[b]LA Convention Complex 7:45 PM[/b] "How does Georgia vote?" "Georgia delegates cast all their votes for Michael Norman!" The USC marching band fired up its rendition of "Hail to the Chief." They played it every time Norman won a state's votes. So far, the band had been busy but not overwhelmed. Eric Fernandez kept a running tally in his head. Norman was out to an early lead. Rick Marshall was second only because of how many delegates California had. Eric had only twenty-four votes to his name, all of them from Connecticut. That was at least reassuring. Big Jim seemed to be keeping up his end of the bargain. "Norman gets Idaho," Alex Roy said from beside Eric, while the band kicked up "Hail to the Chief" once again. "No surprise there." "How does Illinois vote?" On the floor, Mayor Charlie Ricketts stood and basked in all the attention. He gave a big smile and milked the moment for all it was worth. "The great state of Illinois, of which I am honored to speak on its behalf, have decided that it will cast all its votes for our next president, ERIC FERNANDEZ!" The decision caused both Eric and Roy to sit in their seats and look at each other. "Illinois has a lot of votes," said Roy. "Not as many as California, or New York..." "But just enough," Eric said with a smile. He could feel his pulse quickening "I think we're going to do this. At least on the first ballot. Enough to give us some momentum to carry us into the second ballot." The two men traded quick handshakes and pats on the back. Eric felt the votes from Illinois had been a shot in the arm to his chances. There would be a second ballot thanks to Eric and all the favorite son candidates. They'd defied the president and denied him, at least temporarily, the nomination he so desired. The only thing lingering in the back of Eric's mind was why? Why had Ricketts and Illinois went to him when he had made it clear that he wasn't prepared to horse trade or outright buy their votes. Something or someone had changed their minds. And the only thing Eric knew was that it wasn't his doing. --- [b]8 PM[/b] "Wyoming casts all of its votes for Michael Norman." Frenchie Gallo didn't even have to do the math to know the president hadn't won the nomination. He could see it in the posture of everyone in the private booth. They were all hunched over, refusing to make eye contact with each other. The booth was packed with guys like him. Not pols by trade, but political movers and shakers by virtue of glad-handing and trading favors. Every one of them were Norman supporters, and now everyone of them looked like someone had shit in their shoes. Foulke read off the tabulations from the dais above the floor. The president squeaked out a simple majority of the votes, but Fernandez had stolen roughly forty percent of the vote and caused him to fall short of the required 2/3rds majority. Not just enough to deny the president victory, but enough to give him an actual shot at the nomination. Frenchie chomped down on a cigar in anger. That bastard Ricketts. He had no idea what kind of deal Ricketts managed to cut, but he would make sure to have a talk to Bobby C. after all of this ended. He might have to go to Fortunato and the commission with it, but he wanted to fucking whack Ricketts for this grief. The old men might balk at political assassination, but he knew Johnny Leggario would see to it Ricketts ended up in Lake Michigan as fish food. "Okay, fuckers," Frenchie said with a start. "Stop moping around and get to work. We all know enough about politics to know what happens next. We all got power and influence of some sort. Let's fucking use it and get our guy elected." Frenchie waddled across the room and picked up the first phone he could reach. Suddenly, the box around him came to life with the people doing the same. He hadn't won on the first ballot, but the son of a bitch could win on the second if they all got to work. --- [b]The Baxter Hotel 3:30 AM[/b] "Voting will be suspended for and will resume tomorrow morning at 11 AM for the sixteenth ballot." Russell heard Foulke's gavel sharply pound through the radio. He and Jim Sledge were the only two in the room. Sledge had his eyes closed as he sat in the chair facing Russell's bed, but Russell knew he was wide awake. They both were, actually. Who could even feel anything close to being tired at a time like this? "Now is the time," Sledge said, his eyes still shut but no trace of sleepiness in his voice. "Most of the bosses are heading back to the hotel, those that are already here are without a doubt picking a meeting place. We haven't had a deadlocked convention in quite some time, so they're embarrassed and want to end it quickly. I imagine the sixteenth ballot will be the last one. The winner will be picked by them before the sun rises." Russell nodded. "I expect the phone to ring in about five seconds or so. Three... two..." One of the phones started to chime. Sledge opened his eyes and smiled at Russell before standing and picking it up. "Hello?.... Yes.... I see... okay. Yes, we'll be there shortly." Sledge put the phone back down and looked at Russell. "They're meeting in Parrish's room. All the bosses, Wilbur Helms, and now us." Russell nodded and stood. For the first time in years, he thought of his father. Jon Reed had thought of himself as some sort of kingmaker in Northeast Georgia politics. Without the temperament to actually be a politician, he instead relished the role of being the power behind the throne as it were. But then he went bankrupt and became a laughingstock. It forced the Russell family to taking handouts and charity from the people in Lavonia. When he was sixteen, Russell asked Lori Jo Tyner to the homecoming dance. Her mother and father told her she couldn't, that Russell was no good. They said that no Reed would ever amount to anything. He saw Lori Jo Tyner, now Lori Jo Wilson, when he came through Lavonia during the '56 campaign. She was so fat. Russell chuckled to himself and adjusted his tie before looking over at Sledge. "How's my hair?" "Good," said Sledge. "Then let's go to work."