[h3]Los Angeles[/h3]

[b]Hollywood
10:31 AM[/b]


Elliot Shaw stood behind the soundproof glass with the recording engineers and watched the small group of people gathered around microphones. Three groups of two shared mics. Each one wore headphones and had scripts in their hands. As the show progressed, they would flip pages as far away from the mics as possible.

A pale, skinny white man leaned into the mic and spoke in his best impression of a stereotypical negro. "Mista Shecky, they is a lady at the door fo' you."

"Who is it, Rockland," Shecky Lemon asked.

"She say she yo' great aunt."

"Great aunt? Both my parents were only children. Send her away, Rockland--"

"Shecky!" The voice was that of a frumpy old maid. But the actress was young. "I'm your great aunt Cora. Don't you remember me?"

Shecky flipped the page of his script. "Great aunt? There's no way, lady. I don't have an aunt. This is impossible, this is outrageous, this--

"I'm here to inform you that you've inherited two million dollars."

"-- this is amazing," Shecky shouted. "Why, Cora, you old soul. How have you been? Is there anything I can get you, come on in and make yourself at home."

The engineers in the booth cued music and the skinny man who was the voice of Rockland now spoke in a deep baritone of the announcer.

"[i]The Shecky Lemon Program[/i] will be back after these messages from our sponsor, Dixon Oil. Whether it's heating your home, fueling your car, or helping design the products you use in your every day life, Dixon Oil is there. Dixon Oil: Fueling America since 1894."

Elliot watched the rest of the show recording in silence. It was the usual formula of an episode of Shecky's show. He got so wrapped up in the big bucks that he couldn't see the truth. Eventually, Rockland's homespun and folksy advice would help him realize that the aunt was just a scam artist. Miriam, Shecky's next door neighbor and perpetual girl in waiting, would also help while not so subtlety dropping hints that she was in love with Shecky. But Shecky remained oblivious to the fact, something that no amount of talking from Rockland would cure. 

They were between recording breaks when Elliot went into the studio.

"What do you say, Elliot?" Shecky asked with a cigarette in his mouth.

"Let's talk."

Shecky went silent and looked at the small group mingling around the studio.

"We're gonna take a longer break, folks. Give me at least ten."

"It's your show," said the girl who played Miriam.

Shecky blew out a cloud of smoke as he and Elliot left the studio. "Goddamn right it is. Don't any of you ever forget that shit."

Elliot led Shecky through the halls. There were a dozen identical recording studios set up in the building, about half of them in use and pumping out content for Pinnacle Entertainment. In film and radio, Pinnacle was... well, the pinnacle of the industry. If you watched it or listened to it, then there was a seventy percent chance Pinnacle made it. The big push was now coming in television. Elliot figured in a year, Shecky's show would be on television and radio both.

"This is good enough," Elliot said after they reached a little corner away from the rest of the recording suites. Elliot passed Shecky his pack of cigarettes and let him strike up a new one. 

"So what's going on?"

"I visited the girl and her family, Shecky. They're not going to press charges."

Shecky let out a column of smoke that passed through is lips as he sighed.

"Thank god. Shaw, you really saved my ass this time I--"

"Jeanie also has a message," Elliot cut him off. "You get your dick close to anybody even close to underage again, and she will personally chop it off and feed it to you. Understand?"

He gave Elliot a cold look. "The fucking dragon lady has spoken. Or, I should say, her personal goon has spoken."

"Don't take the high ground with me, pederast."

Elliot plucked the cigarette from Shecky's hand and let it fall to the floor. He stomped it out with the heel of his shoe.

"Smoke break's over, Shecky. How about you get back to making your wholesome family show?"

He said some words in Yiddish that Elliot knew was some kind of cursing at him. After that, he left and Elliot watched him waddle away. Being hated was part of the job. It had been part of his job before this one as well. Ex-cop turned private eye turned studio executive. Well, he was an executive on paper. Vice President of Production Affairs. It was corporate slang for fixer. That's what he did. He paid for the silence of Shecky's prepubescent paramour this morning, yesterday he broke the arm of Dexter Parkerberry's heroin dealer, the day before that it was arraigning an abortion for Fatty Fanny Mae.The actors and artists of Hollywood were some of the worst degenerates in the world. And Elliot Shaw was their cleaning man.

Elliot lit up another cigarette and smoked it as he crossed the lot towards the studio offices. He had an eleven o'clock appointment that he could not afford to miss. People waved to him and said hello as he passed extras dressed as pirates, a prop cart loaded with fake gold bars, and a dozen other things that would look odd in any place other than Hollywood. He made a beeline for the executive offices and found himself inside the plush, all-white office of the dragon lady herself.

"Have a seat."

Jeannie Rothstein-Shaprio, the lone woman studio executive in Hollywood, looked exactly like the soul woman in a man-heavy profession would look like. She was fat with beady eyes and dark red hair that had so much wax in it Elliot could see it shine against the lights in the office. The gossip around town was that she had no physical use for any man with so many starlets at her disposal. Even with a woman in charge, the casting couch was still in effect.

"How's Shecky?" she asked Elliot with raised eyebrows.

"Pouty. But he's back to work. Hopefully your warning will take."

"It better, that fucking short-eyed creep. All the gash he gets thrown at him and he wants to truck with barely barely legal snatch."

"We want what we can't have," Elliot said with a shrug. "It's human nature."

"Like how I want a dick. The good lord made me a man in every way but the most important."

"That's why man, in all its wisdom, invented strap-ons, Jeannie."

