[b]Los Angeles[/b] US Third Army headquarters buzzed with activity. Junior officers ran here and there on different tasks while a group of senior officers poured over a large map of the Pacific Northwest. In the middle of the men, watching and listening as the rest of the group made notes and comments, was General Michal Norman. The general cut an impressive figure in his olive drab uniform. Tall and with a square jaw, his grey hair contrasted nicely with the five silver stars pinned to his collar. "General Norman, sir." Norman and the rest of his staff looked at a young messenger with a sheet of paper. The young soldier's hands shook. Tears streaked down his face. He walked forward and handed Norman the slip of paper. "It's... Seattle, sir... it's... all gone." Norman read the sheet of paper and stared at it for a long second before raising his head. When he did look up, his eyes were fiery and his jaw was set in something resembling a snarl. He crumbled up the paper and let it fall to the floor. His staff officers looked on with concern as he stepped forward and looked down at the map on the table. "Vancouver," he said. He looked up at his men. When he did, he had tears in his eyes. "We're going to Vancouver, gentlemen. American lives have been lost, and those bastards have to pay. We're going to make them pay for the... the... shit." Suddenly, Michael Norman was speaking in an upper-crust English accent. "Bloody hell, line!" "Cut!" From his place on the sound studio, Elliot Shaw saw the illusion break and real life set in. Grips and cameramen sighed as director Josh Donahue walked on set to talk to Dexter Parkerberry, two-time academy award winner and the picture's Michael Norman. [i]The Battle of Vancouver[/i] had just entered its second week of shooting and it was already a week behind schedule. Part of it was Parkerberry. The scandal rags would have a field day if they knew old, regal Dexter Parkerberry with his pronounced English accent and Shakespearean training was a raging heroin addict. Shaw was on set to watch Parkerberry and give him a fix in case he got the need for a shot. Today was his last day shooting. After it wrapped, Shaw had orders to drive Parkerberry to Malibu and the dry out clinic Dr. Friels ran. "Okay," Donahue announced to the crew. "We're running it again. Positions!" The scene began back again, but Shaw half paid attention to it. He wondered why Mr. Kennedy and Summit Pictures wanted Parkerberry so bad as Norman? The man could act, but he wasn't worth the hassle in Shaw's opinion. But then again, it was a pretty small part. [i]The Battle of Vancouver[/i] was an ensemble picture that followed a half-dozen storylines over the course of the fighting. It was Summit's third straight war film. [i]Sink the Andalusia![/i] had been a surprise hit two years ago, and right now [i]Thirty Seconds Over Detroit[/i] was proving to be a smash hit both in America and overseas. This time, Parkerberry remembered his lines and the scene progressed. Shaw worked a sore spot on his left thumb. A splinter was embedded under the skin. Said splinter came from his baseball bat. He'd wielded it two nights ago when he bashed up Roland Tomasi's car. Tomasi was a cut-rate hop pusher who was too chummy with a Summit contract girl, Dorothy Mills, and was threatening to turn the young girl into Parkerberry redux. After Shaw busted Tomasi's windows, he threatened to do the same to his skull if he ever approached, talked to, or even looked at Dorothy Mills again. "Cut," Donahue announced. "Fuck it, that's good enough. That's a wrap on Dexter Parkerberry and lunch." A scattering of light applause from the crew caused Parkerberry to laugh and bow. It wasn't an applause of appreciation for Parkerberry and his skill, more of an applause was relief that he was soon to be off-set and they could eat. Shaw walked towards the set and caught Parkerberry by the arm as the older man tried to quickly walk past him. "C'mon, Dex, let's take a drive." --- Shaw kept the radio off on the drive back from Malibu. Dex had put up a bit of a fight, about as much fight as a junkie twelve hours removed from his last fix could be. It was easy enough to get him in the car and to Dr. Friels' clinic. After that, the good doctor's orderlies took care of the rest. Shaw cut odds on Parkerberry actually kicking the habit. Call it a 30-1 longshot he could get clean. Anytime a junkie went from snorting to arm popping it meant that the hooks were in deep, so deep that they could do serious damage if they were jerked out. Shaw cracked a window and lit up a smoke. The road back to LA ran along the Pacific Coast. The sun was sinking over the horizon and it bathed the sky in a golden amber hue. It would have been a beautiful sight to behold, but Shaw kept his eyes on the road and thought about home. He missed Boston, he missed Helena, he missed his old clients. He missed his old life. Boston could be a hellhole at times, but at least it was