[h3]Massachusetts[/h3] [b]Brockton 2:34 PM[/b] Eric Fernandez looked over his ice tea at the nattily dressed little man. Eric placed his height at somewhere around five feet even. His clothing, an immaculate navy blue suit with a large red bowtie, made him look even smaller than he was, so small that he could sit in a larger man’s lap and look like a ventriloquist dummy. The two men sat in the man’s round kitchen table to do business. On the surface, you would think the nickname Big Jim to be an ironic one. But to those in the know, Big Jim Dwyer lived up to every bit of that moniker. To most people, they thought of Boston as the seat of political power in New England. To think of Boston and Massachusetts was to think of the glamorous Kane family, a dynasty of mayors, governors, and senators. Eventually US presidents would join the list. The Kane family was power personified. But their power was an illusion, something they had been granted by the little man in the big bowtie. Because the actual seat of power in New England rested twenty miles south in working-class Brockton, in this little house. He held no political office, had never held an office in his thirty-five year career in public service. On paper, James Dwyer was commissioner of the state’s Public Works, and Transportation committees, as well as chairman of the board of Public Service. Decades on the three boards gave him complete control over the state’s public works, roads, and industry regulatory practices. No elected official could get serious legislation passed in the state without Big Jim’s blessing; no company could set up shop in Massachusetts without Big Jim getting something in return. Over the years, his power grew into other nearby states via highway expansions and corporate extensions. Vermont, Maine, and New Hampshire lawmakers all knew Big Jim could arrange it so the big highway came through their district, or he could arrange that company could bring six hundred jobs to their town. Eric knew Big Jim handpicked the delegates who represented Massachusetts at the democratic national convention, and he at least had a say who represented the other New England states. “I’m disappointed, senator,” he said after a long sip of iced tea. “I’ve heard that you’ve gone to other party leaders, hat in hand. The convention is a month away and now you finally come to darken my door.” “I’m going west to east, sir,” replied Eric. “Everywhere, I’m getting no interest.” “As you should.” Big Jim ticked off points with his petite fingers. “One: The west sees Norman as their president, so no go there. 2: The south would vote for Comrade Hou if it meant getting Russell Reed a shot at the White House. 3:… did you talk to Chicago?” “I talked to Mayor Ricketts for two minutes before he brought up money and slush funds.” Big Jim let flash a smirk and said. “3: Chicago wants you to buy them off, as Chicago always wants people to do, and you’re above that. But the current administration doesn’t have those qualms. Everywhere else has slammed the door in your face. So, I’m the last stop and the only option left.” “I’ve still got New York left,” replied Eric. “They’re my absolutely last stop. I figured you would like that.” The old man let out a warm laugh. “I do like that. But, from what I’ve heard, the reason you aren’t getting anywhere is because you aren’t playing the game.” “It’s about change,” said Eric. “Something different than what we have now. Norman and his whole cabinet are corrupt.” “Save it for the campaign trail,” the old man said firmly. “That high minded rhetoric works for the masses, but not for the bosses. With the bosses, it’s all about what you can do for them.” He held up a wrinkled palm before Eric could speak. “I don’t mean money, I mean horse-trading. Eric, I like you. I’d like you to represent my party over Norman. He’s an empty suit, I mean you can see them pulling his goddamn strings.” “Then I need your support,” Eric pleaded. “A strong showing for me by New England and my base in the Midwest could be enough to throw the vote into a deadlock. The embarrassment of a sitting president not winning on the first few ballots damages him enough in the general election that they have no choice but to pick me.” Big Jim sat silently for a moment. He sipped his tea and stared off into the distance. “I have a price,” he said, looking back at Eric. “I get to pick your vice president.” Eric almost frowned but thought better of it. Since President Wheeler’s first election after the war, each party’s presidential candidate had been allowed to choose his own running mate and the delegates would vote him in as a fait accompli. The days of wide open elections for the spot were long gone. “Who is it?” Eric asked carefully. “You’ll know when I tell you,” the old man replied quickly. “Yes or no, senator? This is a one-time offer.” “Yes,” said Fernandez. “You’ll pick the vice president.” “And I will fight like hell for you if the convention gets thrown into the back room.” Eric stretched out over the table and they shook hands, his large mitt swallowing up Big Jim’s tiny hand. --- [h3]Los Angeles[/h3] [B]LAPD Hall of Justice 2:32 AM[/b] Jessica Hyatt kept to herself in the corner of the jail cell. The half dozen women in here with her were mostly prostitutes with bored looks on their faces. One woman in a blood spattered nightgown sat alone in her own corner, her slipper clad feet folded beneath her as she rocked and looked off into the distance. The red dress that had turned so many heads at the show was now drawing the wrong kind of attention with the women in the cell. A couple of prostitutes looked at her and talked among themselves, laughing quietly at some joke. In terms of attitude, she was somewhere between the dazed woman and the hookers. Years of protesting and public demonstration meant she was no stranger