That got a rise out of her. She laughed, braying almost like a donkey.

"Good shit, Shaw. You got a smoke?"

Elliot passed his boss a cigarette and his lighter across the desk and waited until she was done with the lighter before he himself lit up.

"You know Claire Beauchamp?"

"Sounds familiar," said Elliot, exhaling a column of smoke as he spoke. "She talent?"

"And then some, Shaw. She's a contract player, did some background work on a few pictures last year. This year we've had her in supporting roles in four pictures. We're gearing up for her first leading lady film." Jeannie smiled as she spoke, gesturing with the cigarette wildly. "We've got her pegged as the next american sweetheart. I want to see her dashing across the jungle with Samson Rockwell, fighting off native headhunters. I want to see her in fancy dress, dancing with Dexter Parkerberry at some ball. She's a beauty, and she is the next big thing."

"So," said Elliot. "Where do I come in?"

"The kid likes coloreds," Jeannie said with something that sounded like contempt mixed with sadness. "What a shame. If it were anyone else, I'd have fired her for violating her morals contract. But... she's worth too much to the studio. But she can't be America's Sweetheart if she's shtupping shvartzes. Once that hits the scandal sheets, all the rednecks in the midwest and south won't turn out for her movies."

"Again... where do I come in?"

"Discourage her," Jeannie said with a grin. "As only Elliot Shaw can."


---


[b]Echo Park
11:14 AM[/b]

Jessica Hyatt was in deep trouble. She sat in an empty interrogation room, sitting in a metal chair bolted to the floor and shackled to a metal table. The table, her chair, and the other chair across from her were the only things in the room besides a naked light bulb that dangled from the ceiling.

She had no idea what time it was or where exactly she was. But she knew exactly who had brought her here. Jessica had been on her way home from work when the two men in suits braced her at the bus stop. She knew right away who they were when she saw their cheap haircuts and even cheaper clothes. The little badge with the eye confirmed it. They had taken her to a car and blindfolded her. Hands pulled her from the car and down a cold hallway to here.

That had been hours ago. She didn't know exactly how many hours, but more than enough to make her worried. Occasionally the sounds of footsteps echoing against concrete could be heard on the other side of the wall, but they always faded. Even now she was hearing it. Jessica perked up when the footsteps stopped. The metal door groaned on its hinges and a tall, lanky man with receding hair and thick, black framed glasses came into the room. He carried a glass ashtray in his hands. She could tell he was a supervisor based on his suit. From a better department store, but still off the rack.

"Miss Hyatt," he said as he took the seat across from her. "I'm Special Agent Nate Parker." Like the other two men, he showed her the golden badge that had the US crest on it and the words FEDERAL CRIME BUREAU written below the crest. Above the crest was the all-seeing eye Jessica and so many of her friends had come to recognize and fear. "I'm with the Pinkerton Division. Do you know what that means?"

Jessica smiled. "You're the goons that lie at the rotten heart of American Dream."

Parker chuckled. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket along with a matchbook.

"I'm gonna chalk that up to the arrogance of youth. You're twenty-five--"

"Twenty-two, actually."

"Twenty-five." Parker adjusted his glasses. "You tell people that you're twenty-two. You were a child when the war happened. You don't remember it. Where were you during the war?"

Jessica licked her lips. Here it came. The reason she was here. Did he already know? Was he just leading her on, trying to trap her in a lie? Regardless, she had to give him the lie she had been living since she was a baby.

"South Dakota. Sioux Falls."

Parker smiled and pulled out a cigarette from the pack. He took his time lighting it up and taking that first, long puff.

"I was in Utah during the war, Miss Hyatt. Battle of Salt Lake, house to house fighting against the Mormon Army. Brutal stuff. Cigarette?"

"I don't smoke," Jessica said softly.

Parker blew a cloud of smoke in her direction.

"The Mormon Army, the Tabernacle Republic, all those shitty little communes and west coast city-states that seceded preached radical ideas and methods. The same things you and your protester friends stand for."

Jessica almost let out a sigh of relief. He was after something else entirely. Her secret was still safe. The ease of that emboldened her to talk back.

"You mean things like equal rights, freedom of speech, privacy rights, things that are in the constitution? Things like that."

That smile crept back on to Parker's face. "Read the Helms-Gasksins Act sometime, Miss Hyatt. Traitors don't get free speech and privacy. You're mingling with known anarchist and communist groups. We have photos of you, recordings of phone conversations. Based on the law, Miss Hyatt. I have every right to throw you into a deep, dark hole and let you rot there. No habeus corpus, no due process. You might be able to climb out by the year 2000."

"Well, do it." Now it was her turn to smile. "Throw me into that hole and walk away. Or... maybe you want something?"

Parker ground his cigarette butt into the ashtray.

"Very astute. I picked the right one. Our research has been thorough, Miss Hyatt. You are highly intelligent, intuitive, and manipulative. In sort, you have all the makings of a Pinkerton."

Jessica laughed deeply. It was less a laugh of joy and more one of disbelief.

"How about you go fuck yourself, Special Agent Parker?"

Parker lit up another cigarette, taking his sweet time again before responding. 

"I can do that, Miss Hyatt... or should I say, Miss Hecht?"

Jessica started to scream, but the bile rushing up her throat choked it off. She leaned against the table and vomited on the concrete floor while Parker watched her impassively as the vomiting turned into dry heaving.

"Welcome to the Pinkertons, Jessica," he said. "You're going to love it."