honest. LA was nothing but false image and the perpetuation of that false image. The place where stars were born and dreams were made didn't exist. It was as fictional as the pictures and television programs the studios produced. A bright and shining lie that lured rubes from Pigshit, Nebraska out west in droves. The sun had set for nearly a half hour by the time Shaw arrived at the Kennedy Mansion just outside downtown Los Angeles. It was a big Spanish manse on a hill overlooking the city. It was a quaint little home... if your idea of quaint was Buckingham Palace. Shaw pulled up into the driveway and flashed his ID for the guard at the gate. He was waved in and up the long driveway towards the front of the house. A man was waiting for him to show him inside. Shaw laughed to himself. The house was so big they needed their own tour guides for guests. Shaw passed through room after room of fine furniture and tasteful decorations until he was led to a dining room with a long oak table. Ted Kennedy sat the head of the table with two negro men flanking him on either side. Kennedy waved Shaw over when he saw him and the servant enter the room. "Elliot, come in. I have some guys I want you to meet." One of the black men was young with thick eyeglasses, the other was middle aged and thin with weathered hands. They both stood as Kennedy introduced them to Shaw. "This is Isiah Wolde," he said with a nod towards the one with glasses. "And this is James Calhoun." Shaw shook hands with both men and had to fight the impulse to wipe his hand. It wasn't that he was racist exactly, at least not like the people in the South were supposed to be. It was just... there weren't that many black people in Boston and as a member of the Boston PD, those he did interact with were almost always the worst humanity had to offer. He knew it was unfair to judge these men based on the niggers in Boston, but he did and he felt only a little bad about it. "Guys, this is Elliot Shaw. He's an old friend of mine from Boston and he is a guy I rely on to get things done. Take a seat, Elliot." Shaw sat down beside Calhoun while Wolde resumed whatever train of thought he was on before Shaw arrived. "As I was saying, this march will be an ambitious one, Mr. Kennedy. We want as many as one hundred thousand people there, black and white, to show the government that we mean business. They need to see us, all of us, and know that we are not going away." "How much?" Kennedy asked. "How much cash is it going to take to get all your people to DC?" "A lot," said Calhoun. "Renting buses and gas for cars everyone, and then meals and maybe some motel rooms for a few." Shaw noticed Calhoun voice sounded off. He saw a glint of metal around his teeth and realized his lower jaw had been wired. "Whatever you need," said Kennedy. "I'll give you a blank check if need be, just ask." "This is mighty kind of you," Wolde said, placing a hand on the top of Kennedy's. "It's my duty," Kennedy replied, placing his other hand on Wolde's. "My brother, god rest his soul, always tried to fight for people who couldn't fight for themselves. I want to carry on with his work and do whatever I can to help you and your cause. That's why Elliot's here. Tell him about what you told me." "Mr. Shaw," Wolde said as he squared his glasses and looked at Shaw. "We think we're being spied on." "By whom?" Shaw asked. "The FCB," said Calhoun. "Men in dark suits follow us everywhere. We hear strange clicks on the phone lines." "Elliot," Kennedy said with a finger pointed at Shaw. "I'd like you to check out their hotel rooms while they're in LA and shadow them to see what's going on. Do you know how to deal with tapped phone lines?" "I got a guy who does. I can check it out and see what's going on." "We appreciate your help,Brother Shaw," Wolde said with a smile. Brother Shaw. He almost laughed out loud at that one. Doped up movie stars by day, crusading civil rights champions by night. One hell of a clientele... Wherever the hell he was, he was sure as shit a long way from Boston. --- [b]Blythe, California[/b] "There's a great scene in the movie where they have this big fucking air battle over Detroit. It's amazing." Jake Tallchief grunted as his cousin Web kept talking about some war movie he'd saw that afternoon. He'd invited Jake to go but, he passed it up. Web had been declared 4F during the war thanks to his asthma. Jake had no such luxury. He'd fought in the Midwest as a machine gunner in the infantry and helped push Canada back to the border near the tail end of the war. After that his division went to the Pacific Northwest and served as the Third Army Group's right flank in the Battle of Vancouver. He got a bunch of shit from his squadmates when they were in the midwest as an Indian fighting in the Dakotas. Redman coming to take back his homeland they said. The ignorant fucks didn't realize Jake's tribe here in California was thousands of miles away from Sioux lands. Jake and Web sat