Byrd Man

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Arizona

North Sun City
11:35 AM

"This is the finest pool in all the city," Frenchie Gallo said as he floated across the top of the water naked.

Russell Reed, dressed in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, sat on a beach chair just a few feet away, averting his eyes from the fat man's nakedness. So far, Gallo's pox-marked ass had been the highlight of his trip out west. After arriving, Russell and Rod Marston made small talk with Gallo over drinks until the Frenchman called in a couple of prostitutes to show Russell and Marston a good time. Russell had declined the offer, so Marston took both women into his bedroom.

"There are cameras in the bedrooms, right, Mr. Gallo?" Russell asked.

Gallo turned himself over so that everything below the waist was now underwater.

"Call me Frenchie. What makes you say that, Mr. Vice President?"

"It's Russell, please. And I say that because I noticed the clock in my bedroom last night was running slow, so I tried to take it off the wall and saw that it was bolted, with a little hole in the middle just the right size for a camera."

It was a partial lie. Russell tried to take the clock off the wall as part of his usual routine to check for any recording or listening devices anytime he stayed in an unfamiliar location. The two secret service agents detailed to him taught him the trick, so he always did it himself to keep from raising suspicion by having the men sweep the room for him.

Frenchie did a breaststroke across the pool towards Russell. "I like to know what my guests are up to."

Russell raised an eyebrow. "Especially the ones that you can extort."

Gallo chuckled to himself and leaned against the side of the pool.

"Why is it when a man like me does it, it's extortion, but when you do it, it's leverage?"

"Because men like me are the ones who make the rules and come up with the language. We're the ones who call guys like you crooks, and guys like Marston patriots."

Frenchie said something in Quebec French. Russell assumed it was a curse word of some kind.

"I'm in the wrong fucking racket, Russell."

"Speaking of rackets, here comes our favorite racketeer."

Marston emerged from the house in a bathrobe, looking chipper and walking lightly towards the pool.

"Today is going to be a great day, I can already tell."

"You probably had a great start," Russell said with a wry smile.

Marston shrugged and plopped down on the chair next to Russell's. The bathrobe fell open as he sat.

"Goddamn," Russell said, turning his head away. "Am I the only one who wears any goddamn clothes?"

"It's a vacation Russ," said Marston. "How about you relax?"

"How about you put your cock up," Frenchie said from the pool.

"How about you both put your dicks away so we can finally talk?" asked Russell.

Five minutes later, the trio sat at a patio table on the opposite end of the pool. One of Gallo's maids had served them breakfast. Marston and Gallo had both thrown on swimming trunks in the interval and the fact that they were all clothed had restored Russell's appetite. They were halfway through the meal before anyone spoke, and it was Marston who broke the silence.

"So the vice president is here for assurances, Frenchie."

Gallo raised an eyebrow. "What kind of assurances?"

The prick is actually going to make me say it, thought Russell. Of course he would. Russell knew that if the tables were turned, he'd do the exact same thing. He had done the exact same thing whenever anyone needed something out of him. It was always nice to have reminders of your power.

Russell put his fork down. "Mr. Gallo, you have... let's call them friends, all over the country. New York, LA, Kansas City, New Orleans, Chicago. They have friends in all walks of life. Especially politicians and community figures. People who will be delegates at this summer's convention. The administration would be grateful if you could help keep them in line."

A small smile crept on to Gallo's face.

"Jesus, you fucking DC guys are that scared?"

"The president is scared," replied Russell. "There are at least four favorite son candidates at the convention. I don't think any of them stand a chance compared to a sitting president, even one as unpopular as Norman is. But his team is scared to death he'll look weak if he doesn't win the nomination on the first ballot. They want overkill."

Gallo shrugged.

"Me and my friends do overkill well. But the question they will all ask is why? We dabble in local politics, sure. But why should my friends care who the president is? Good times, bad times, we still make money."

"Cuba."

Russell's one word reply made Gallo sit up straight.

"Bullshit."

Now it was Russell's turn to smile. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Gallo.

"Cuba's experiment with complete autonomy is failing. Or has failed, I should say. Their embassy in Washington has been meeting with the state department and begging for aid. They're in rough shape. The years since the civil war have not been kind to them, more so without America's guiding hand and deep pockets. One of the president's goals in the next administration is heavy investment into Cuban infrastructure. We'll get allowances from them that will make them a protectorate again. Not officially, but all but in name."

"Think about it, Frenchie," Marston said softly. "You and your friends can get in on the ground floor. The government is gonna need construction crews, material, so much stuff that your Teamster buddies can supply. Millions of dollars, maybe billions. It's all on the table for the taking."

"And let's not forget the casinos," said Russell. "They ran y'all out in the 30's. You made Sun City into a desert oasis, Frenchie. But it's not Havana."

