[b]Los Angeles[/b] Sam Telford sat in front of a large soundboard mixer and looked over every last switch, knob, and button to make sure the mix for this cut was perfect. He could hear the music in his head even before it started. The music had been with him nearly all his life. It was how he'd ended up in New York ten years ago as a gofer for Jackie Cleghorn, head of production for Champion Records. Jackie was talented and helped Sam, a kid fresh off the streets of Harlem, rise through the Champion ranks, from the mailroom to the studio. Jackie now ran Champion and Sam was his go-to guy for production. And now, after years doing things the way they were supposed to, he was about to do it the way he wanted to. In the recording booth facing him, Sadie sat on a stool and looked at him with a nervous look on her face. She had a pair of headphones around her neck and suspended inches away from her face was a microphone. Her large almond colored eyes were like saucers, so filled with anxiety and dread at what was about to come next. She wore a gingham dress, the finest piece of clothing a poor black girl from Alabama was able to own. "We ready yet, Sammy?" Sam turned around to the small group gathered behind him. Three of Champion Records most senior executives smoked cigarettes and checked their watches anxiously. "Almost," he said as he turned back to the mixer. "And... there." Smiling, he turned around to face the men. The difference between him and them was apparent to anyone who could see them. First off Sam was black whereas the other men in the room were white. The executives wore dark suits, were clean shaven with short hair. The tight curls of Sam's hair were growing up and together into what most folks called a natural, but and he had heard them call it a "fro" down South. A thick growth of stubble on his face was rapidly becoming a beard. He wore blue jeans, a black button-up shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a leather jacket, and boots. He looked more like a biker than one of Champion Records' top producers. "So," Sam started, pausing to pull a cigarette from his jacket pocket and light it up. "Backstory time. I know Pete knows about my trip cross country, but you two don't so pretty much for the last six months I've been spending a lot of time in the South scouting talent. Champion needs a new sound, guys." One of the suits began to talk before Pete, the thin blonde man closest to Sam, raised a hand. "I agree with Sam on that one. We keep pushing the same old rehash of Mariano and the Moonlights and Boppin' Barry tunes. Barry's last record barely cracked into the top fifty. We are getting our tails kicked here at home and abroad by people unafraid to take a chance." Pete scowled and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I mean, goddammit, the number one hit in the country is that fucking 'Swiggity Swooty' bullshit from Spain. A bunch of gibberish--" "But it's the music," Sam cut in. "It's coming from Spain, but it's as American as apple pie. It's an extension of what the Chinese did with Harvey Edwards, blending traditional black music with new innovations and styles. That's what I want Champion to do. The success international proves that there is a place for this type of music." "And that's why A&R authorized the trip," Pete said with a nod. "I went through twelve states, hitting every small town church and black juke joint I could find and what I came back with?" Sam turned away from the men and looked through the glass at Sadie. Little Sadie Hamilton, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet and just old enough to not need her mother or grandmother to travel west with her. "You ready, dear?" "Yes, Mr. Telford," her voice squeaked through the speakers. He smiled and winked at her. "Put your headphones on, honey. And remember to sing it like you'd do back home in Selmer, nobody watching except the folks at choir practice." Sadie nodded and put her headphones on. Sam started the backing track he and the studio musicians spent a solid week recording and getting right. Sadie took a breath and closed her eyes. [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ou2vVeRXO_s]Music[/url] Sam turned around to watch the look on the men's faces as Sadie's singing voice came through the speakers. Pete's eyes went wide and looked through the glass to confirm that this mighty voice was coming from that little girl. Sam laughed at the sight and expelled cigarette smoke out of his mouth. Sam finished his cigarette while the gobsmacked executives listened to little Sadie belt out with all the emotion and pain of a woman twice her age. "This is the future of Champion Records," Sam said as he stubbed out the cigarette butt. "This