parked in Jake's car across the road from the Tomahawk Casino. The giant neon tomahawk mounted on the casino roof blinked on and off, illuminating the area in a garish light. Although it was two in the morning, the casino was hopping thanks to some tour circuit in town for a few days. The racket came courtesy of the mob guys in LA. They drove a bunch of bumfuck Shriners to casino after casino while Bopppin' Barry Chambers belted out the same tunes he'd been singing for thirty years while Shecky Lemon called them all homos. A pair of motorcycles roared down the street past the Tomahawk. "There they are," said Web. "They're fucking late." Jake ignored his cousin and started the car. He sped through town to catch up with the bikers as they left city limits. They formed a mini convoy on the highway leading out of town. "I got a bad feeling," Web said as he cracked the passenger window and lit a cigarette. "This stash house out in the middle of nowhere. These biker assholes could be walking us into an ambush." "They're dead if they do that," Jake replied. "Killing us fucks with our agreement with the Horde and the Sun City guys. Standing Bear and the mob would slaughter their whole biker gang if that happens." "But we'd still be dead. So who cares what happens to them?" "Touche." Thirty miles out into the California desert the two bikers pulled down a dirt road where they slowed to a crawling speed. Jake followed them down the winding dirt road for thirty minutes before they came to a clearing. The headlights of the car illuminated the area in harsh detail. A dozen motorcycles were parked around a white moving truck with its running lights on. Jake and Web got out of the car and walked towards the waiting bikers. Jake made sure to keep a hand on the gun tucked into his waistband. Little Walter, the Horde MC's president, came up to them and nodded slowly. The nickname was one of those ironic ones as Walter was nearly as tall as Jake and a good fify pounds heavier than him. "You got your Braves waiting to form a convoy?" He asked with a grin. "Our guys are back in Blythe," said Jake. "They'll hook up with us there and follow us through Arizona and New Mexico." "C'mon, then." Little Walter walked them to the back of the truck. A tall, thin man with a shaved head stood smoking a black cigarette. He wore a black turtleneck that would have burned him alive in the day, but was appropriate in the cool desert night. "This is Yuri, he's the man in charge of handling the product on this run." "Why?" Web asked. "The fuck is it this time?" Jake traded looks with his cousin. This made Jake and Web's fourth courier run since the Tribe started their deal with the mob and the Horde. Last time it had been a truck filled with cocaine and heroin. The time before that it had been Chinese guns. The previous times hadn't needed their own special handler. "What's in the back?" Jake asked. Yuri said something Jake couldn't understand, but Walter seemed to. The two men walked to the closed back of the truck and opened it up. Yuri shined a flashlight into the dark. Jake and Web looked inside and stepped back once they realized what they were looking at. They were women. A dozen or so, mostly Eurasian but a few were Asian. They looked at Jake and Web in half-closed eyes and blinked rapidly at the sudden light that filled the space. "Whores," said Yuri. He spat out his cigarette and closed the door to the truck. "Pussy. Flesh. I feed. I take care of. I keep under control. You drive." "You guys know the deal," said Walter. "Get the truck through what's left of Cali, then Arizona and New Mexico. Mob guys will be waiting at the Colorado line." "I ride in front," said Yuri. "You do not go in back. You do not talk to whores." "Okay," Web said. "Got it." Jake looked towards the back of the truck and then to Yuri and Little Walter. He knew they would be smuggling bad stuff for the mob, but he wasn't prepared for this. Blow was one thing, guns were another, but this... this was people. Women who were probably not here in this country of their own free will. Right on time, something thumped on the back of the truck followed by shouting. Yuri yelled in some language and beat on the door. He shouted over the shouts from inside the truck and kept shouting until the women stopped. He looked at Jake with a hard look on his face. "Problem?" "No," Jake finally said. "No..." "Then get on the road," said Little Walter. "You're wasting time." --- [b]Natchez, Mississippi[/b] "Fuck them motherfuckers!" Wendy Tillman was in her eighty-first year on the planet, every single one of those years spent in Adams County, Mississippi. But yet the old lady could swear a world-weary sailor under the table. Boyd Rafferty had learned this fact over the past few days. Boyd sat in the living from of Mrs. Tillman's home and listened to the old negro lady as she ranted and raved about the injustices she'd seen over the years. Boyd calmly let her talk herself out while he