Marston leaned forward. "Sun City in the west, Havana in the east. Not just a kingdom--"

"An empire, Frenchie," Reed said with a smile.

"Goddamn... you fucking guys are good."

Gallo slapped the table.

"I'll get in touch with the Board and other families and see about putting a meeting together. But, fuck, you guys could sell snow to the goddamn Eskimos. I use the shit you're spinning, I think it'll be a yes from them."

Russell leaned across the table and shook Gallo's hands.

"I thank you, President Norman thanks you."

----

Washington D.C.

The Traveler Club
5:23 PM

Wilbur Helms' bright blue eyes sized Eric Fernandez up quickly. Eric knew exactly what the old man was thinking before it even came out of his wrinkled lips.

"Excuse me, son, but this here club is only for US Senators."

Helms, in his fifth term as a senator, was a symbol of all the things Eric hated about Washington and American politics. A Democrat from South Carolina, all he had to do was keep breathing to keep getting elected. He ran on platforms that included race-baiting, the bible, and a genuine lack of social progress. The senate was filled with men like him. And their longevity was always rewarded thanks to the rules of the senate.

Seniority meant power in that chamber, so men like Helms were the gatekeepers if any significant legislation needed to be passed. They were the chairmen of the committees that allowed bills on to the floor, the floor leaders who knew all the archaic rules of the nearly two hundred year old body. Like the emperors of Rome, Helms and his cohorts could kill bills with a simple thumbs down.

Eric needed Helms and his kind on his side.

"I am a senator," said Eric. "Fernandez, out of Wisconsin. I serve on the agricultural committee."

Helms frowned and looked at the waiting attendant behind him. Like all the attendants at the Traveler Club, he was black and dressed in an immaculate livery uniform that included white gloves and bright brass buttons. The servants were part of the aesthetic at the club, an aesthetic that included portraits of former Southern senators, many of whom had served in the confederacy during the first civil war. Eric saw the club as a sanctuary. For Helms and his kind, it was a shelter and a time capsule that reminded them of times that had passed. Times they hadn't lived through, but times they had romanticized as a place when things were simpler, things were better. Eric knew if he asked the young black man if he thought those times were simpler and better, he would have a very different answer than the senator.

"He's a senator, sir," said the attendant. "The senator is here on Senator Sanderson's invite."

Helms appraised him again.

"What kind of name is Fernandez?"

"Spanish," said Eric. "My family came here from Spain in 1803."

"Well, guests at the club usually come here on business. What's your business, son?"

"I want to talk to you about the upcoming convention."

There was a long pause. Helms' stoic face slackened and he started to smile. It was a smile without warmth, a smile that featured rows of yellow teeth. The old man pulled himself up from his plush chair and leaned on his cane. He offered Eric a hand that was twisted by age and arthritis.

"Well, son, escort me to the tea room and you can speak your piece."

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

The Hoff Republic.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Los Angeles

Hollywood
10:31 AM

Elliot Shaw stood behind the soundproof glass with the recording engineers and watched the small group of people gathered around microphones. Three groups of two shared mics. Each one wore headphones and had scripts in their hands. As the show progressed, they would flip pages as far away from the mics as possible.

A pale, skinny white man leaned into the mic and spoke in his best impression of a stereotypical negro. "Mista Shecky, they is a lady at the door fo' you."

"Who is it, Rockland," Shecky Lemon asked.

"She say she yo' great aunt."

"Great aunt? Both my parents were only children. Send her away, Rockland--"

"Shecky!" The voice was that of a frumpy old maid. But the actress was young. "I'm your great aunt Cora. Don't you remember me?"

Shecky flipped the page of his script. "Great aunt? There's no way, lady. I don't have an aunt. This is impossible, this is outrageous, this--

"I'm here to inform you that you've inherited two million dollars."

"-- this is amazing," Shecky shouted. "Why, Cora, you old soul. How have you been? Is there anything I can get you, come on in and make yourself at home."

The engineers in the booth cued music and the skinny man who was the voice of Rockland now spoke in a deep baritone of the announcer.

"The Shecky Lemon Program will be back after these messages from our sponsor, Dixon Oil. Whether it's heating your home, fueling your car, or helping design the products you use in your every day life, Dixon Oil is there. Dixon Oil: Fueling America since 1894."

Elliot watched the rest of the show recording in silence. It was the usual formula of an episode of Shecky's show. He got so wrapped up in the big bucks that he couldn't see the truth. Eventually, Rockland's homespun and folksy advice would help him realize that the aunt was just a scam artist. Miriam, Shecky's next door neighbor and perpetual girl in waiting, would also help while not so subtlety dropping hints that she was in love with Shecky. But Shecky remained oblivious to the fact, something that no amount of talking from Rockland would cure.

