[h3]Los Angeles[/h3] [b]South Central 11:24 PM[/b] Jefferson Thomas looked at the small lines of brown powder on the dash of his car. He leaned down and quickly snorted up the three neat lines of heroin. The drugs stung his nose going up, he snorted and swallowed as he felt mucus running down the back of his throat. The drugs began to hit his system almost at once. He sighed contently. He needed the little bit of hit for what was coming next. Straightening up in the driver's seat, he started his car back up and pulled out of the side alley back on to South Avalon. The corner of Avalon and East 97th Street was blocked off by two LAPD cruisers with their lights flashing blue. Negro onlookers from the neighborhood stood behind a police cordon. Jefferson parked behind one of the patrol cars and got out. He was tall and lank, standing at 6'5 and maybe two hundred pounds at most. His hair he kept cut short in what the folks around the way called the fade. Old acne scars dotted his cheeks, just something else to be self-conscious about. Jeff took with him a notebook and pen, along with his badge clipped to the left breast of his suit. He took a deep breath and began to walk through the crowd towards the cordon, the people giving him ample room as the came through. He could feel their eyes on him. The same hostile stares he was used to in his six years with LAPD. He heard a few mutters about him being a sell out, how he was an Uncle Tom. This was what the heroin was for. Jefferson Thomas was just one of six negro officers in LAPD, the only detective and the only one who worked South Central. To the people down here, Jeff was nothing less than a traitor. By working for the LAPD, the same police force that brutalized them and marginalized him, he was worse than the white men who wore the uniform. "How's it going?" Jeff asked the uniformed officer guarding the cordon. He grunted and let Jeff pass by him. A small semi-circle of LAPD two patrolmen -- Pettigrew and Stanton -- and a plainclothes officer were gathered in the middle of a narrow alley, their backs to Jeff. They grudgingly gave him space once he joined them. He was the only black face among them. Him and the dead body on the ground. The corpse of the man lay face down in the alley with a pool of blood underneath him. The neat little wound on the back of his head made it clear that a bullet had been the cause of death. Jeff noted that the entrance would was fairly large, which meant the exit wound would have turned the guy's face into hamburger meat. Jeff also spotted stippling around the wound. So the shooter got up close. From the way the body was laid out, the man might have been on his knees when he caught the bullet. Execution style, thought Jeff. Cold blooded as hell. "Mr. President," Hoyt said with a smirk. Hoyt was the closest thing Jeff had to a partner. He was tall and blonde and had a thick Okie accent, a child of one of the many who fled the Dust Bowl and came west years ago in search of something better. Hoyt said he used to be an extra in cowboy pictures back before he joined the LAPD. Like a lot of detectives who worked out of the 77th Street Station, Hoyt carried a throwdown piece in his boot and a lead weighted sap in his sports coat. "Hoyt." Jeff pulled out his notebook and pen and began to take notes. Jeff saw the three white men looking among themselves out the corner of his eye. "No need for notes, Jeff," Hoyt said as he spat a wad of tobacco from his mouth. "This one is open and shut." "BNBG," Pettigrew said with a chuckle. In LAPD speak, BNBG stood for Big Nigger Big Gun. More often than not, the people in South Central were killed by this Mr. BNBG. Jeff ignored them and instead started to bend down over the body, writing notes for himself. "Did you hear us, Jeff?" Hoyt asked. "This boy here probably got shot because he cheated somebody in some crap game, or was fucking somebodies old lady, or some other bullshit. It's the jungle, son. You can't make heads or tails of what these fucking people are doing." Jeff looked up and locked eyes with Hoyt. Sometimes other cops acted like Jeff wasn't black at all. There were jokes about him being an honorary white man, and how he was "one of the good ones", but there was also that look that they gave Jeff when they thought he wasn't looking. It was a look that would never make Jeff forget that he wasn't an honorary white man, and that he may be "one of the good ones", but he was still black and they weren't. "You're right," said Jeff. He stood and put his notepad and pen back in his pocket and looked at Hoyt and the patrolmen with a sheepish green. "Five bucks says old boy on the ground had more pickaninnies than he had fingers and toes. One of them baby mommas probably did it." The three white men laughed. Stanton slapped a knee. Jeff chuckled to himself and looked at the two patrolmen. "If y'all want, I can wait for the medical examiner to get here. Hoyt and I are on the late show tonight and I know your shift ends at