Did not consult anyone else on this and just moved forward, forcing Republicans into a tight spot, especially now that it looks like the White House is trying to hijack it and take credit for getting it through Congress." "What's the Senate's strategy?" She asked. "On the record, I mean." "The Senate will have to wait and see how the House votes before it can consider anything," Dixon said in his measured voice again. "If it passes, the margin of victory our colleagues in the House passed it by will be taken into consideration as Majority Leader Kelly puts it on the legislative calendar." "Off the record?" Dixon made a raspberry and did a thumbs down. "The worst thing President Norman could have done was let it be known he was in favor of the bill. Those old goats from the Deep South are licking their chops, waiting to sink their teeth into the bill. Since Vice President Reed met with those activist in Tennesse, the Southern Caucus is going to lock that bill up tighter than a tick's ass and make sure it doesn't see the light of day until they get assurances from Norman that there will be no civil rights bill proposed by the White House." Traci looked down at the floor of the House. A Democrat from Rhode Island was arguing against the bill purely for fiscal reasons, arguing that the money would be better spent at home than in Africa. "This is the calm before the storm, Ms. Lord," Dixon said as he stood, buttoning his coat back. "Enjoy the civility of the House. When we get to the Senate, it's going to be a goddamn bloodbath." ----- [b]Chicago [/b] Johnny Legarrio always felt like he was in a different world when he went to Bobby C's mansion. The palatial estate was far removed from Bobby's humble Southside origins. The story of Robert Colosimo's rise to the top was the stuff of mob legend. A homeless urchin brought in from the cold by Al Capone himself. He was Capone's top button man during the beer wars and the bloody aftermath. He was supposed to have killed a rival Irish bootlegger when he was just fourteen. Capone ended up going to the clink and dying after syphilis rotted his brain out. Bobby C. served the Outfit and rose through the ranks until he took control of it in the late fifties. He was an Outfit lifer then with thirty years of service and still only in his mid-forties. Johnny stood in the foyer of the mansion with Mick Mahoney and Prussian Joe. Mick played with the loose threads on his suit while Prussian Joe folded his hands over his stomach and patiently waited. Bobby C. knew they were coming, Johnny gave him a call right after he heard Prussian Joe's pitch three days ago. Bobby said he was making a trip out of town and would be back tonight, to come by the house at around seven. It was now seven thirty. "Gentlemen," Bobby's bodyguard Momo said as he came into the foyer. Momo wore a sweater and sports jacket, but Johnny could clearly make out the piece in the shoulder holster. "Mr. Colosimo will see you now. I'm going to have to frisk all three of you before we proceed." Momo made a quick show of shaking down Mahoney and Prussian Joe before Johnny willingly handed over his Colt 1911 and let Momo make sure that was all he carried. When he was satisfied, Momo led the small party through the house. Mahoney's big eyes looked at everything enviously. Prussian Joe meanwhile kept up his bored look. Johnny wasn't sure what to make of the short little German. He was always cool and detached, almost to the point of being a front. Regardless Johnny knew he liked the guy, more so than Mahoney with his sycophantic behavior. "Johnny!" Bobby C. waited for them out on the deck facing his back yard. The old man wore a pair of swimming trunks and nothing else. He was somewhere in his early seventies and had the body of a man half his age. It was all lean and wiry. The only signs of age were the white chest hair and a long heart surgery scar that ran from the bottom of his neck down to the top of his stomach. That wasn't the only scar on his body. A long, crescent moon shape started near his left breast and went down towards his ribs. It was supposed to have been from a stabbing back in the thirties. His snowy white hair was gelled and parted immaculately. "You look so skinny, kid. You need to eat something!" "Me? What about you. You're like a husk." Bobby put his arms around Johnny's shoulders and hugged him. Beneath the beaming grin, Johnny felt an overwhelming urge to snap the old man's neck. Bobby was all smiles today, a far cry from that day when he promised Johnny he would blow his brains out if he didn't come to work for him. "It's this goddamn diet my doc put me on," Bobby bemoaned. "No salt, no pork, no cigars, nothing good. I survived everything the fucking Micks can throw at me, but in the end it's my heart that tries to clip me. Come on, follow me." Johnny and the others followed behind Bobby as he padded through the big house. He led them into his study and motioned towards plush leather couches and chairs while he sat down at the desk and eyed Johnny's friends. "Bobby, this is Mick Mahoney and Prussian Joe." "Sound like a comedy duo," Bobby snickered. The others laughed, Johnny and Prussian Joe politely while Mahoney seemed to laugh a little too hard. Bobby stared at him a beat before turning back to Johnny. "So you said these two clowns have some score they wanna talk about? Well let's talk." "The First National Bank, Mr. Colosimo," Prussian Joe said without preamble. "I have a plan to rob it, a robbery that could gross as much as ten million dollars." Bobby C. let out a low whistle and laced his hands together. "Big talk my friend, but just talk. Who are you that I should believe or trust you? Johnny vouches for you, but I don't know you." "I have done some freelance work with some of your cohorts around the country. Perhaps reach out to the Como Family in Kansas City and ask them if they know me. I am almost certain they will deliver you a glowing appraisal of my abilities and professionalism." Bobby stared at him for a long time before leaning back in his chair and sighing. "You were saying about a plan?" "Ja, I was recently imprisoned at Joliet after another score of mine was cut short thanks to an informant. Before I went away, I was scouting out the First National Bank as a potential score after the one I was on. Shortly after being released, I went back to the bank and cased it. Nothing has changed and it is ripe for the picking." "What makes them so-- Johnny, give me a