is the future of American music. Sadie is the strongest voice, but I have another dozen gospel singers, honkey tonk players, and small town musicians that can all be put on the Champion label for cheap and produce this new sound. They're all black, but they are all talented and they are just what we need." The three men huddled together and talked as Sadie built up to the climax of her song. The guitar riff, played by Sam himself, strummed along with her soulful crooning and the sax wailed. The huddle broke up and the white men all looked at Sam. "You know what carte blanche means, Sam?" Pete asked. "Oui," Sam said with a wink. "You get Sadie and two more recruits," the older man beside Pete said. Jerry something. "We want this song of hers released as a record and records from the other two. If we like what we hear, and if what we hear sales, then we'll bring them all out." "Mr. Telford?" Sam turned to look through the glass. Sadie was watching him with her big eyes wide. "How'd I do, sir?" Sam smiled and leaned into the microphone on the mixer. "It if were any more perfect, you'd have made me cry. Come on out here, sweetie, and we'll get lunch." Sam stood up and looked at Pete and the other two men. "Sadie Hamilton, gentlemen. Look out Boppin' Barry, she is going to be the star of the Champion Pantheon." Yes, Sam Telford could hear the music in his head. And now it was finally coming out. ----- [b]Battle Creek, Michigan[/b] Johnny Legarrio was mad as hell. He drove down the highway in the middle of the night, checking his rearview mirror every few seconds for any new cars that may have appeared behind him. He saw the two big duffle bags in the mirror, each one stuffed to the brim with cash. Johnny's heavy coat hid the body armor strapped to his chest. Dried blood was caked on his hands. It wasn't his blood. He fumed and kept the hunk of junk he was driving at sixty. His car was back in Chicago. It was too conspicuous to be used as a getaway car today. The radio in the car played some god awful bluegrass music. He reached over and cruised up and down the dial until he found a talk radio show giving the news. "Two men are still at large after tonight's daring bank robbery of the First National Bank in downtown Chicago. Masked and armed with weapons, four men came in after hours and managed to abscond with over nine hundred thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Police soon arrived on the scene and a gun battle took place, killing two of the robbers before the remaining two split up and disappeared through downtown Chicago, one on foot and the other in an automobile. Both men have currently alluded police capture and police are seeking any information on their whereabouts." Johnny listened to the rest of the news story with half concentration. There were no leads on his whereabouts, and so far they hadn't publically identified the rest of his crew. Everyone but him and Prussian Joe was dead, gunned down by the cops. One of the cops blew Mick Mahoney's brains out before the guy could even move. Blood spattered Johnny's chest and arms. The cops showed up way too fast for his taste. They were promised more time to get the money and get out there, but they didn't get that time. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. Bukowski. Goddamn, Bukowski had sold them out, the son of a bitch. He'd given his word they would have hours before the police arrived. The fat bastard must have gotten greedy and double-crossed them. The odds on Bukowski being there at the farmhouse waiting was too unlikely. Johnny had the money. Prussian Joe was still out in the wind, but the little guy could disappear like a ghost. Not Johnny Legs, though. He was too big of a loose end, and no way cops would be there waiting at the farmhouse for an arrest. Bukowski wanted that money all to himself. An hour later he turned off the highway and headed down a dirt road towards the established rendezvous point. He could just keep going. He had the money, for Christ sake. But he didn't want to do that. He wanted to pay Bukowski back for what he had done, the bastard. Plus, running meant Bobby C. would be hot on his heels. A creeping doubt in the back of his head bothered Johnny. What if the double cross wasn't Bukowski acting on his own? What if he got sanction from Bobby C. on this one? Johnny started to slow the junk heap down as the farmhouse got nearer. The time for the meeting was supposed to be four in the morning, an hour from now, but he was sure Bukowski was already hiding somewhere in the dilapidated barn. He pulled to the side of the road twenty miles from the farm and got Johnny lugged the two duffle bags filled with cash into the woods beside the road and left them