They were between recording breaks when Elliot went into the studio.

"What do you say, Elliot?" Shecky asked with a cigarette in his mouth.

"Let's talk."

Shecky went silent and looked at the small group mingling around the studio.

"We're gonna take a longer break, folks. Give me at least ten."

"It's your show," said the girl who played Miriam.

Shecky blew out a cloud of smoke as he and Elliot left the studio. "Goddamn right it is. Don't any of you ever forget that shit."

Elliot led Shecky through the halls. There were a dozen identical recording studios set up in the building, about half of them in use and pumping out content for Pinnacle Entertainment. In film and radio, Pinnacle was... well, the pinnacle of the industry. If you watched it or listened to it, then there was a seventy percent chance Pinnacle made it. The big push was now coming in television. Elliot figured in a year, Shecky's show would be on television and radio both.

"This is good enough," Elliot said after they reached a little corner away from the rest of the recording suites. Elliot passed Shecky his pack of cigarettes and let him strike up a new one.

"So what's going on?"

"I visited the girl and her family, Shecky. They're not going to press charges."

Shecky let out a column of smoke that passed through is lips as he sighed.

"Thank god. Shaw, you really saved my ass this time I--"

"Jeanie also has a message," Elliot cut him off. "You get your dick close to anybody even close to underage again, and she will personally chop it off and feed it to you. Understand?"

He gave Elliot a cold look. "The fucking dragon lady has spoken. Or, I should say, her personal goon has spoken."

"Don't take the high ground with me, pederast."

Elliot plucked the cigarette from Shecky's hand and let it fall to the floor. He stomped it out with the heel of his shoe.

"Smoke break's over, Shecky. How about you get back to making your wholesome family show?"

He said some words in Yiddish that Elliot knew was some kind of cursing at him. After that, he left and Elliot watched him waddle away. Being hated was part of the job. It had been part of his job before this one as well. Ex-cop turned private eye turned studio executive. Well, he was an executive on paper. Vice President of Production Affairs. It was corporate slang for fixer. That's what he did. He paid for the silence of Shecky's prepubescent paramour this morning, yesterday he broke the arm of Dexter Parkerberry's heroin dealer, the day before that it was arraigning an abortion for Fatty Fanny Mae.The actors and artists of Hollywood were some of the worst degenerates in the world. And Elliot Shaw was their cleaning man.

Elliot lit up another cigarette and smoked it as he crossed the lot towards the studio offices. He had an eleven o'clock appointment that he could not afford to miss. People waved to him and said hello as he passed extras dressed as pirates, a prop cart loaded with fake gold bars, and a dozen other things that would look odd in any place other than Hollywood. He made a beeline for the executive offices and found himself inside the plush, all-white office of the dragon lady herself.

"Have a seat."

Jeannie Rothstein-Shaprio, the lone woman studio executive in Hollywood, looked exactly like the soul woman in a man-heavy profession would look like. She was fat with beady eyes and dark red hair that had so much wax in it Elliot could see it shine against the lights in the office. The gossip around town was that she had no physical use for any man with so many starlets at her disposal. Even with a woman in charge, the casting couch was still in effect.

"How's Shecky?" she asked Elliot with raised eyebrows.

"Pouty. But he's back to work. Hopefully your warning will take."

"It better, that fucking short-eyed creep. All the gash he gets thrown at him and he wants to truck with barely barely legal snatch."

"We want what we can't have," Elliot said with a shrug. "It's human nature."

"Like how I want a dick. The good lord made me a man in every way but the most important."

"That's why man, in all its wisdom, invented strap-ons, Jeannie."

That got a rise out of her. She laughed, braying almost like a donkey.

"Good shit, Shaw. You got a smoke?"

Elliot passed his boss a cigarette and his lighter across the desk and waited until she was done with the lighter before he himself lit up.

"You know Claire Beauchamp?"

"Sounds familiar," said Elliot, exhaling a column of smoke as he spoke. "She talent?"

"And then some, Shaw. She's a contract player, did some background work on a few pictures last year. This year we've had her in supporting roles in four pictures. We're gearing up for her first leading lady film." Jeannie smiled as she spoke, gesturing with the cigarette wildly. "We've got her pegged as the next american sweetheart. I want to see her dashing across the jungle with Samson Rockwell, fighting off native headhunters. I want to see her in fancy dress, dancing with Dexter Parkerberry at some ball. She's a beauty, and she is the next big thing."

"So," said Elliot. "Where do I come in?"

"The kid likes coloreds," Jeannie said with something that sounded like contempt mixed with sadness. "What a shame. If it were anyone else, I'd have fired her for violating her morals contract. But... she's worth too much to the studio. But she can't be America's Sweetheart if she's shtupping shvartzes. Once that hits the scandal sheets, all the rednecks in the midwest and south won't turn out for her movies."

