[h3]Los Angeles [/h3] [b]Pinnacle Studios 4:35 PM[/b] Jeannie Rothstein-Shapiro silently watched the movie on the screen before her. She and Elliot Shaw were the only two people in the small ten seat theater. Set up just down the hall from her office, it was how Jeannie watched dailies and reels from all the different movies being produced by Pinnacle. Currently, they were watching a reel from the latest Jimmy Fastsitter and Bobby Chambers picture. Set to be released at the end of June, [i]Tramps in Tripoli[/i] would be the follow-up to last year’s smash hit, [i]Bums in Baghdad[/i]. [i]Tripoli[/i] would be the seventh of the Fastsitter and Chambers road films. They were all the same, more or less. Fast talking Jimmy and cool as ice Bobby pretty much played versions of their celebrity personas, except they always got into crazy hi-jinxes across the globe. There was always some kind of comical chase through a sound stage meant to look like it was on location, Jimmy always did some kind of comedy shtick to get them out of trouble, and there was always an exotic beauty for Bobby to serenade, and the beauty was always a white woman with a tan and a brunette wig. And they always ended with the two pals setting off to their next adventure. If [i]Tripoli[/i] made back its budget, then a script was already awaiting them for next year: [i]Louts in Lisbon[/i], coming to a theater near you in 1961. “So, you’re telling me the girl was radioactive?” Jeannie said, not really paying attention to the action on the screen. “The shit I found in her apartment seems to indicate that she was at least sympathetic to the radical left.” “Fuck. This is grief I don’t need.” Jeannie rubbed a meaty finger on her left temple and Elliot stayed silent. He’d worked for her long enough to know when to talk and when not to. He smoked a cigarette and watched Bobby croon to a fake Libyan on the screen. “The cops are gonna come to you,” she finally said after a long silence. “Asking for help. Help them, but keep an eye on where the investigation goes. If they get anywhere near the radical shit, run interference. Give them the interracial stuff if you have to. That will mar her legacy, but fuck it. [i]Shall We Dance?[/i] is apparently selling out all its domestic screenings thanks to the murder, so we’ll make our buck and be done with her. But if it gets out we hired a commie then the government will be all up Pinnacle’s ass.” Elliot nodded and took a drag on a cigarette. He remembered reading about what happened to the movie industry in the first few years after the war. The US government declared the movies an arm of socialist propaganda for the western states. Studio heads were fired, directors, screenwriters, and actors were blacklisted, and government censors had to approve everything. Eventually a new presidential administration led to the removal of government intervention and back to business for the movies. But that shaky peace lasted only until the old rumors of red infiltration of Hollywood were reignited by Claire Beauchamp’s political leanings. It wouldn’t take much to restart the censorship and blacklisting, a government muzzle on the pictures. On the screen, Jimmy Fastsitter ran away from a group of Mexicans made up to look like Arabs, complete with turbans and fake scimitars. “Stop this shit from spreading,” Jeannie asked with a voice that carried no warmth. “We clear, Shaw?” “Yes, ma’am,’ replied Elliot. “Crystal clear.” --- [b]77th Street Station 5:12 PM[/B] Jefferson Thomas got to the station almost three hours before his shift started. That was his usual routine during a case that had his interest. It always reminded him of why he loved the job, made him excited to be a detective. It also didn’t hurt things that he stopped by Leon’s before his shift to get some more powder. A bump on the dash of his car had gotten him going, so now he was ready to start where they’d left off on the Beauchamp case. There were nearly two dozen messages waiting for him at his desk. Ninety-five percent of them were media inquiries, newspapers and radio stations and scandal rags alike. Elliot Shaw had apparently returned his call while he was off duty, beneath the name was a number listed as his home number. The man’s title, Vice President of Production Affairs, made him sound more tame than he actually was. If you wanted any real information about a member of Pinnacle Studios, then you had to go through Elliot Shaw. He was the investigation’s first stop in finding out who the victim really was, and why someone wanted to kill her. The next message made Jeff feel a bit queasy. Captain Arnold Prescott had called his desk, looking for him. Everybody in the LAPD knew Prescott and the type of operation he ran. They were officially known as the Intelligence Unit, but everyone knew them as the Red Squad. Essentially Pinkertons on a local level, they investigated subversive activities in Los Angeles. They were rumored to have a hand in everything from wiretapping to blackmail and strikebreaking. And now the head of the Red Squad had called Jeff personally. Why? The answer came when he shuffled the paperwork on his desk around. He saw the envelope sitting beneath paperwork and remembered seeing it the night of the Beauchamp murder. During the craziness, he hadn’t been able to look at it. Now, he picked it up and opened it. It was an LAPD arrest record on Wendall NMI Brock, the South Central DB he'd been working before the Beauchamp murder, and it was heavily redacted. It listed Brock’s name, date of birth, and last known address at the top. It only had one arrest on it, a drunk and disorderly from ’58, but everything after that had been censored by someone. Three whole