[h3]Los Angeles[/h3] [b]July 4th The Baxter Hotel 11:10 PM[/b] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CILIBlQ2D0Q]Mood Music[/url] A wonderful mixture of red, white, and blue sparkles flashed across the night sky. More fireworks shot up into the air and exploded in dazzling patterns of stars and other shapes. One explosion took the shape of a sparkly Liberty Bell. Senator Eric Fernandez watched the show from the balcony of his hotel room. The Convention Complex, where the Democratic National Convention wrapped its opening ceremonies a few hours earlier, sat right across the street from the stately hotel. The Complex's loud speakers were blasting Petey Peterson's recording of "America the Beautiful", something that would no doubt piss off a few of the Southerners watching the show. The convention floor was where votes would be cast and counted, but the Baxter is where they would be [i]decided[/i]. All the bosses and party players had suites on the hotel's fourteenth floor where they could hold court. The best Eric could muster was his room here on the eighth floor. The men on the top floor would eventually gather in one of the suites to discuss the platform and the nominee, more so the platform since the president was the assumed incumbent. That was if Norman got his way. The smoke filled backroom was a cliche, but it was a cliche that still applied to the party. And it was a cliche Eric needed if he was actually going to have a shot. A strong enough showing early in the voting would deadlock the convention. It would toss the decision to the backroom. And once there, they would realize a weak showing by Norman would mean disaster in the general election. Nominating Eric would be the only way the party could save face, their only chance to keep the White House through 1964. He was a longshot and he knew it. Eric wasn't under any false beliefs that he was anything but a dark horse. But there was hope. He'd seen it in the eyes of the people he'd been courting. They said they were strong with the president, but their eyes told a different story. They were following the party line. But, one hint of weakness was all it took sometimes. Another firework exploded, a bright red MN shape, in honor of the president. Eric didn't need to beat the president. He just had to show the party that Norman could be wounded. Once blood was in the water, they would do the rest. --- Big Jim Dwyer watched Liam Kane snort a line of cocaine off a mirrored tabletop. The boy came up and squeezed his nose, snorting down mucus and the left over residue in his nostrils. His bloodshot eyes caught sight of the colorful display outside. "Look at the fireworks, Jim." He stood up and crossed quickly to the window. The large glass pane took up almost the entire far wall of Jim's top floor suite. One firework exploded into the shape of a revolutionary war solider. Liam leaned against the window, staring at the display with wide eyes. "Wow!" While Jim thought of Liam as a boy, he was actually thirty-six years old and a three-term congressman from Massachusetts. Young, handsome, and well spoken. Liam represented the future of the party, a the young scion of an old dynasty. The Kane family were New England royalty. Liam's father William had been a two-term governor of Mass and served in the US Senate, older brother Robert was the state attorney general and bucking for governor in this fall's election. They could trace their family roots back to the days of the pilgrims, as American as apple pie and baseball. And they were all fucking rotten to the core. Liam loved coke and hookers, while Bill's liked barely legal Chinese girls. Boston's Chinatown would be filled with red haired chinamen if not for the timely intervention of Jim and back alley abortionists. Brother Bob's likes were more... unconventional. While married with four kids, Bob still liked to cruise the parks and bathrooms of Weymouth in search of discreet male companionship. Their dynasty only lived because of Jim's interventions and help. He'd lost count of the scandals he'd squashed, almost all of them able to end their political careers. To Jim, they were the antithesis of himself. They had been born into their lives of privilege and influence, handed everything. His empire was one he'd built with his own hands. He'd started forty years ago as a member of a highway road crew. From sunrise to sunset they worked, work so brutal it almost killed the little man. But he survived, he went to school and earned a degree in engineering. He stayed with the highway department and began his rise through civil service. He hadn't done hard labor in over thirty years, but the callouses and scars were still there. They were always with him. A reminder of how far he'd come. The sad truth was Jim needed them as much as they needed him. Plenty of the Boston Brahmins looked down their WASP noses at him. To them he was just an Irishman, a second generation immigrant who was only made to serve them and could never rise