"Again... where do I come in?"

"Discourage her," Jeannie said with a grin. "As only Elliot Shaw can."

---

Echo Park
11:14 AM

Jessica Hyatt was in deep trouble. She sat in an empty interrogation room, sitting in a metal chair bolted to the floor and shackled to a metal table. The table, her chair, and the other chair across from her were the only things in the room besides a naked light bulb that dangled from the ceiling.

She had no idea what time it was or where exactly she was. But she knew exactly who had brought her here. Jessica had been on her way home from work when the two men in suits braced her at the bus stop. She knew right away who they were when she saw their cheap haircuts and even cheaper clothes. The little badge with the eye confirmed it. They had taken her to a car and blindfolded her. Hands pulled her from the car and down a cold hallway to here.

That had been hours ago. She didn't know exactly how many hours, but more than enough to make her worried. Occasionally the sounds of footsteps echoing against concrete could be heard on the other side of the wall, but they always faded. Even now she was hearing it. Jessica perked up when the footsteps stopped. The metal door groaned on its hinges and a tall, lanky man with receding hair and thick, black framed glasses came into the room. He carried a glass ashtray in his hands. She could tell he was a supervisor based on his suit. From a better department store, but still off the rack.

"Miss Hyatt," he said as he took the seat across from her. "I'm Special Agent Nate Parker." Like the other two men, he showed her the golden badge that had the US crest on it and the words FEDERAL CRIME BUREAU written below the crest. Above the crest was the all-seeing eye Jessica and so many of her friends had come to recognize and fear. "I'm with the Pinkerton Division. Do you know what that means?"

Jessica smiled. "You're the goons that lie at the rotten heart of American Dream."

Parker chuckled. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket along with a matchbook.

"I'm gonna chalk that up to the arrogance of youth. You're twenty-five--"

"Twenty-two, actually."

"Twenty-five." Parker adjusted his glasses. "You tell people that you're twenty-two. You were a child when the war happened. You don't remember it. Where were you during the war?"

Jessica licked her lips. Here it came. The reason she was here. Did he already know? Was he just leading her on, trying to trap her in a lie? Regardless, she had to give him the lie she had been living since she was a baby.

"South Dakota. Sioux Falls."

Parker smiled and pulled out a cigarette from the pack. He took his time lighting it up and taking that first, long puff.

"I was in Utah during the war, Miss Hyatt. Battle of Salt Lake, house to house fighting against the Mormon Army. Brutal stuff. Cigarette?"

"I don't smoke," Jessica said softly.

Parker blew a cloud of smoke in her direction.

"The Mormon Army, the Tabernacle Republic, all those shitty little communes and west coast city-states that seceded preached radical ideas and methods. The same things you and your protester friends stand for."

Jessica almost let out a sigh of relief. He was after something else entirely. Her secret was still safe. The ease of that emboldened her to talk back.

"You mean things like equal rights, freedom of speech, privacy rights, things that are in the constitution? Things like that."

That smile crept back on to Parker's face. "Read the Helms-Gasksins Act sometime, Miss Hyatt. Traitors don't get free speech and privacy. You're mingling with known anarchist and communist groups. We have photos of you, recordings of phone conversations. Based on the law, Miss Hyatt. I have every right to throw you into a deep, dark hole and let you rot there. No habeus corpus, no due process. You might be able to climb out by the year 2000."

"Well, do it." Now it was her turn to smile. "Throw me into that hole and walk away. Or... maybe you want something?"

Parker ground his cigarette butt into the ashtray.

"Very astute. I picked the right one. Our research has been thorough, Miss Hyatt. You are highly intelligent, intuitive, and manipulative. In sort, you have all the makings of a Pinkerton."

Jessica laughed deeply. It was less a laugh of joy and more one of disbelief.

"How about you go fuck yourself, Special Agent Parker?"

Parker lit up another cigarette, taking his sweet time again before responding.

"I can do that, Miss Hyatt... or should I say, Miss Hecht?"

Jessica started to scream, but the bile rushing up her throat choked it off. She leaned against the table and vomited on the concrete floor while Parker watched her impassively as the vomiting turned into dry heaving.

"Welcome to the Pinkertons, Jessica," he said. "You're going to love it."

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

I mean, if the Hindenburg didn't blow up they probably would.

