[h3]Los Angeles[/h3] [b]LA Convention Complex 10:11 AM[/b] "It is my honor to announce the Democratic Party platform for the presidential election of the year nineteen and sixty." Alabama Senator Red Faustus stood at the podium with his weathered, shaking hands tightly gripping the wooden sides of the lectern. His large glasses sat perched at the end of his nose, dangerously close to falling on the pages he read. Faustus was a relic, born in 1870 when his state was under federal military occupation. The ninety year old man had been elected to the senate in 1920 and had resided there every since. Even when his state rebelled, Faustus stayed behind in Washington. He spent the war under lax house arrest, deemed too old and weak to serve in the stockade MacArthur kept the rest of Congress in. He would have rather been an imprisoned US senator than not be a senator at all. Eric Fernandez watched Faustus' speech from his box above the floor. It wasn't his box exactly, but a box reserved for democratic senators. Many mingled with each other over drinks. Rod Marston smelled like booze even this early in the morning. The convention floor stretched out below them. Each state had its own section packed with delegates. The bigger the state's population, the more delegates it had. "The platform is too conservative," Alex Roy said with a frown. He stood beside Eric, reading a copy of the platform Faustus was slowly reading to the crowd below. "The biggest thing liberal thing I can find is the infrastructure investments in Cuba. The rest of it? Well, new legislation to beef up the Helms-Gasksins Act, calling for investigations and prosecutions of any religious organization with a radical agenda, further expansions of the Pinkertons purview, ending the Atlanta experiment--" "It's a sop to the southerners," Eric shrugged. "They've been trying to re-segregate Atlanta ever since Wheeler forced integration." Roy held up the pages and shook them at Eric. "But the rest of it is filled with things you're actively against. You win the nomination, you're going to run on this?" "I know what you're saying." It was Eric's turn to frown. "We have some friends and allies that were part of the platform committee. But it's a big committee. And a big convention, lot of voters who aren't friends." "Remember," Roy said softly. "The point is not to runaway with it. It's to move, not fast, but slow and steady. We've got the initial votes to block him getting elected on the first ballot. After that, the real work begins." --- [b]The Baxter Hotel 12:34 PM[/b] "Thank y'all for coming." Russell Reed shook hands with delegates as they filed out of the hotel ballroom. Most of them were part of the delegations of southern and midwestern states. Down to the last man they were all pro-Norman voters. His being here didn't really matter, but it was a nice concession to see him. Especially since the president would not be making an appearance at the convention at all, his acceptance speech delivered over the loudspeakers when he was nominated. The speech would be promoted as him delivering it live from the Oval Office, but in truth he would be recording it today and the reels would be flown across country tonight, delivered tomorrow and ready just before the voting started. Once the all the delegates left, Russell headed for the lobby with his security detail following in his wake. While all the delegates headed back to the convention, Russell made his way to the elevators. A negro man in a sharp crimson suit stood outside an elevator. Russell nodded to him as the man called a car down to the lobby. "Mr. Vice President." Jim Sledge seemed to appear at Russell's elbow once again. Russell gave the little man a wry smile as the elevator doors opened. Russell, Sledge, his secret service agents, and the elevator operator all stepped in. Russell requested the top floor. "How did it go with our Massachusetts friend?" asked Russell. "He had a very good time last night. His friend, our friend in reality, is very observant. I'm already compiling her notes into his file." Sledge's dossiers were legendary throughout the political world. Each one contained the life story on a particular politician. When and where he was born, his political leanings, even his school transcripts or military service record. The folder had the names of the pol's wife, children, and friends. And then there was the dirt. If he made a mistake, Jim would find out about it. Addictions, mistresses, bastard children, criminal records, and any sexual kinks all went into the file with hard evidence to back it up. Even if the man hadn't committed any transgressions, then his father or someone else close to him had. There were no saints in American politics. Those files were somewhere Jim and only Jim knew, at his disposal whenever he -- or Russell -- needed emergency leverage. Every file Jim had, he provided Russell with a copy. All except one. Russell knew Sledge had a file on him. It wouldn't make sense to not have one. If he did, then did he know about Russell's secret? That dangled over their twenty year relationship like guillotine blade, always waiting to fall. Jim had yet to use it, so Russell had no idea if he actually knew or if he was just biding his time. He led the small party to his suite. The two secret service agents stopped outside the door while Russell and Sledge went inside. The suite had been made into a command post of sorts. Six phones sat on a table, five of them connected to