[h3] 1933 [/h3] [b]San Francisco[/b] “Our political systems have become corrupted. Capitalism and its greed has led to desperate economic times across the world, and capitalism continues to taint our democracy. Look no further than the election of last year.” The guest speaker continued on about all that crony capitalism had done to get Al Smith elected, but Laura wasn’t listening. Instead, she stared at the newcomer sitting across the room. It wasn’t strange to see new faces at the meeting. In the three years she’d been coming, the attendance of the California Worker’s Party steadily climbed as the Depression dragged on and showed the follies of the current economic system. There were a half dozen people when Laura first started, that number had tripled until they had to rent bigger and bigger spaces for their weekly meetings. No, it wasn’t that the man in the chair was new; it was that he was entirely out of place. His black pinstripe suit and fedora were new, whereas many of the people in the room had clothing that was clearly old and worn. He sat in his wooden chair stretched out like he owned the place, a soft smile on his handsome olive face. He didn’t at all look like a man who had any interest in radical ideas, but yet here he was. After the meeting, Laura found him chatting with another man who was new. “Hi,” she said to the two of them. “I’m Laura Patterson. Party secretary.” “Anthony Jordan,” the other newcomer said with a smile. “I’m Vic,” the swarthy man replied. “What brings the two of you here?” she asked as politely as she could. “I got laid off from PC Bell,” said Jordan. “Been struggling for months. I just… I’m looking for answers.” “Yeah, what he said,” said Vic. “Answers.” The three made idle chit chat before Jordan excused himself. Laura looked at Vic and smiled. “So, what did you think of Mister Bromowitz?” asked Laura. “He had a lot of ideas,” replied Vic. “Not much in the way of answers.” She gave him a forced little smile. “Well, we have to educate people on the problems with the system before solutions can be reached.” Vic laughed. “Yeah and while you talk until you’re blue in the face, the enemy is out there winning the war. While you’re enlightening, they’re buying politicians. While you debate, they conquer. Comes a time when you put the talk away and get to work.” “You sound like you have all the big ideas,” Laura said coolly. “You talk tough, but you dress like a banker.” “Yeah,” Vic said with a grin. “I dress like one, but I'm about as far from a banker as you can get. Here—“ He reached into his jacket pocket and passed an envelope to Laura. It was heavy and when she opened it up, she saw a fat stack of hundred dollar bills. “What in the—“ “It’s a gift,” he said softly. “Give it to the party treasurer. Use it for bail money when protesters get locked up, pay for whatever the party needs, buy guns for all I care. It’s yours. Do with it what you will.” Laura looked at Vic with uncertainty. He kept flashing that toothy smile. Plenty of people wanted to help, but very few could contribute like this. The party attracted the poor and downtrodden, not men in flashy suits who carried large bankrolls. People like that had no need for radical ideas. “Who are you?” she asked. “A friend of the cause,” he said with a wink. “Someone who wants to make a difference. Let’s leave it at that, comrade secretary.” --- [h3]Present Day Los Angeles [/h3] [b]Brentwood 3:31 AM[/b] Jessica Hyatt was in heaven. Over a dozen people talked amongst themselves in the den that was lushly decorated with plump, crimson settees and chintz chairs. Penelope talked nonstop about politics with one of the men that had escorted her to the Harvey Edwards show. Up close, Jessica recognized him as Raymond Hollister, the movie star. The introductions had been fast and furious. Everyone in the little coterie was someone that had influence in LA. Lawyers, entertainment people, and even a few doctors were among those chatting about socialism and the Lost Cause of the West. They all had been at the concert earlier in the evening and broke out in applause when Jessica entered the house in Penelope’s wake. Currently, Jessica stood on the edges of the group with a drink in one hand and a soft smile on her face as she watched the goings on. “Penny for your thoughts.” She turned around and saw a man watching her. He was on the shorter side, just a few inches taller than her, and heavyset with prematurely gray hair. Even in the dim lighting he wore a pair of dark sunglasses. He cradled a pipe in his large hands. “Just admiring from a distance,” she said with the same smile on her face. “I admire their passion and their insights.” “It’s quicksilver,” the