@Dinh AaronMk

Murder on the Airship Stevenson is gonna be a thing now.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Are the airships legit? I think I remembered us talking about it kinda jokingly.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Relevant doesn't equate interesting or good.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Los Angeles

South Central
11:24 PM

Jefferson Thomas looked at the small lines of brown powder on the dash of his car. He leaned down and quickly snorted up the three neat lines of heroin. The drugs stung his nose going up, he snorted and swallowed as he felt mucus running down the back of his throat. The drugs began to hit his system almost at once. He sighed contently. He needed the little bit of hit for what was coming next. Straightening up in the driver's seat, he started his car back up and pulled out of the side alley back on to South Avalon.

The corner of Avalon and East 97th Street was blocked off by two LAPD cruisers with their lights flashing blue. Negro onlookers from the neighborhood stood behind a police cordon. Jefferson parked behind one of the patrol cars and got out. He was tall and lank, standing at 6'5 and maybe two hundred pounds at most. His hair he kept cut short in what the folks around the way called the fade. Old acne scars dotted his cheeks, just something else to be self-conscious about.

Jeff took with him a notebook and pen, along with his badge clipped to the left breast of his suit. He took a deep breath and began to walk through the crowd towards the cordon, the people giving him ample room as the came through.

He could feel their eyes on him. The same hostile stares he was used to in his six years with LAPD. He heard a few mutters about him being a sell out, how he was an Uncle Tom. This was what the heroin was for. Jefferson Thomas was just one of six negro officers in LAPD, the only detective and the only one who worked South Central. To the people down here, Jeff was nothing less than a traitor. By working for the LAPD, the same police force that brutalized them and marginalized him, he was worse than the white men who wore the uniform.

"How's it going?" Jeff asked the uniformed officer guarding the cordon.

He grunted and let Jeff pass by him. A small semi-circle of LAPD two patrolmen -- Pettigrew and Stanton -- and a plainclothes officer were gathered in the middle of a narrow alley, their backs to Jeff. They grudgingly gave him space once he joined them. He was the only black face among them.

Him and the dead body on the ground.

The corpse of the man lay face down in the alley with a pool of blood underneath him. The neat little wound on the back of his head made it clear that a bullet had been the cause of death. Jeff noted that the entrance would was fairly large, which meant the exit wound would have turned the guy's face into hamburger meat. Jeff also spotted stippling around the wound. So the shooter got up close. From the way the body was laid out, the man might have been on his knees when he caught the bullet. Execution style, thought Jeff. Cold blooded as hell.

"Mr. President," Hoyt said with a smirk.

Hoyt was the closest thing Jeff had to a partner. He was tall and blonde and had a thick Okie accent, a child of one of the many who fled the Dust Bowl and came west years ago in search of something better. Hoyt said he used to be an extra in cowboy pictures back before he joined the LAPD. Like a lot of detectives who worked out of the 77th Street Station, Hoyt carried a throwdown piece in his boot and a lead weighted sap in his sports coat.

"Hoyt."

Jeff pulled out his notebook and pen and began to take notes. Jeff saw the three white men looking among themselves out the corner of his eye.

"No need for notes, Jeff," Hoyt said as he spat a wad of tobacco from his mouth. "This one is open and shut."

"BNBG," Pettigrew said with a chuckle.

In LAPD speak, BNBG stood for Big Nigger Big Gun. More often than not, the people in South Central were killed by this Mr. BNBG. Jeff ignored them and instead started to bend down over the body, writing notes for himself.

"Did you hear us, Jeff?" Hoyt asked. "This boy here probably got shot because he cheated somebody in some crap game, or was fucking somebodies old lady, or some other bullshit. It's the jungle, son. You can't make heads or tails of what these fucking people are doing."

Jeff looked up and locked eyes with Hoyt. Sometimes other cops acted like Jeff wasn't black at all. There were jokes about him being an honorary white man, and how he was "one of the good ones", but there was also that look that they gave Jeff when they thought he wasn't looking. It was a look that would never make Jeff forget that he wasn't an honorary white man, and that he may be "one of the good ones", but he was still black and they weren't.

"You're right," said Jeff.

He stood and put his notepad and pen back in his pocket and looked at Hoyt and the patrolmen with a sheepish green.

"Five bucks says old boy on the ground had more pickaninnies than he had fingers and toes. One of them baby mommas probably did it."

The three white men laughed. Stanton slapped a knee.

Jeff chuckled to himself and looked at the two patrolmen. "If y'all want, I can wait for the medical examiner to get here. Hoyt and I are on the late show tonight and I know your shift ends at midnight."

Pettigrew and Stanton traded looks before nodding in agreement. The two patrolmen headed back to their squad car with Hoyt in tow. The detective said he would start paperwork, but Jeff knew he was going to Bito Lindo's. For all his talk about the jungle, Hoyt sure loved to hang out in South Central nightclubs.

When they were gone, Jeff bent back over the body. He quickly went through the man's pockets. He found a book of matches and a pack of Pall Malls, twenty dollars, a comb, and a California driver's license issued to a Wendall NMI Brock, DOB 2/28/19 and an address just a few blocks away from the crime scene. Jeff pocketed the license and everything else in the dead man's pockets before he stood up.

