[h3]California[/h3] [b]Barstow 10:11 AM[/b] Johnny Leggario stood in line beside the short, German man with the thick glasses and the even thicker mustache. "Prussian Joe" Wittenberg was proof of the old adage do not judge a book by its cover. While he looked more at home in an accounting firm, the little man was one of the finest criminal minds on the planet. He was known through the criminal underworld as the Herr Doktor. Johnny had crossed paths with him a year and a half ago in Chicago. The two had worked together on a bank job that went sideways. After a double-cross during the getaway, everyone but the two of them had been killed. Johnny broke the neck of the double-crosser, a Chicago Police lieutenant. The heat was too much for him to stay in town so he beat tracks south. That was why he was serving in the neon light purgatory of Sun City now. "We're next," Joe said in his thick accent. "Tickets," the stewardess said with a wide smile that didn't reach all the way to her eyes. Johnny passed her their tickets and stepped through the tunnel with Joe walking in his wake. Both men had traded in their suits and hats for slacks and button up shirts. Leisurewear didn't hang right on Johnny's stout frame, however the sweater and khaki pleated pants made Joe look even more like an average working slob. The tunnel came out on a tarmac with a waiting plane. It was a four-prop NEWI DC-6. Johnny and Prussian Joe boarded and took their seats near the rear of the plane. The model could hold eighty people, and all of the seats were filled by the time the plane taxied to the runway for takeoff. Joe ordered a Scotch right once takeoff was over and they were stabilized. Johnny got a bourbon and sipped it as they flew above California. The two men made small talk during the flight, Joe halfheartedly replying while he jotted down notes in a spiral notebook on his lap. Johnny killed his drink just as the pilot was making an announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our final approach. To the right of the plane, you will see Cloud Nine in all its glory." Johnny and Joe looked out and saw something moving through the clouds. The clouds parted and Johnny smiled. The giant airship was Cloud Nine, the world's only airborne casino, floated aloft on a network of lighter than air balloons and moved by giant propeller engines the size of ones used by passenger ships and battleships. It flew on an endless scenic tour above California and never landed unless there was an mechanical emergency. It could hold a thousand people and was always at capacity. The highest rollers in the country and the world came to Cloud Nine to gamble, and they paid a pretty penny for the privilege. The waiting list that went until the winter of '64, but Johnny had friends who didn't have to wait to for anything. The plane bounced as it touched down on Cloud Nine's runway and came to a stop. Five minutes later they were walking down a plush corridor lined with red carpet. Johnny pulled out a pack of Henry's and lit up before passing the pack and lighter to Joe. The two men came out of the corridor and on to a balcony that encircled the main gaming floor of Cloud Nine. Below them, the floor was packed with gamblers in the middle of over two dozen games of chance. Johnny could see stacks of chips on the tables, some chips with denominations as large as five hundred dollars. "How much cash do you think is being circulated on the floor, Doc?" Johnny asked. "At least a million. Maybe more." A million on the floor, at least another two million in the vault. That's why they had come to Cloud Nine. The casino in the sky was ripe for the taking, its security softened by the fact that it was seen as impossible to rob and make an escape. It was possible, alright. Prussian Joe had a plan. And Johnny had a crew just crazy enough to do it. --- [h3]Washington D.C.[/h3] [b]Senate Office Building 3:12 PM[/b] "What did you expect, Eric?" Alex Roy asked. "He's Wilbur Helms, Eric. You look up reactionary in the dictionary and you see his wrinkled ass face smiling back at you." Eric Fernandez sighed and leaned back in his chair. He and Roy were in his office, going over his less than stellar meeting with the senior senator from South Carolina. Alex fixed Eric a drink before they got into it. He was sipping it now and thinking back on Helms' stoic face during his talk. "The bastard gave me the stink eye when I said my name," said Eric. "He heard Fernandez and he got his back up. My family's probably been in this country longer than his family." "Again, Eric. Look at who you're talking to. The man served in Huey Long's cabinet for god's sake." "Wasn't he some undersecretary?" Eric asked. "Secretary of State. He tried to work out some deal with Ethiopia where they would airlift Negroes to safety. It was a fucking back to Africa movement disguised as humanitarian aid. I think the Ethiopians just laughed him off." Eric chuckled to himself and finished his drink off. It helped. "Look at it like this," said Alex. "We never expected the south to follow us. They're only hanging with Norman because of Reed. They want him to run in '64 and put a southerner back in the White House." "I know," Eric said with a sigh. He stood and pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and slipped it on. "I have to head over to the Senate floor for a vote. Can you call my wife and see what's for dinner?" Alex said he would as Eric left and hurried from the Senate offices towards the capitol across the street. Within ten minutes he was in the democratic cloakroom with about a half dozen other senators. Bert Marshall, the minority leader, sat in a leather chair with a legal pad on his lap. Eric was on the way to see him when he was cut off. Russell Reed stood in front of him. Eric had three inches on the man, but Reed had a way to make it feel like he was the taller man as he got in close. "Senator, how are you doing today?" Reed asked as they shook hands. "Mr. Vice President," said Eric. "About to vote on this bill." "Democracy in action. You look good, Eric. You gotten some sun recently?" "I went out west to see some people." Eric saw the twinkle in Reed's eyes. A twinkle without any warmth in it at all. "You look like you've been in the sun, Mr. Vice President. Have you been out west?" Reed laughed and slapped Eric on the back just a tad too hard. "Just meeting people. Shoring things up before the convention. We've got a lot of backers." "I bet. Also a lot of critics, lot of people who want a change." The hand on Eric's shoulder gripped it tightly. "I think it's a small minority who are very loud, Eric. Very loud. They won't amount to a damn thing when it comes time to vote. You'll see at the convention." "If they're not ready for a change now," said Eric. "They certainly will by 1964." The thing that passed for a fake smile disappeared from Reed's face. The vice president walked away from Fernandez without another word and stormed out of the cloakroom and back on to the senate floor. Marshall looked up from his legal back and furrowed his brow. "Fernandez, what's going on?" "The vice president is just feeling the heat," Eric said with a grin. "Is it my turn to vote?"