smoke would ya?" Johnny pulled out a cigarette and lighter, passing them to Bobby. He lit up and inhaled the smoke deeply. "I know I shouldn't," he said as he blew smoke out. "But it's so damn good. Now, what makes that bank so ripe of a target?" "The alarm system," Prussian Joe said as he pulled out his own cigarettes. They were of some middle eastern blend that smelled foul and made Johnny crinkle his nose at the scent. "They still have a Rinco 9800. As any good bank robber, I keep up with the latest in the security trade. The 9800 was recalled six years ago because its circuit breaker and wiring is inherently flawed. A few simple wire pulls can short circuit the system and disable its overt and silent alarms. With a three man crew, I can go in there and short circuit the alarm and spend as much time as I need clean out the whole safe." Jonny watched Bobby thinking it over. It was the same plan Prussian Joe relayed to him a few nights ago at the Cheetah Room. Johnny knew the plan was risky, but robbing a bank always run some sort of risk. Bobby was more conservative than Johnny simply due to age, but a guy doesn't get to the top of the Outfit by playing it safe. "I want to reach out to my guys in Kansas City," Bobby said, pointing a finger at Prussian Joe. "And I want proof that they got this shitty alarm system that you say they do, and I want to read about how shitty the alarm is. You do that, you have my blessing to form a crew and hit the bank. I'll be taking twenty percent in tribute, the rest to be divided up among your crew." Johnny felt a sense of relief pass through the other men. He also let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in. "Good," said Prussian Joe, wiping his forehead with a pudgy hand. "As for crew, I'd like Johnny with me. Mahoney is a safecracker and I may need him. I will teach him how to short circuit the alarm so it's ready to be put out of commission before we walk into the bank. We will require a driver. A four-man crew all together should suffice." "I want a fifth," Bobby replied. "A backup in case this thing goes sideways. I got a guy with the CPD who has been looking for work." "You sure it's a good idea to get a cop involved?" Johnny asked. "He ain't a cop, Johnny Boy, he's a wiseguy with a badge. He'll lay out the groundwork and keep the heat off of you if it comes to that. I want him on the job and that is non-negotiable. If you want this thing to go down, then he has to be on the job." Johnny traded looks with Prussian Joe. The little man pressed his lips tight together and made no attempt to hide his annoyance. Johnny shrugged slightly, silently asking what could they do. "You're the boss," Prussian Joe said with his own shrug. "Whatever you say goes." "That's right. Don't forget it." ----- [b]Macon, Georgia[/b] Macon City Police officer Fred Baker walked down the halls of the rundown motel towards 219. The hotel's night clerk walked beside him with a skeleton key in his hand. The clerk was the one to call in the noise complaint after several calls to the room weren't answered by the occupants inside. "Goddamn music," the clerk snarled. "You can hear it even all the way down here!" Baker heard the music alright. A loud screeching noise of horns playing together in some random cacophony. That Jazz crap, Baker thought. Jazz was the music of the coloreds and hopheads. Who else in their right mind would like shit like that with no rhythm. "Open up," Baker shouted as he stood in front of the door. He banged on it with his nightstick hard, so hard it could be heard over the music. "Police department. Open up or I'm coming in!" He motioned for the clerk to open the door with the skeleton key. Baker stepped back and put a hand on the butt of his holstered revolver as the door unlocked and swung open. He stepped through the door and was taken back at the sight. The small hotel room was a mess, overturned furniture and broken mirrors and ripped pillows and sheets. A pile of brown powder he recognized as heroin sat on a dresser beside remnants of snorted lines. A record player beside the dresser belted out the horrible music. The pièce de résistance was on the bed. A chubby, middle-aged white man was passed out on the bed with two skinny and obviously underage black girls curled up beside him and as oblivious as he was. The bedcovers were pulled back, revealing their naked bodies. "Someone had themselves a time," the night clerk said with a laugh. "Can you arrest them, officer?" "I plan to." Ten minutes later, Baker led all three out the hotel lobby in their underwear. They were linked together by shared handcuffs on their wrists. All three of the arrested people were drowsy and disoriented from the sudden awakening, but the white man was acting even more confused. His salt and pepper hair was all over the place and his eyes were bloodshot. Still, as shabby as he looked, Baker felt a distant recognition. Like he'd seen him before. Knowing johns and whores, Baker probably already arrested him once before. "What's going on?" The man asked. "You're under arrest," Baker replied as they stepped out into the humid Georgia summer night. "Possession and use of narcotics, engaging in immoral practices with minors, and violation of the state's interracial fraternization law." Baker walked them through the parking lot towards his waiting squad car. A photographer popped up from behind it and snapped off a photo. The bright light blinded Baker for a moment. He tried to shield himself, as did the other three, but they were too slow to avoid the camera. "Get that goddamn camera out of here," he yelled at the fleeing photographer. "You can't do this," the dazed man said weakly. "Do you know who I am? I'm the governor." "Sure you are," Baker said as he pushed the man and two girls into the backseat of the car. "And I'm the president. Y'all stay calm, we're heading to the station house to book you." Baker paused as he watched a car quickly speed out the motel parking lot. He made the outline of the photographer from a distance. The guy was leaving in an awful big hurry for some reason. Baker shut the back of the squad car and bent down. He looked at the man in the back of the squad car from the side. Slowly, it dawned on him that he did look familiar... and exactly how he knew him. He'd seen his face in the newspaper and on the television, speaking about Georgia and what he planned to do to make it a better place. "Governor Taliaferro," he said under his breath. "Shit."