He could already start to feel the inevitable come down from his heroin high. Jeff would spend the next few hours in that low feeling that always followed the high. The majority of the depression was his body craving more dope. The other big part was that when he was sober, Jefferson Thomas couldn't stand himself. The insults and eyefucks thrown at him earlier were all true. He was an Uncle Tom, he was the LAPD's token nigger. And the heroin was the only thing that stopped him from swallowing his gun.

But now there was Wendall Brock, dead on the ground. Hoyt didn't give a fuck about Brock, neither did Pettigrew and Stanton, and neither would Lieutenant Johnson back at 77th Street. To the LAPD another dead black man was one less they would have to arrest. Tag it BNBG and close the case.

Ten minutes later the medical examiner's office showed up with a gurney. The attendant had a camera around his neck and a cigarette in his mouth.

"We're just tagging and bagging?" He asked, blowing smoke as he spoke.

"No," said Jeff. "We need photos of the body, and the crime scene guys are on two murders already, so we need to use your camera to take photos of the scene as well."

The morgue guy looked like someone had just kicked him in the nuts. He was being asked to work harder than usual, on something that was not his job. Jeff pulled out a twenty before the guy could use the usual bureaucratic excuses.

"You'll have my appreciation," he said with a nod.

The attendant palmed the cash.The bad look suddenly evaporated.

"Okay. Tell me what shots you need, and I'll be happy to get them for you."

---

Washington, D.C.

Washington Wheeler International Airport
4:11 AM

The bump of the airplane's landing gear touching the ground woke Eric Fernandez up from his light sleep. The plane was taxiing to the terminal while Fernandez stood and rubbed his aching back. By his own account he'd been on planes and in airports for the last sixteen hours. He was alone, no staff and no bodyguards. He didn't need either. At least not at this point.

"Welcome home, guys," Eric said. "At least for a couple of days."

Fernandez was one of the first ones off the plane and into the terminal. He carried a briefcase and a small travel suitcase that had his suits in them. Alexander Roy stood in the nearly deserted airport waiting for Eric. He started to walk with him as he approached.

"Senator," said Roy. "How was the west coast?"

"Lovely," replied Eric. "Lot of maybes, but no firm yeses."

"What do you expect? The west is where Norman is his strongest. Was I right about Arizona?"

"Yes and no."

They passed through the exit and out to a waiting car. Eric climbed in the back with Roy and waited until the car was in motion to speak.

"Arizona's democrats aren't the biggest Norman fan. But Rod Marston is a goddamn snake oil salesman. I had to take a shower after meeting with him. He all but said we'd have to pay for it if we want him and the state delegation on his side."

"It might be worth it."

The look Eric gave Roy all but ended the discussion there.

"If we to pay for it, it's not worth it."

They rode in silence after that. Eric leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He knew he was a long shot. The days when the party didn't nominate the incumbent president were long past. It was an uphill task to get party loyalists to break rank and gather around him before the convention. But the fact that Eric was getting maybes and non-committals instead of flat out no's was encouraging. The party overall were unhappy with the Norman Administration.

While Eric dozed, Roy pulled a thick leather bound ledger from his briefcase and cracked it open. Inside the book were the names of every state's convention delegates. Those in Fernandez's camp had an F beside their names, those for Norman were labeled with an N. Fernandez had all of the Wisconsin delegation on his side. Naturally they would support a favorite son until the better end. Fernandez also had support through the Midwest. Norman had the west coast in his pocket, and of course the vice president had the solid south under his yoke.

The Northeast would be a battleground. It was up in the air and with a bunch of delegates at stake. If Fernandez could get support in New England, he could at least force the convention into going into multiple ballots before election the candidate. In the event of a deadlock then the Norman camp would end up winning. The decision would be thrown into the backrooms where the party bosses and the vice president's staff would cut deals that would get the bosses' support behind the president. Eric's rhetoric was great and he could give assurances, but he was still a senator. Norman was draped in the office and all the power behind it. Eric could promise, but Norman could deliver.

"You're quiet," Eric said softly with his eyes still closed. "What are you thinking?"

Roy closed the ledger and rubbed his eyes. "I'm thinking we need to make friends in New England."

---

Sun City, Arizona

The Desert Rose Hotel & Casino
1:00 AM

Somewhere across the casino, a slot machine rang out in shrill tones and people were cheering the jackpot. Johnny Leggario sat at the bar drinking a highball. He was pretty sure he was going deaf after six months of working in the casino. Johnny was the nominal head of security. That meant all the pit bosses reported to him when they suspected a cheat. Two guys who worked for Johnny would politely escort the cheat to a back room and do many not so polite things to his body and face.

