[h3]Arizona[/h3] [b]North Sun City 11:35 AM[/b] "This is the finest pool in all the city," Frenchie Gallo said as he floated across the top of the water naked. Russell Reed, dressed in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, sat on a beach chair just a few feet away, averting his eyes from the fat man's nakedness. So far, Gallo's pox-marked ass had been the highlight of his trip out west. After arriving, Russell and Rod Marston made small talk with Gallo over drinks until the Frenchman called in a couple of prostitutes to show Russell and Marston a good time. Russell had declined the offer, so Marston took both women into his bedroom. "There are cameras in the bedrooms, right, Mr. Gallo?" Russell asked. Gallo turned himself over so that everything below the waist was now underwater. "Call me Frenchie. What makes you say that, Mr. Vice President?" "It's Russell, please. And I say that because I noticed the clock in my bedroom last night was running slow, so I tried to take it off the wall and saw that it was bolted, with a little hole in the middle just the right size for a camera." It was a partial lie. Russell tried to take the clock off the wall as part of his usual routine to check for any recording or listening devices anytime he stayed in an unfamiliar location. The two secret service agents detailed to him taught him the trick, so he always did it himself to keep from raising suspicion by having the men sweep the room for him. Frenchie did a breaststroke across the pool towards Russell. "I like to know what my guests are up to." Russell raised an eyebrow. "Especially the ones that you can extort." Gallo chuckled to himself and leaned against the side of the pool. "Why is it when a man like me does it, it's extortion, but when you do it, it's leverage?" "Because men like me are the ones who make the rules and come up with the language. We're the ones who call guys like you crooks, and guys like Marston patriots." Frenchie said something in Quebec French. Russell assumed it was a curse word of some kind. "I'm in the wrong fucking racket, Russell." "Speaking of rackets, here comes our favorite racketeer." Marston emerged from the house in a bathrobe, looking chipper and walking lightly towards the pool. "Today is going to be a great day, I can already tell." "You probably had a great start," Russell said with a wry smile. Marston shrugged and plopped down on the chair next to Russell's. The bathrobe fell open as he sat. "Goddamn," Russell said, turning his head away. "Am I the only one who wears any goddamn clothes?" "It's a vacation Russ," said Marston. "How about you relax?" "How about you put your cock up," Frenchie said from the pool. "How about you both put your dicks away so we can finally talk?" asked Russell. Five minutes later, the trio sat at a patio table on the opposite end of the pool. One of Gallo's maids had served them breakfast. Marston and Gallo had both thrown on swimming trunks in the interval and the fact that they were all clothed had restored Russell's appetite. They were halfway through the meal before anyone spoke, and it was Marston who broke the silence. "So the vice president is here for assurances, Frenchie." Gallo raised an eyebrow. "What kind of assurances?" The prick is actually going to make me say it, thought Russell. Of course he would. Russell knew that if the tables were turned, he'd do the exact same thing. He had done the exact same thing whenever anyone needed something out of him. It was always nice to have reminders of your power. Russell put his fork down. "Mr. Gallo, you have... let's call them friends, all over the country. New York, LA, Kansas City, New Orleans, Chicago. They have friends in all walks of life. Especially politicians and community figures. People who will be delegates at this summer's convention. The administration would be grateful if you could help keep them in line." A small smile crept on to Gallo's face. "Jesus, you fucking DC guys are that scared?" "The president is scared," replied Russell. "There are at least four favorite son candidates at the convention. I don't think any of them stand a chance compared to a sitting president, even one as unpopular as Norman is. But his team is scared to death he'll look weak if he doesn't win the nomination on the first ballot. They want overkill." Gallo shrugged. "Me and my friends do overkill well. But the question they will all ask is why? We dabble in local politics, sure. But why should my friends care who the president is? Good times, bad times, we still make money." "Cuba." Russell's one word reply made Gallo sit up straight. "Bullshit." Now it was Russell's turn to smile. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Gallo. "Cuba's experiment with complete autonomy is failing. Or has failed, I should say. Their embassy in Washington has been meeting with the state department and begging for aid. They're in rough shape. The years since the civil war have not been kind to them, more so without America's guiding hand and deep pockets. One of the president's goals in the next administration is heavy investment into Cuban infrastructure. We'll get allowances from them that will make them a protectorate again. Not officially, but all but in name." "Think about it, Frenchie," Marston said softly. "You and your friends can get in on the ground floor. The government is gonna need construction crews, material, so much stuff that your Teamster buddies can supply. Millions of dollars, maybe billions. It's all on the table for the taking." "And let's not forget the casinos," said Russell. "They ran y'all out in the 30's. You made Sun City into a desert oasis, Frenchie. But it's not Havana." Marston leaned forward. "Sun City in the west, Havana in the east. Not just a kingdom--" "An empire, Frenchie," Reed said with a smile. "Goddamn... you fucking guys are good." Gallo slapped the table. "I'll get in touch with the Board and other families and see about putting a meeting together. But, fuck, you guys could sell snow to the goddamn Eskimos. I use the shit you're spinning, I think it'll be a yes from them." Russell leaned across the table and shook Gallo's hands. "I thank you, President Norman thanks you." ---- [h3]Washington D.C.[/h3] [b]The Traveler Club 5:23 PM[/b] Wilbur Helms' bright blue eyes sized Eric Fernandez up quickly. Eric knew exactly what the old man was thinking before it even came out of his wrinkled lips. "Excuse me, son, but this here club is only for US Senators." Helms, in his fifth term as a senator, was a symbol of all the things Eric hated about Washington and American politics. A Democrat from South Carolina, all he had to do was keep breathing to keep getting elected. He ran on platforms that included race-baiting, the bible, and a genuine lack of social progress. The senate was filled with men like him. And their longevity was always rewarded thanks to the rules of the senate. Seniority meant power in that chamber, so men like Helms were the gatekeepers if any significant legislation needed to be passed. They were the chairmen of the committees that allowed bills on to the floor, the floor leaders who knew all the archaic rules of the nearly two hundred year old body. Like the emperors of Rome, Helms and his cohorts could kill bills with a simple thumbs down. Eric needed Helms and his kind on his side. "I am a senator," said Eric. "Fernandez, out of Wisconsin. I serve on the agricultural committee." Helms frowned and looked at the waiting attendant behind him. Like all the attendants at the Traveler Club, he was black and dressed in an immaculate livery uniform that included white gloves and bright brass buttons. The servants were part of the aesthetic at the club, an aesthetic that included portraits of former Southern senators, many of whom had served in the confederacy during the first civil war. Eric saw the club as a sanctuary. For Helms and his kind, it was a shelter and a time capsule that reminded them of times that had passed. Times they hadn't lived through, but times they had romanticized as a place when things were simpler, things were better. Eric knew if he asked the young black man if he thought those times were simpler and better, he would have a very different answer than the senator. "He's a senator, sir," said the attendant. "The senator is here on Senator Sanderson's invite." Helms appraised him again. "What kind of name is Fernandez?" "Spanish," said Eric. "My family came here from Spain in 1803." "Well, guests at the club usually come here on business. What's your business, son?" "I want to talk to you about the upcoming convention." There was a long pause. Helms' stoic face slackened and he started to smile. It was a smile without warmth, a smile that featured rows of yellow teeth. The old man pulled himself up from his plush chair and leaned on his cane. He offered Eric a hand that was twisted by age and arthritis. "Well, son, escort me to the tea room and you can speak your piece."