to a holding cell, but she wasn’t hardened to the experience like the working women. They were stories of the women’s jail matrons, bull dykes who did horrible things to girls simply because they could. She had never experienced it, but she had never stayed in jail long enough for it to become an issue. There was always someone with the protesters who bailed them out after a short time. But this time she was taking a gamble. Parker had ensured her he would have her released by noon if nobody else paid her bail, but that still meant over twelve hours here. She wasn’t sure she could wait that long. “Hyatt,” one of the guards announced, walking to the door of the cell. “You’re free to go.” Jessica followed the guard out of the cell and down the halls, relieved to be free but also worried about what was coming. Parker said he wouldn’t release her until noon, so this was someone else. As sick as staying in the cell would have made her felt, knowing Parker’s plan was working made her feel sicker. Ten minutes later, she walked out the front of the Hall of Justice. A car sat idled at the curb. A uniformed chauffer stepped out of the driver’s side and walked around to the back door. Jessica hesitated, at least until the driver opened the door and she saw inside the car. “Hello there.” The woman from the show, the one with the plum gown and the sardonic smile. She’d traded in the gown for a shirt the color of the gown and black slacks. Even if the clothes were different, the smile was still the same. “Bravo,” she said. “Quite the performance tonight, easily worth what I just paid to bail you out, Miss?” “Hyatt,” Jessica said softly. "Jessica Hyatt." “I’m Penelope.” She patted the seat beside her. “Let me give you a ride.” Jessica licked her lips and nodded. She stepped into the car and sat next to Penelope as the driver closed the door behind her. She hoped to god that Parker wasn’t watching her from some unseen vantage. She didn’t want the man to have the satisfaction. --- [b]Pinnacle Studios 12:00 PM[/b] “I’m Wallace Welch with ABS News. This news update is brought to you by Cornell Cigarettes. Cornell Cigarettes: Full flavored and healthy. More doctors smoke Cornell’s than any other brand. We lead off this bulletin with tragic news from Hollywood-- ” Elliot Shaw turned down the radio in his office. Claire Beauchamp’s murder had happened late enough to avoid the papers, but the radio stations didn’t have deadlines. They’d broke the story in the early morning and it had swept across the country via wireless. It would be in the evening editions of all the papers across the country and the few who hadn’t heard from the radio would know the story. The phone on Elliot’s desk rang and he ignored it. All his reporter sources were calling him on the lookout for a scoop, as if he would spill something to those bastards. They weren’t friends. What he did with them was a simple exchange. “Knock knock.” Elliot looked up and saw Agnes one of the girls who ran the switchboard for the executive offices and Pinnacle, with slips of papers in her hands. Agnes was a would-be actress who thought big knockers meant big acting ability. She was at least good at acting when it came to the sack. “Hey, stranger,” he said with a grin. “What can I help you with?” “Your messages from this morning. Sidney Applebaum is on hold. I keep telling him you’re unavailable, but he won’t take no for an answer like the rest. Says you owe him one.” Shit. Sidney Applebaum, the little heb prick. He’d promised Sid first crack at a story if something print-worthy happened from his darktown nightclub questioning. The next day a Hollywood starlet from Elliot’s studio is murdered at a darktown nightclub. The little cockroach could put two and two together, alright. Elliot would have to give him something eventually. He'd work on a sanitized version of events once he had a better idea of what the hell was going on. “Tell him I’m out of the office,” Elliot said as he stood. “It won’t be a lie.” He grabbed his pack of smokes and his .38 from the desk. The smokes went into his jacket while the gun went into shoulder holster. He grabbed his hat from the hat rack by the door. “What if the boss calls?” Agnes said as she handed Elliot the slips of paper. “I’m going to see her,” he muttered while leafing through the messages. Most were from journalists. Several from Sid, a few from Arty Gross at the Times. The last message made him pause. An LAPD detective J. Thomas left a message with Ella less than an hour ago. On it was the direct line to his desk at 77th Street Station. He passed the rest back to Agnes and kept Thomas’ message. “One more thing.” Elliot pulled out the list he’d gotten from Clair Beauchamp’s apartment and passed it on. “You got a reserve directory at the switchboard. Look up these numbers and write down the addresses associated with them, and be quick about it.” He gave her a playful pat on the rump and sent her on her way. After she was gone, he looked back down at the message. It was only natural that the cops would be calling after they figured out who the dead body was. They’d look into every aspect of the dead girl’s life, and Elliot would be the one standing watch just to make sure nothing bad about Pinnacle came out in their search. But what if Thomas saw him at the club and remembered him? There was no way in hell he could know it was him that quickly. If he remembered him, then he would have to explain why he was there. That might lead to investigation into an uncomfortable place for the studio. But still, it would be ten times as worse if Elliot hadn’t gotten all that commie shit out of the apartment last night. He still needed to tell Jeannie about that. The two needed to come up with a plan before Thomas and the cops got involved. He lit up a fresh cigarette and headed out to break the news to his boss.