It wasn't a bad job if you could stand the noise and the smoke. Besides, Johnny only spent a few hours here a night. He'd usually roll through from about eleven to two, when the gambling was at its peak, to keep an eye on things. He had a much more important job away from the casino.

To the Boys, Sun City was considered an open city. No one family ran it outright. The Desert Rose was Chicago's piece of the action. LA owned and operated King Arthur's Court, and the Fortunato's form New York had the Lucky Gent. Frenchie Gallo was the Fortunato's man in Arizona and the one everyone in Sun City called boss. And Johnny was his underboss. A New York boss, a Chicago underboss, and capos from all across the country. It was what the politicians would call a coalition government.

Johnny polished off his highball and left the bar. The action on the casino floor tonight was boring. Shriners played dice and slapped the asses of the cocktail waitresses. Old ladies were chainsmoking around the slots while businessmen and other squares played at the card tables. No celebrities or high rollers. Nobody for Johnny to set up with dope or a hooker. Nothing really for him to do.

He was about to split when Gingy waved at him from across the floor. There was a phone in his hands and he passed it to Johnny as he approached. Johnny cradled it and was thankful for its long cord as he went inside a hallway just off the casino floor.

"Hello?"

"Johnny." It was Frenchie. Forty years since he moved to the States but he still had that Québécois accent from Montreal. "I need you to make an airport run."

"This late?"

"A private party coming in by private plane. Bring them to my house. I want someone I trust, so get a goddamn limo and don't bust my fucking balls, eh?"

---

Johnny leaned against the limo and smoked a cigarette. He saw the plane land and slowly taxi across the tarmac towards his car. He perked up when he saw the men in suits coming out the plane first. Johnny's instincts screamed cop to him and he sat upright to watch the two men. Square haircuts and cheap suits. Cops for sure.

"We need to pat you down," one of them said before he flashed a badge.

Secret Service.

Johnny put his hands up and let them pat him down. They took the .45 in the shoulder holster and .38 in the ankle rig, and then the switchblade in his pocket.

"You'll get them back," one of the agents said.

"I fucking better," said Johnny.

The two men walked back to the plane. Two more men came out and walked down the stairs towards the limo. The one on the right Johnny knew well. Senator Rod Marston, tall and thin with his rusty red hair, was no stranger to Johnny or Frenchie's other guys. The old pol spent as much time in the casinos and whorehouses of Sun City as the dealers and whores. There was no telling what kind of dirt Frenchie had on him, how much money he'd gotten from the Boys after twenty years of slush fund and kickback money. Johnny thought of Marston as a crook, but one on a much higher level than Frenchie or any other made guy. His brand of criminality was called patriotism.

The other man following Marston towards the limo Johnny recognized. He'd seen his face on newspapers and magazines and on TV. More often than not, he was smiling to the side as Michael Norman delivered some speech of posed for some photo.

"Johnny," Marston said with a firm handshake. "Long time no see. Let me introduce you. Johnny, this is the Vice President."

"Pleasure," Russell Reed said in his syrupy southern accent. "Hopefully, Johnny, you're a registered democrat."

"Vote early and often," said Johnny. "That's the Chicago way."

The three men shared a laugh before Marston patted Johnny on the back.

"I think Frenchie is expecting us, Johnny," said Marston. "We need to discuss business."

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

@Byrd Man I don't have any solid ideas for a country right now so can I play as a frustrated writer CIA agent?

@BingTheWing

CIA don't exist, fam.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Hands off Cuba!

That's my way of saying no.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

The United States of America

National Anthem

Head of State: Michael Norman

Biography:

History

In early 1917, President Woodrow Wilson visited Capital Hill and addressed congress. He announced that a state of war existed between the United States and the German Empire, and that congress had only to acknowledge it. Wilson announced in glowing terms that the mission of the United States was to keep the world must be made safe for democracy. For the first time in its long history, the United States was close to going abroad in search of monster's to slay.

And then it wasn't.

A contentious faction in the US Senate, led by Henry Cabot Lodge, voted down the war declaration by the slimmest of margins. Wilson, defeated, took to poor health and died in 1918. Thomas R. Marshall assumed the presidency. Not prepared for the office and unwilling to do anything, he served as caretaker for the federal government until Republican Warren G. Hardin was elected in 1920. The 20's were one of prosperity for the United States. As Europe suffered from war, the United States reaped the benefit of supplying the warring nations, the Allies especially, with whatever they needed at cost. The US would flirt with prohibition of alcohol in the 20's, only for it to be repealed and deemed a failure.