there. He got a tire iron out of the trunk and placed it on the ground beside the road, marking the place for his return trip, and got back in the car. A half hour later he came to an old and rotting farmhouse and barn. He pulled into the driveway and slowly pulled up to the barn. A parked sedan was waiting beside the barn. The windows were rolled down, and Johnny could hear a golden oldies station playing Mariano and the Moonlights. Johnny reached into his jacket and got out the pistol he'd used at the bank. Keeping it low, he stepped out the car and approached the parked car. "Not so fast," a voice said from behind. He felt a hard something in his back. A pudgy hand slapped the pistol from his hand and spun Johnny around. He looked into the fat and gloating face of Chicago PD Lieutenant Stephen Bukowski, head of the department's prestigious Special Robbery Unit. He was also supposed to be their inside man in the bank robbery. His job was to get them plans and details about the bank and surrounding area and provide them protection from the cops. He had done the first part well but failed spectacularly in the second regard. "You sold us out," Johnny said calmly. "I just did some simple math," Bukowski said with a large grin. "This money divides up better one way than six. That is after I give Bobby C. his cut." "And you'll think he'll just abide you double-crossing us like this?" Johnny asked with a raised eyebrow. "I'm a made man in the Outfit. They won't take kindly to you rubbing out one of their own." Bukowski shrugged. "I'll tell him you pulled the double-cross. Tried to skip out with the money after it went sideways. I caught you in the nick of time, though, but see you fought back and I had to kill you. Damn shame. It's a stupid move, but Bobby C. is gonna expect it, kid. Stupid is your middle name, after all." Johnny felt white-hot rage at the last part. It was all he could do right now to not try to fight Bukowski, even with the gun aimed at him. Instead, he kept his hands up as Bukowski backed away from him and shuffled towards the junk heap. Johnny stayed as still as he could while the fat man looked through the back of the car for the cash. "Where is it?!" "In the trunk. I got the key right here." Bukowski stared at him through the dark and started towards him. Just then, Bopppin' Barry Chambers came on the radio and crooned. [i]"Strangers in the night exchanging glances Wondering in the night what were the chances, We'd be sharing love before the night was through?"[/i] Bukowski began to rifle through Johnny's jacket pockets and found no keys. The cop started in through his pants pockets. He dropped the gun a few inches, focusing on getting the car keys from Johnny's slacks. [i]"Something in your eyes was so inviting Something in you smile was so exciting Something in my heart told me I must have you."[/i] Snarling like a wild animal, Johnny lashed out and struck Bukowski's gun. The piece went off twice, bullets snapping by Johnny's ear as they whizzed into the air. The gun fell to the ground with a dull thud. Bukowski tried to reach for it, but he was short and fat, a good six inches shorter and fifty pounds heavier than Johnny. He proved no match for Johnny's strong grip. He hit the cop upside the head with a glancing blow to the skull. Bukowski stumbled back and Johnny hit him with a right hook that knocked him to the ground. Johnny pinned him to the ground with his knees and held him close, his big hands wrapping around Bukowski's fat neck. [i]"Strangers in the night, two lonely people We were strangers in the night. Up to the moment when we said our first hello, little did we know Love was just a glance away, a warm embracing dance away"[/i] Bukowski fought and tried to get his hands underneath Johnny's. He struggled and thrashed, tried to claw at Johnny's eyes and mouth. The more he struggled, the more oxygen he burned through and made his death that quicker. Johnny throttled the cop's neck so hard and so long that he left rub burns from twisting his big hands around the windpipe. He made sure that there was no life left in the man at all. For what the bastard had done to his crew, it was the least he could do. [i]"Ever since that night we've been together Lovers at first sight, in love forever It turned out so right for strangers in the night."[/i] Johnny took Bukowski's corpse and locked it in the trunk of his car, parking the sedan inside the rotten barn before he got into his own car and drove back to where he had the money stashed. He got the two big duffle bags out the woods, took the tire iron marker, and kept going south so he could find a place to lay low. Wherever he stayed would have to have a payphone. He had to explain this shit to Bobby C.