the hotel switchboard. The fifth was a direct line to the White House so Norman could be kept up to date on the progress of the convention. Pinned on the wall above the phones was a blank map of the continental US. Each state's delegated count had been penciled in by Sledge, blue for Norman and red for Fernandez. So far the blue far outweighed the red. Frenchie Gallo sat in a plush chair, puffing on a large cigar while waiting for them. He wore a navy blue suit with an orange shirt, no tie and the top two buttons undone to show off a thick patch of chest hair. Large sunglasses obscured his face. His eyebrows rose from behind the glasses and he stood at the site of Russell. "Mr. Vice President." He shot out his chubby hand. Russell shook hands quickly and wiped the sweat off his hand as discreetly as possible. "How are we set on votes?" Russell asked Frenchie before turning to the map. "Are your boys going to pull through." "Oh, yeah." Gallo puffed out smoke and looked the map over. "Adding the Cuban stuff to the platform sealed it up for us. Every big city and state political machine we got in our pocket is voting Norman. Arizona, California, Chicago -- and Illinois by extension -- Missouri, and New York are all locks." Russell and Sledge traded looks. Both men were doing political math inside their heads, adding each states' delegate counts and comparing. They seemed to arrive at the same conclusion together. "First ballot," Russell said with a nod. "It'll be close," Sledge added. "He'll just barely get that two-thirds majority. Maybe by twenty or thirty votes." Gallo furrowed his brow and blew smoke as he spoke. "Fucking Fernandez has that many people on his side?" "It's not just him," said Russell. "A few states like to vote for favorite sons, at least for the first round. Fernandez is a favorite son for Wisconsin, but he's also getting states around it like Minnesota, Iowa, maybe Michigan." "Governor Hallsey will probably get Pennsylvania's votes on the first ballot," said Sledge. Russell sighed. "New England is up in the goddamn air. Who knows who that little midget is going to get his people to vote for." "It'll be close," Sledge said again before looking up at the map. "But it's all written down here, the road map to victory." "Can we get these fucking favorite son states to back someone who's actually gonna win?" Frenchie grunted. "Of course," said Russell. "But for a price." "Favorite sons are nothing but a stalling tactic, Mr. Gallo," Sledge with a smile that had just a hint of a condescension in it. "Do you think Pennsylvania actually wants that moron governor of theirs in the White House?" "It'd get him out of Pennsylvania, at least," Russell said with a short laugh. "But no. Favorite sons get taken off the board usually after the first ballot, once a deal has been cut. I like our chances to win on the first go around. I want to get the president the nomination without horse trading for it. We need to start the second term fresh, not beholden to anyone." "Except me and my friends," Frenchie added. "Owing gangsters favors we can live with," said Sledge. "It's owing politicians favors that can get you in trouble." --- [b]2:23 PM[/b] In his hotel suite, Big Jim Dwyer was doing his own math, scribbling on a scratch piece of paper with a nubby pencil and staring hard through his reading glasses, and was coming to a very different conclusion. There was enough, not by man, but just enough to deny Norman a supermajority on the first ballot. Favorite sons, Fernandez's rising political support, and a few wild cards could all deny the president the first ballot. Two things were key. The first was Big Jim himself throwing New England's support behind Fernandez. Fernandez's deal hinged upon him getting the nomination. If Jim wanted to be able to pick the VP, he had to first get the man who made the offer nominated. The second thing was a big state. He needed one to throw its support behind Fernandez. Texas was out, so were New York, California, Ohio, and Illinois. All of them were safely in the Norman camp through either political boss work, or from the scheming of Russell Reed. It was considered political suicide to ever break a promise to the vice-president. He had a long memory and a petty mind. That was why Jim had never said for sure either way how he would get his delegations to vote as insurance. Reed couldn't see it as a betrayal if Jim never said he would support the president. "It's gonna be close," he said under his breath. "Very close." He turned away from the paper at the sound of a knock on the door. After saying it was open, the door opened. "Big Jim," Chicago mayor Charlie Ricketts said with a broad smile. He was dressed to the nines in a charcoal grey double breasted suit and matching bowler. The suit and hat looked very expensive, no doubt paid for by taxpayer money. "Mind if I come in?" "Charlie," Jim looked over his reading glasses at the man. "That's fine." Ricketts glided in. Jim saw that he wore spats over his shoes, immaculate white ones with fine gold buttons. That struck Jim as odd. Only old men like Senator Faustus still wore them, relics of the age before cars. Maybe that was the point of the outfit? Ricketts trying to channel his 19th century political boss forebears. "We need to talk," Rickeets said, removing his hat. "I have a proposition for you. It involves the Illinois delegation and their votes." "Have a seat," Big Jim said with a smile. "And let me get you something to drink."