Harding's death in 1923 gave Calvin Coolidge the presidency, and he was elected in his own right in 1924. Coolidge stood down in 1928 and his successor, Herbert Hoover, seemed a shoe-in for the White House. And then in early 1928, it all went to hell. With the Great War's end, instability rocked the world and the US was caught in a massive economic depression that nearly bankrupted the US government. Hoover was beaten soundly in the election by New York Governor Al Smith, who would have won in a massive landslide had it not been for his Catholic background.

The Smith Administration went to work in passing legislation that would help ease the economic crises the US were facing. One of Smith's closest advisers was fellow New Yorker Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a former member of the Wilson Administration who had been struck by polio in the early 20's and was wheelchair bound. Roosevelt and other advisers began to push for more and more radical legislation that Smith opposed. Eventually, there was a falling out by the two men and FDR was fired and sent back to New York.

As the 20's became the 30's, the depression worsened and cracks began to show in the once stable American Union. A highly contentious 1932 election led to the House of Representatives having to elect the president after a deadlock in the electoral college and popular vote. Smith was reelected president by a razor-thin margin of two states over Hoover. The results led to protests and division in the country. Many of these protests were ended by force thanks to the intervention of the US Army and chief of staff Douglas MacArthur. The show of force stopped the demonstrations, but the resentment began to build through the country.

Economic stagnation had become the norm in 1936 when the next presidency was decided. Franklin Roosevelt, after two terms as governor of New York, ran a strong campaign against governor Alf Landon of Kansas, in which Roosevelt unveiled a vast plan of social that would help to rebuild the country. But Landon's unlikable personality, fear of Roosevelt's radical policies, and a low turnout by disgruntled voters led to another political deadlock. The deadlock with the voters was foreshadowing of the deadlock that emerged in congress. The representatives remained undecided well into 1937.

And that was when MacArthur sprung into action. With the military at his command, the general appointed himself president on a interim basis until a successor could be found. The move led to opposition from across the country, opposition that MacArthur silenced with the army. Roosevelt and Landon were soon arrested along with most of the politicians in Washington. The union began to crumble underneath MacArthur's bootheel. First in the south, where Senator Huey Long set up a populist powerbase. One of the few politicians to escape MacArthur's grasp, Long led Louisiana and ten other southern states seceded Southern United States of America. The SUSA was followed by the west coast radicals who formed the Syndicate States of America. With the two factions seceding, MacArthur declared war on them and the Second US Civil War began.

The war drug on for four years. Poorly trained troops, in-fighting, and division among the radicals in the west led to its surrender in 1939 after a heavy defeat in the Battle of Denver. The war in the south began to grind into a stalemate, but the end was in sight. In 1939, MacArthur was deposed by his second in command, General Dwight D. Eisenhower. Eisenhower served as temporary president for a month, that was when Senator Burton Wheeler was appointed as president by the rump congress. Wheeler announced to the American people that war was soon to be over. He conferred with Eisenhower and other agents of the federal government to see it come to pass. Two weeks later, a Jewish dentist shot Huey Long. With long gone, the populist SUSA crumbled without his strong leadership. Gerald L.K. Smith signed a peace treaty with the US Federal government in 1940 and the south was absorbed back into the fold.

Wheeler served as a uniting figure in the aftermath of the war. He was heralded as the second coming of Lincoln. He ran for reelection in 1944 and won in a landslide. In 1948, after almost twenty years of strife and turmoil, a peaceful transition of power occurred in the United States when Thomas Dewey of New York was elected president. The 40's and 50's saw a renewed stability take hold of the United States. The economy finally rebounded and the US, though not a colossus of economic might it had been in the 20's, was able to manage unemployment and be one of the leading capitalist nations in the world.

In 1954, Colorado governor Michael Norman was elected president by a close margin. The Norman Administration hasn't been a major success in its almost four years. The country is economically flat and Norman is seen as an aloof leader who is not in touch with the everyday people. Questions of corruption inside the administration has led to a less than stellar approval rating from the people. As the summer conventions approach, there is a challenger in the form of Wisconsin senator Eric Fernandez, a leftist in the true sense and a man with a vision to help America.

Other:

Characters

Michael Norman -- 36th President of the United States
Russell Reed -- 40th Vice-President of the United States
Eric Fernandez -- Junior Senator from Wisconsin
Wilbur Helms -- Senior Senator from South Carolina
Elliot Shaw -- Private Eye/Hollywood Fixer
Jefferson Thomas -- LAPD detective
Jim Sledge -- Political operative
Roderick Marston -- Senior Senator from Arizona
Billy Carter -- Professional baseball player
Johnny Leggario -- Mobster
Lilian Mather -- Candidate for US Senate
Julio Lopez -- Cuban smuggler.
Stein -- Thief
Jessica Hyatt -- Pinkerton Agent Provocateur.

Post Catalogue

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