midnight." Pettigrew and Stanton traded looks before nodding in agreement. The two patrolmen headed back to their squad car with Hoyt in tow. The detective said he would start paperwork, but Jeff knew he was going to Bito Lindo's. For all his talk about the jungle, Hoyt sure loved to hang out in South Central nightclubs. When they were gone, Jeff bent back over the body. He quickly went through the man's pockets. He found a book of matches and a pack of Pall Malls, twenty dollars, a comb, and a California driver's license issued to a Wendall NMI Brock, DOB 2/28/19 and an address just a few blocks away from the crime scene. Jeff pocketed the license and everything else in the dead man's pockets before he stood up. He could already start to feel the inevitable come down from his heroin high. Jeff would spend the next few hours in that low feeling that always followed the high. The majority of the depression was his body craving more dope. The other big part was that when he was sober, Jefferson Thomas couldn't stand himself. The insults and eyefucks thrown at him earlier were all true. He was an Uncle Tom, he was the LAPD's token nigger. And the heroin was the only thing that stopped him from swallowing his gun. But now there was Wendall Brock, dead on the ground. Hoyt didn't give a fuck about Brock, neither did Pettigrew and Stanton, and neither would Lieutenant Johnson back at 77th Street. To the LAPD another dead black man was one less they would have to arrest. Tag it BNBG and close the case. Ten minutes later the medical examiner's office showed up with a gurney. The attendant had a camera around his neck and a cigarette in his mouth. "We're just tagging and bagging?" He asked, blowing smoke as he spoke. "No," said Jeff. "We need photos of the body, and the crime scene guys are on two murders already, so we need to use your camera to take photos of the scene as well." The morgue guy looked like someone had just kicked him in the nuts. He was being asked to work harder than usual, on something that was not his job. Jeff pulled out a twenty before the guy could use the usual bureaucratic excuses. "You'll have my appreciation," he said with a nod. The attendant palmed the cash.The bad look suddenly evaporated. "Okay. Tell me what shots you need, and I'll be happy to get them for you." --- [h3]Washington, D.C.[/h3] [b]Washington Wheeler International Airport 4:11 AM[/b] The bump of the airplane's landing gear touching the ground woke Eric Fernandez up from his light sleep. The plane was taxiing to the terminal while Fernandez stood and rubbed his aching back. By his own account he'd been on planes and in airports for the last sixteen hours. He was alone, no staff and no bodyguards. He didn't need either. At least not at this point. "Welcome home, guys," Eric said. "At least for a couple of days." Fernandez was one of the first ones off the plane and into the terminal. He carried a briefcase and a small travel suitcase that had his suits in them. Alexander Roy stood in the nearly deserted airport waiting for Eric. He started to walk with him as he approached. "Senator," said Roy. "How was the west coast?" "Lovely," replied Eric. "Lot of maybes, but no firm yeses." "What do you expect? The west is where Norman is his strongest. Was I right about Arizona?" "Yes and no." They passed through the exit and out to a waiting car. Eric climbed in the back with Roy and waited until the car was in motion to speak. "Arizona's democrats aren't the biggest Norman fan. But Rod Marston is a goddamn snake oil salesman. I had to take a shower after meeting with him. He all but said we'd have to pay for it if we want him and the state delegation on his side." "It might be worth it." The look Eric gave Roy all but ended the discussion there. "If we to pay for it, it's not worth it." They rode in silence after that. Eric leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He knew he was a long shot. The days when the party didn't nominate the incumbent president were long past. It was an uphill task to get party loyalists to break rank and gather around him before the convention. But the fact that Eric was getting maybes and non-committals instead of flat out no's was encouraging. The party overall were unhappy with the Norman Administration. While Eric dozed, Roy pulled a thick leather bound ledger from his briefcase and cracked it open. Inside the book were the names of every state's convention delegates. Those in Fernandez's camp had an F beside their names, those for Norman were labeled with an N. Fernandez had all of the Wisconsin delegation on his side. Naturally they would support a favorite son until the better end. Fernandez also had support through the Midwest. Norman had the west coast in his pocket, and of course the vice president had the solid south under his yoke. The Northeast would be a battleground. It was up in the air and with a bunch of delegates at stake. If Fernandez could get support in New England, he could at least force the convention into