pages, and nothing but a simple misdemeanor two years ago. “What the fuck is going on?” Jeff muttered to himself. “Mr. President.” Hoyt was standing there, early like Jeff and ready to go. His sport coat was off and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. Jeff saw blood spatter on Hoyt's tie. His knuckles were swollen, but not cut. It was the swelling that came from hitting something with brass knuckles for far too long. “Hoyt,” Jeff mumbled, putting the arrest record down quickly. “What are you doing here?” “Big case, partner,” the big man said with a wink. “I got the itch to work. Been here since three. How about you?” “Yeah,” Jeff said, nodding. “I need to call that studio guy back. He left a message.” “We’ll do that later. We got a mandate from the captain. All negro sex offenders in the South Central area are to be rounded up immediately and thoroughly questioned. As you can see, I've been doing my part.” A smile crept up to Hoyt’s face. It was a smile in name only, and it scared the hell out of Jeff. He knew what thorough questioning meant. It meant brass knuckle work, rubber hose work, phone book work. And new dental work for the guys they brought in. “Now come on back,” Hoty laughed. "And help me out, boy." --- [H3]Washington DC[/h3] [b]Hay-Adams Hotel 8:34 PM[/b] Russell Reed stayed silent while he and Jeff Brewer watched the makeshift screen rigged. A projector behind them was running footage of President Norman ‘s campaign stop in Iowa. If you just saw the president you would have confidence in him and the government he headed. Michael Norman was directly out of central casting, Hollywood’s idea of what a US president should look like with his square-jaw and perfect head of steel-colored hair. But once you talked to the president for more than five minutes, that confidence evaporated. He was just so… awkward when it came to dealing with people, bad at making it seem like he cared and was actually listening to them. At best, he was distant with them. It gave him the air of being stuck up, something you couldn’t do if you were scrounging for votes in Pigshit, Iowa. “I’m still confident in the polls,” Brewer replied. Russell didn’t say a word. The suite on the hotel’s top floor served as campaign headquarters for the reelection of the president. They sat in two chairs facing Brewer, formerly the White House’s deputy chief of staff, now served as campaign manager. “If we’re going up against Houghton, we’ll win in a landslide. Even if it’s against Baker, we’re still polling ahead by a good ten point margin.” “Don’t trust polls, Jeffery,” Russell said, his eyes fixed on Norman trying, and failing, to kiss a baby on the forehead. “Anonymity at the ballot box is one of our most sacred traditions, so people will lie if pressed.” On the screen, Norman was talking to a man. There was no sound, but the man’s body language implied he was not a fan of the president. His scowl furrowed deeper and deeper the longer Norman spoke. “Jesus,” said Brewer. “We’re supposed to edit this down to thirty seconds to put in a newsreel, but I don’t see how we can get more than ten seconds of good footage.” Russell leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. Brewer shook his head and searched his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. When he found it, he lit up and dragged deeply before he blew a thick cloud out of his mouth. The man was nervous. Russell understood perfectly those nerves. All of their careers were relying on the goofball on the screen. “Have you heard any more news about Fernandez?” Brewer asked. “My friends say he was in Boston last weekend. Without a doubt, he was meeting with Big Jim. Big Jim keeps his own counsel, so there’s no way to know the results of that meeting. Even if he has New England, it's only for the first ballot or so. Big Jim is good about making sure his side is the one that comes out on top, so he'll switch sides once he sees how the wind is blowing.” Brewer looked out the corner of his eye at Russell. “And what about our friends from Sun City?” “Sledge reported back that they’re on board. So, that’s a lot of states with a lot of delegates in our camp to start with. Even if Fernandez gets something out of his travels, it won’t be enough.” “Let’s hope. I don’t want to even about think what a convention fight will do to the president once we get to the general.” Russell didn’t reply. Instead, he watched the president on the screen back away from another angry man, a secret service agent getting between the two of them and holding the man back as Norman walked away to the next unfortunate Iowan. For four years, Russell had watched Michael Norman fumble with the power of the presidency while Russell had to carry his water. And now he was asking people to let this slow motion train wreck continue for another four years. Russell regretted ever attaching his political fate to this clown who could barely carry on a conversation with the average voter, regretted using his power and political capital to get him elected four years ago. As Senate Majority Leader, he had a power that only the presidency could rival. If he were from anywhere but Georgia, he'd have been a shoe-in for the '56 nomination. But, thanks to men like Jefferson Davis and Huey Long, southerners were always long shots when it came to the White House. He had to settle for the vice-presidency. At least for a little while longer. “Get sound of the speech and put that in the newsreel,” Russell finally said. “Put in a few quick shots of the president shaking hands, that’ll get you fifteen seconds at least. It's not much, but we need people across the country to actually see their president for a change.”