waited with a notepad and pen to write down what she had to say about the night Will Johnson and his family were killed. With the Adams County Sheriff's Department reporting no leads and the state Bureau of Investigations declining to get involved, Boyd and his small staff of investigators seemed to be the only authority figures who cared about the crime. "They killed my great uncle Norbit in '25, and then they beat my cousin Rollo half to death in '36. My youngest, Thomas, spent ten years on a chain gang because he dared to fight back against a racist ass police officer. Fuck all of 'em, I say!" "I'm glad you say it," Boyd said diplomatically. "Now about the night the Johnson family were killed, Mrs. Tillman?" "I remember a big truck," she said matter-of-factly. "I heard it coming down the road. It ain't normal for there be much traffic on the road at that time of night so I got up and looked out the window and saw it roaring down the road with about three white men hanging on in the back." Boyd nodded and wrote down details on his notepad. Mrs. Tillman was the closest house to the now burned husk that the Johnson family called home. The Calhouns were a mile further down the road; but James and Whitney and their three adult children hadn't seen anything that night. "Did you catch the make and model?" Boyd asked. "What about the color?" "It was blue, light blue. And I'm afraid that's all I know. I don't know the first damn thing about cars and trucks, Mr. Boyd." "And that was all you saw?" "I'm afraid so." Mrs. Tillman pointed to her eyes. "But I can sure as shit identify that truck if I need to. I'm old as dirt, but my eyes are as sharp as they've ever been." --- Boyd left Mrs. Tillman's house and headed back to town in his big black car. Cotton fields ran parallel to the road and swarms of black sharecroppers were out in the field. They worked the fields with huge sacks brimming with cotton on their backs, so much weight that almost all of them were stooped and bent over as they picked. Once upon a time those fields had been Rafferty fields. The Rafferty Family had owned nearly all of Adams County at one time, including its people. It was no coincidence that half the negroes in Adams County had the last name of Rafferty. The Rafferty Family had been part of a great gentry class that led the South in the days before the Civil War. That aristocracy had built their wealth on the backs of slaves, it was true, but there was a sense of order and civility in the South. After the war, the gentry had lost their slaves and their holdings. That stability and order had been ripped apart by Union troops and Union guns. The power vacuum in the South had been filled by dumb crackers and rednecks who ruled with hate and used fear like a weapon. Things like what happened to Will Johnson and his family would not have happened to them back when the Rafferty Family ruled Adams County. And if it did happen, men like John Rafferty would see that absolute justice visited the white men who committed such a heinous act. Boyd found a message waiting for him when he got back to the courthouse in Natchez. Harvey Welborn, the Sixth District Attorney and Boyd's boss, wanted him to call him as soon as possible. He went into his office on the third floor and closed the door before calling the number. [i]"Boyd,"[/i] Welborn's phlegmy voice came on the line, followed shortly by a loud cough that made Boyd pull his head away from the receiver. [i]"Boyd, why are you wasting DA money and manpower on a dead end case?"[/i] "I'm sorry, sir?" [i]"This lynching thing. It's going nowhere, I've read the sheriff's department reports myself and--"[/i] "And six people are dead," he interjected. "Four of them are children, sir." [i]"And it ain't going anywhere, son. If anything comes up, the sheriff's department will take it from there and investigate. You have active cases to prosecute so I suggest you get to it. Am I being clear?"[/i] "Yes, sir--" The connection cut out before Boyd could say anything else. He slammed the phone down and stood up. He stalked towards the office window and resisted the urge to punch out the glass, to punch something. A family had been murdered and nobody who could do something about it gave a good goddamn. Maybe it was the fact that he witnessed the aftermath of the murder, or maybe it was Mrs. Tillman speaking of all the horrible things she had seen over the years... but he was tired of how things happened down here and how everybody just accepted them as a way of life. He looked out the window as he heard a loud noise coming from somewhere down the street. A big pickup truck roared down main street past the courthouse and didn't stop as it sped out of town. Boyd made the connection as soon as he laid eyes on the truck. It was powder blue. Windy Tillman and her sharp eyes would have almost certainly called that color light blue. Boyd spun on his heels and raced out his office in an effort to catch up to the truck.