man said after a puff on his pipe. “Or perhaps, quicksand. What they’re talking about, I mean. Lamenting the poor socialists republics, weeping for the cause that never stood a chance.” Jessica raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a fan, mister…” “Roy Abercrombie,” he said gruffly. “And I was a fan, missy. A whole hearted supporter, as much as a man who is 4F can be. But I saw the in-fighting and the squabbling over men and material. Meanwhile, MacArthur – and Long, to a lesser extent -- could run roughshod because they didn’t give a damn about things like sovereignty or rule of law. The thing that will always separate the dreamers from the doers is that basic human respect.” “I think that’s horribly cynical,” replied Jessica. “You’re suggesting the only way for the west to have won was to install a dictator like MacArthur, when MacArthur is exactly what they were fighting against. Then they lose the war if they do that.” “Another thing separating the dreamers from the doers,” Abercrombie said smugly. “While the dreamers settle for moral victories, the doers settle for real victories.” Jessica was about to interject when she was stopped short by a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I see you’ve met Roy,” Penelope said with a smile. “Proof that even groups like this have contrarians in their midst.” Abercrombie shrugged. “I’m sorry, Pen. The deification of the west is a bugaboo with me. I’m just letting some of our younger friends know the truth.” “Thank you for your service, Roy.” Penelope placed her hand on Jessica’s elbow and slowly led her away. She navigated them through the party and towards a staircase at the back of the den. “Roy directs films,” said Penelope. “So, naturally he thinks his opinions and insights are solid gold.” “I recognize the name,” Jessica said once they were on the stairs. “He does westerns.” “So clearly he is the authority on politics and government.” Penelope led them to a bedroom. Jessica figured it had to be the master bedroom of the house. Like the furniture in the den, everything here was crimson. Crimson sheets on the bed, crimson curtains in the window, a plush crimson carpet underfoot. On the wall were pictures of a woman with short hair. Not exactly pictures, but more like stills from a movie. “[i]La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc[/i],” Jessica said in perfect French. “[i]The Passion of Joan of Arc.[/i]” Penelope’s eyes brightened. “You know it?” “Of course,” she said softly. “It was my mother’s favorite movie.” “It’s funny,” Penelope said with a chuckle. “The movie was made to rally French nationalism after the Great War, but then it eventually becomes co-opted by the leftists. The great subversive movie that is still banned in America to this day.” Jessica looked from the still to Penelope. The short hair she wore was a perfect match for the actress playing Joan. “It’s a film about a martyr,” said Jessica. “For a cause where everyone is a would-be martyr, it’s powerful stuff.” She flashed a smile. It was a warm thing that made Jessica’s back tingle.“You sound as cynical as old Roy downstairs.” “Just an insight, devoid of bias.” Penelope inched closer. “Well, what else can you tell me, Jessica? What about me?” Jessica paused. She was unsure, but Penelope nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. “I think there’s a reason you model your hair after Joan of Arc, the same reason you host Hollywood elite in secret parties that are filled with subversive thoughts, the same reason you go to a concert being watched by the Pinkertons and happily get your picture taken.” Penelope leaned in. They were so close, Jessica could feel the woman’s breath on her face. It was sweet, the same scent as her perfume. “You’re a provocateur. Agitation is your identity. Whoever, whatever you were before the cause is gone. You live, breath, and sleep the cause because it is your identity. If you’re not causing trouble, then you’re not the person you want to be. If you’re not hosting these meetings, then you’re left alone with just yourself, stripped away from that identity. Whoever that person inside of you is, you can’t stand her so you fight for an unwinnable cause to avoid thinking about her, to avoid becoming her again. Because, if you do become that horrible, selfish person again, you couldn’t live.” Jessica could see tears forming in her eyes. They threatened to spill out. “How do you know me so well?” Jessica leaned in, her lips parted and her eyes closed. “Because I’m the same damn person.” They kissed, long and hard. When they were finished, Penelope took Jessica by the hand and led the two of them to her big bed with the crimson sheets.