[h3]Los Angeles[/h3]


[b]Silver Lake
9:23 PM[/b]


The young woman's long fingers nimbly moved across the piano keys. She sat alone on stage with no accompaniment. When she sang, it came out clearly across the room.

"I would send out for assistance but there's someone on the signal wire, and the corporation logo is flashing on and off in the sky. They're putting all your names in the forbidden book. I know what they're doing but I don't want to look."

Jessica and Penelope watched her preform in silence. They were only two of maybe a dozen people sitting at small tables in front of the stage. Jessica couldn't believe she had actually made it to Daily Bread. It was a rumor among the lefist community in LA. Everybody claimed they knew someone who had gone, or they knew someone who knew someone. But now here she was with a cup of coffee in her hand watching the woman on stage singing a protest song MacArthur outlawed.

"Everybody's singing with their hand on their heart, about deeds done in the darkest hours. That's just the sort of catchy little melody to get you singing in the showers. You think they're so dumb, you think they're so funny. Wait until they've got you running to the night rally, night rally, night rally."

Light applause broke out as the song ended. The young woman politely bowed before walking off stage.

"This used to be a speakeasy," Penelope said.

The older woman reached out and wrapped her hand around Jessica's. They weren't the only pair of same-sex lovers in the place, but they were the only two women together. Jessica squeezed her hand and offered up a smile.

"It was before my time," she added. "But it explains why the place is so hard to find."

Jessica nodded. Penelope leaned forward and brushed hair away from Jessica's face.

"Are you okay? You seem distracted."

She thought about Parker and the Pinkertons, his threats to hurt both Jessica and Penelope.

"I'm tired of LA," she finally said. "I want to leave all of this behind."

Penelope leaned forward, her brow wrinkled. "Why? LA isn't perfect, but for people like us it's the best we'll ever find."

"Canada," said Jessica. "I grew up in Canada."

"I didn't know that..." Penelope smiled and squeezed Jessica's hand. "But I could never go to Canada. There's still work to do here. Negroes are being denied civil rights down south, labor unions can't organize, and the government stomps on our civil liberties. To leave now would be running away."

"What's wrong with that?" Jessica asked, leaning forward and speaking softly. "It's an unwinnable fight, Penny. The government will never be beaten."

"We have to try, Jess," she said with force behind her voice. "Men and women before us fought for their beliefs. Harrison, Bromowitz, Peters, Hecht. They all fought.

"And they all died!"

All eyes in the room were suddenly on Jessica and Penelope. It had been that last name that made her lose her composure. She could feel tears forming in her eyes and she tried to hold them back. Penelope was so passionate... and so very, very foolish. 

"Excuse me," Jessica said, standing and hurrying towards the door.

"Wait!"

Penelope followed after her out the door and through the hall towards the elevator.

"Jessica!"

Jessica was starting to go down the stairs when Penelope touched her shoulder.

"Talk to me, please. What's going on?"

Jessica spoke barely above a whisper. She was afraid if she raised her voice, emotion would overcome her and she would collapse into a wreck.

"Hecht," she said, swallowing hard. "My real last name is Hecht. I'm... Jessica Hecht."

Penelope looked as if she had confessed to being god. Her eyes were wide, a look of disbelief on her face.

"No... she died."

"No, she didn't," said Jessica. "I'm her."

She let out a choking noise as she let the tears flow. Penelope embraced her and the two women cried together in the doorway of the stairwell. Jessica had let her biggest secret slip, but she still hadn't told Penelope about Parker or the Pinkertons.


---


[h3]Washington DC[/H3]



[b]The White House
12:03 AM[/b]


"The vice president and I would like to thank all of you gentlemen for gathering here."

President Michael Norman stood at the head of the table with his glass raised. Russell sat at the opposite end of the table. Between them sat the most powerful men in America. New York's political boss Lennie Parrish sat next to New England's Big Jim Dwyer. Chicago Mayor Charlie Ricketts and Kansas City's A.J. Patterson sat on the opposite side from them. Wilbur Helms and LA's Walter Babbit sat on both sides of Russell. Big Jim's chair had a booster to make him look just as tall as the rest of the men at the table. Russell and the rest of the group knew they would be assembled in a similar fashion in just a few days in LA. They were the kingmakers of the Democratic Party. To Russell, they were more like feudal lords.

"I wanted to also mention Lewis Brisco resigned today. His health has taken a turn for the worse. He's in our thoughts and prayers."

The men around the room seconded the president's well wishes. Russell hid a smile. As Postmaster General, Brisco served as patronage chief for the entire federal government. Next to the president, the Postmaster General was the most powerful employee in the federal government. Every single man in the room, save for Helms, wanted that position for themselves. 

"Let me be the first to wish the Brisco Family my sympathies," said Ricketts. A fat man with bright orange hair, he oozed corruption the way a slug oozed slime. "I'll see to it that the Chicago city council names a day after Lewis."

"Kansas City will name a boulevard in his honor," said A.J. Patterson.

"To Lewis Brisco," Russell said, standing with his drink raised. He traded amused looks with the president as they toasted.

"Thank you, Russell," said Norman. "In addition to a last bit of fellowship before the convention, I wanted -- the vice president actually --" Norman gave Russell a friendly nod. "Wanted to mention our friend Lewis and that when it comes time to appoint a new Postmaster General, we will start looking at all of you in this room to fill that vacancy."

"Remember that," said Russell. "And remember that while promises are the bedrock of political campaigning, it's the fulfilling of the promises that separates the campaigning from governing."

The president nodded and gave the men a reassuring smile.

"Senator Fernandez is on the outside looking in. Remember that when it comes time for your delegations to vote."

"Power is where power goes," said Russell. He aimed a finger at Norman. "And there, gentlemen, is power."

"This administration has a long memory," said Norman. "We always remember who stood with us."

"And we never forget who crossed us," Russell snarled.

An uneasy titter came from the men. Some, like Babbit, took it all in stride. But Ricketts and Dwyer both did not look amused at the blatant reminder of the president's power. These men ruled their political machines. They were not used to having someone above them, someone rubbing their noses in the fact that they were small time.

Afterwards, as they had after dinner drinks, the president buttonholed Russell for a private conversation.

"I don't know if this will work, Russ," he whispered. "I saw the way some of them looked. They're not happy. I think it may have antagonized some of them."

"Trust me," said Russell. "I know these men. They need a wake up call. Flexing your political muscle like this keeps them in line."

"It's just...," the president trailed off before lowering his voice further. "What about the postmaster general thing? Instead of making them united and fall in line, we're just going to encourage them to fight among themselves. That's the last thing we need at the convention."

"Don't worry." Russell squeezed Norman's shoulder and gave him a kind smile. "It'll all make sense in time, Mr. President. I know exactly what I'm doing."