above his station. That was fine. He knew he'd never become mayor or governor. He'd have to settle to be the man behind the throne. "Elliot's out here now," Liam said, turning away from the window. His eyes were pinned from the cocaine. "He works for one of the studios now." Elliot Shaw. He had been to Liam's personal fixer the same way Jim was for Bill. An ambitious cop who had a talent for cleaning up messes, Jim had been grooming Shaw to rise in the BPD and one day maybe enter politics himself. Then Shaw flushed it all down the drain and skipped town. The kid used what little political suction he had left to go west and get a job in Hollywood. "You know how I feel about him," said Jim. "C'mon." Liam began to thrust into the air with his hips. His hands groped and squeezed a pair of imaginary breasts. "I wanna fuck a movie star, Jim. I wanna see if Elliot can get Janet York to blow me. I wanna stick my dick right between those big tits of hers and just go to town! See how that prim and proper British accent of her sounds when she's got my cock in her mouth!" Jim turned away as Liam kept going on with his ramblings. He always got like this when he was coked up. He'd probably have to get the boy a hooker to calm him down. Sledge could take care of that. The girl wouldn't be Janet York, but she'd be close enough for sure. This was LA, after all. City of broken dreams and broken dreamers. Even the prostitutes were movie star gorgeous. Jim turned to see Liam with his hands down his pants, fondling himself. He suppressed a sigh at the sight. Over the next three days, Jim would work around the clock and expend untold amounts of political capital to secure this jackass's future. City of dreams, indeed. --- "To the party." LA Mayor Walter Babbitt raised his tumbler full of scotch in the air. Almost all the others in the room followed his lead. Only Russell ignored the toast, sipping his drink while he sat in a chair removed from the festivities. He watched the fireworks pop outside. The room was mostly filled with California pols kissing Babbit's ass over his successful speech to open the convention. He was maneuvering for the governorship in '62. Russell supposed he couldn't blame him. Babbit would be one of over a dozen to run for the seat. After nearly twenty years in office, the Old Man wouldn't be seeking another term as governor in the '62 election. For an entire generation, Rick Marshall had been the only governor they'd ever known, the state's first non-military governor after the fiery collapse of the CWP in the war's twilight days. "You'll never guess who wants me to get them a whore." Just like that, Jim Sledge was at Russell's elbow. Sledge was quiet like that. You never knew he was with you until he wanted you to. It was one of the reasons Russell liked to use him for work. When it came to intimidating, it always paid to use surprise. "Knowing the crowd that's in this hotel, I probably won't be able to ever guess," said Russell. "Big Jim." "So, what you mean is you're getting a whore for Liam Kane?" Sledge nodded. It wasn't that Big Jim was above cheating on his wife. The man was like Russell in a lot of ways when it came to sex. It was nice, but it served him no way to further his goals. The Kane boy on the other hand? There were stories about him all over DC. "Janet York type," said Sledge. "Very specific." "I met her once," Russell said after sipping his drink. "The young congressman has good taste. Do you have someone who might fit that type? Someone we can rely on?" Sledge nodded. "She's a heartbreaker, boss. She'll be able to get a hounddog like Kane wrapped around her little finger. Get him involved in some pillow talk." "Then, how about we arrange a rendezvous with her and our friend?" Russell asked with a smile. "Love is in the air, sir," Sledge said as he shuffled off to do his job. Russell turned back to the window. There were rumors floating around about Dwyer and Kane. Big Jim was angling to get the boy to replace Russell on the ticket. A change of VP might shake things up, a fresh face to attract voters in the general election. To Russell, that would be putting lipstick on a pig. Even though he was biased, the Norman administration's problems would not be fixed by replacing a man with no constitutional powers or duties except breaking tie Senate votes. The problem with the Norman administration was Michal Norman. Eric Fernandez, Big Jim, Babbit, the Chicago Boys, even President Norman. Enemies on all sides. Each one with their own agenda and their own scheme. One false move, and what he had spent four years building would come tumbling down. Russell smiled and turned towards the party, raising his glass in the air. "To the party, to the delegates, to America, and to the president of the United States." Everyone raised their glasses in celebration and cheered. Russell drank the rest of his scotch down in two big gulps and let the glass fall to the carpeted floor. He quietly sat up and left the party. He had work to do.