going into multiple ballots before election the candidate. In the event of a deadlock then the Norman camp would end up winning. The decision would be thrown into the backrooms where the party bosses and the vice president's staff would cut deals that would get the bosses' support behind the president. Eric's rhetoric was great and he could give assurances, but he was still a senator. Norman was draped in the office and all the power behind it. Eric could promise, but Norman could [i]deliver[/i]. "You're quiet," Eric said softly with his eyes still closed. "What are you thinking?" Roy closed the ledger and rubbed his eyes. "I'm thinking we need to make friends in New England." --- [H3]Sun City, Arizona[/h3] [b]The Desert Rose Hotel & Casino 1:00 AM[/b] Somewhere across the casino, a slot machine rang out in shrill tones and people were cheering the jackpot. Johnny Leggario sat at the bar drinking a highball. He was pretty sure he was going deaf after six months of working in the casino. Johnny was the nominal head of security. That meant all the pit bosses reported to him when they suspected a cheat. Two guys who worked for Johnny would politely escort the cheat to a back room and do many not so polite things to his body and face. It wasn't a bad job if you could stand the noise and the smoke. Besides, Johnny only spent a few hours here a night. He'd usually roll through from about eleven to two, when the gambling was at its peak, to keep an eye on things. He had a much more important job away from the casino. To the Boys, Sun City was considered an open city. No one family ran it outright. The Desert Rose was Chicago's piece of the action. LA owned and operated King Arthur's Court, and the Fortunato's form New York had the Lucky Gent. Frenchie Gallo was the Fortunato's man in Arizona and the one everyone in Sun City called boss. And Johnny was his underboss. A New York boss, a Chicago underboss, and capos from all across the country. It was what the politicians would call a coalition government. Johnny polished off his highball and left the bar. The action on the casino floor tonight was boring. Shriners played dice and slapped the asses of the cocktail waitresses. Old ladies were chainsmoking around the slots while businessmen and other squares played at the card tables. No celebrities or high rollers. Nobody for Johnny to set up with dope or a hooker. Nothing really for him to do. He was about to split when Gingy waved at him from across the floor. There was a phone in his hands and he passed it to Johnny as he approached. Johnny cradled it and was thankful for its long cord as he went inside a hallway just off the casino floor. "Hello?" "Johnny." It was Frenchie. Forty years since he moved to the States but he still had that Québécois accent from Montreal. "I need you to make an airport run." "This late?" "A private party coming in by private plane. Bring them to my house. I want someone I trust, so get a goddamn limo and don't bust my fucking balls, eh?" --- Johnny leaned against the limo and smoked a cigarette. He saw the plane land and slowly taxi across the tarmac towards his car. He perked up when he saw the men in suits coming out the plane first. Johnny's instincts screamed cop to him and he sat upright to watch the two men. Square haircuts and cheap suits. Cops for sure. "We need to pat you down," one of them said before he flashed a badge. Secret Service. Johnny put his hands up and let them pat him down. They took the .45 in the shoulder holster and .38 in the ankle rig, and then the switchblade in his pocket. "You'll get them back," one of the agents said. "I fucking better," said Johnny. The two men walked back to the plane. Two more men came out and walked down the stairs towards the limo. The one on the right Johnny knew well. Senator Rod Marston, tall and thin with his rusty red hair, was no stranger to Johnny or Frenchie's other guys. The old pol spent as much time in the casinos and whorehouses of Sun City as the dealers and whores. There was no telling what kind of dirt Frenchie had on him, how much money he'd gotten from the Boys after twenty years of slush fund and kickback money. Johnny thought of Marston as a crook, but one on a much higher level than Frenchie or any other made guy. His brand of criminality was called patriotism. The other man following Marston towards the limo Johnny recognized. He'd seen his face on newspapers and magazines and on TV. More often than not, he was smiling to the side as Michael Norman delivered some speech of posed for some photo. "Johnny," Marston said with a firm handshake. "Long time no see. Let me introduce you. Johnny, this is the Vice President." "Pleasure," Russell Reed said in his syrupy southern accent. "Hopefully, Johnny, you're a registered democrat." "Vote early and often," said Johnny. "That's the Chicago way." The three men shared a laugh before Marston patted Johnny on the back. "I think Frenchie is expecting us, Johnny," said Marston. "We need to discuss business."