Byrd Man

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

Tiki torches all around.

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

California

Barstow
10:11 AM

Johnny Leggario stood in line beside the short, German man with the thick glasses and the even thicker mustache. "Prussian Joe" Wittenberg was proof of the old adage do not judge a book by its cover. While he looked more at home in an accounting firm, the little man was one of the finest criminal minds on the planet. He was known through the criminal underworld as the Herr Doktor. Johnny had crossed paths with him a year and a half ago in Chicago. The two had worked together on a bank job that went sideways. After a double-cross during the getaway, everyone but the two of them had been killed. Johnny broke the neck of the double-crosser, a Chicago Police lieutenant. The heat was too much for him to stay in town so he beat tracks south. That was why he was serving in the neon light purgatory of Sun City now.

"We're next," Joe said in his thick accent.

"Tickets," the stewardess said with a wide smile that didn't reach all the way to her eyes.

Johnny passed her their tickets and stepped through the tunnel with Joe walking in his wake. Both men had traded in their suits and hats for slacks and button up shirts. Leisurewear didn't hang right on Johnny's stout frame, however the sweater and khaki pleated pants made Joe look even more like an average working slob.

The tunnel came out on a tarmac with a waiting plane. It was a four-prop NEWI DC-6. Johnny and Prussian Joe boarded and took their seats near the rear of the plane. The model could hold eighty people, and all of the seats were filled by the time the plane taxied to the runway for takeoff.

Joe ordered a Scotch right once takeoff was over and they were stabilized. Johnny got a bourbon and sipped it as they flew above California. The two men made small talk during the flight, Joe halfheartedly replying while he jotted down notes in a spiral notebook on his lap. Johnny killed his drink just as the pilot was making an announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our final approach. To the right of the plane, you will see Cloud Nine in all its glory."

Johnny and Joe looked out and saw something moving through the clouds. The clouds parted and Johnny smiled. The giant airship was Cloud Nine, the world's only airborne casino, floated aloft on a network of lighter than air balloons and moved by giant propeller engines the size of ones used by passenger ships and battleships. It flew on an endless scenic tour above California and never landed unless there was an mechanical emergency.

It could hold a thousand people and was always at capacity. The highest rollers in the country and the world came to Cloud Nine to gamble, and they paid a pretty penny for the privilege. The waiting list that went until the winter of '64, but Johnny had friends who didn't have to wait to for anything. The plane bounced as it touched down on Cloud Nine's runway and came to a stop.

Five minutes later they were walking down a plush corridor lined with red carpet. Johnny pulled out a pack of Henry's and lit up before passing the pack and lighter to Joe. The two men came out of the corridor and on to a balcony that encircled the main gaming floor of Cloud Nine. Below them, the floor was packed with gamblers in the middle of over two dozen games of chance. Johnny could see stacks of chips on the tables, some chips with denominations as large as five hundred dollars.

"How much cash do you think is being circulated on the floor, Doc?" Johnny asked.

"At least a million. Maybe more."

A million on the floor, at least another two million in the vault. That's why they had come to Cloud Nine. The casino in the sky was ripe for the taking, its security softened by the fact that it was seen as impossible to rob and make an escape. It was possible, alright. Prussian Joe had a plan. And Johnny had a crew just crazy enough to do it.

---

Washington D.C.

Senate Office Building
3:12 PM

"What did you expect, Eric?" Alex Roy asked. "He's Wilbur Helms, Eric. You look up reactionary in the dictionary and you see his wrinkled ass face smiling back at you."

Eric Fernandez sighed and leaned back in his chair. He and Roy were in his office, going over his less than stellar meeting with the senior senator from South Carolina. Alex fixed Eric a drink before they got into it. He was sipping it now and thinking back on Helms' stoic face during his talk.

"The bastard gave me the stink eye when I said my name," said Eric. "He heard Fernandez and he got his back up. My family's probably been in this country longer than his family."

"Again, Eric. Look at who you're talking to. The man served in Huey Long's cabinet for god's sake."

"Wasn't he some undersecretary?" Eric asked.

"Secretary of State. He tried to work out some deal with Ethiopia where they would airlift Negroes to safety. It was a fucking back to Africa movement disguised as humanitarian aid. I think the Ethiopians just laughed him off."

Eric chuckled to himself and finished his drink off. It helped.

"Look at it like this," said Alex. "We never expected the south to follow us. They're only hanging with Norman because of Reed. They want him to run in '64 and put a southerner back in the White House."

"I know," Eric said with a sigh. He stood and pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and slipped it on. "I have to head over to the Senate floor for a vote. Can you call my wife and see what's for dinner?"

Alex said he would as Eric left and hurried from the Senate offices towards the capitol across the street. Within ten minutes he was in the democratic cloakroom with about a half dozen other senators. Bert Marshall, the minority leader, sat in a leather chair with a legal pad on his lap. Eric was on the way to see him when he was cut off. Russell Reed stood in front of him. Eric had three inches on the man, but Reed had a way to make it feel like he was the taller man as he got in close.

"Senator, how are you doing today?" Reed asked as they shook hands.

"Mr. Vice President," said Eric. "About to vote on this bill."

"Democracy in action. You look good, Eric. You gotten some sun recently?"

"I went out west to see some people." Eric saw the twinkle in Reed's eyes. A twinkle without any warmth in it at all. "You look like you've been in the sun, Mr. Vice President. Have you been out west?"

Reed laughed and slapped Eric on the back just a tad too hard.

"Just meeting people. Shoring things up before the convention. We've got a lot of backers."

"I bet. Also a lot of critics, lot of people who want a change."

The hand on Eric's shoulder gripped it tightly.

"I think it's a small minority who are very loud, Eric. Very loud. They won't amount to a damn thing when it comes time to vote. You'll see at the convention."

"If they're not ready for a change now," said Eric. "They certainly will by 1964."

The thing that passed for a fake smile disappeared from Reed's face. The vice president walked away from Fernandez without another word and stormed out of the cloakroom and back on to the senate floor. Marshall looked up from his legal back and furrowed his brow.

"Fernandez, what's going on?"

"The vice president is just feeling the heat," Eric said with a grin. "Is it my turn to vote?"

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

I don't think Byrd wants to RP racists for the hell of it, but he does it because it would be the reality of the world that exists in PoW.

@Pepperm1nts

...Yeah. That's what it is.....That. And nothing more.

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

Los Angeles

South Central
3:15 PM

The old black lady turned her nose up Jeff Thomas. He was on her porch, the screen door between the two of them. Jeff had his badge out and up against the screen mesh for her to see he was official. Jeff could smell something cooking inside the house, probably greens. He could also smell booze, closer and wafting through the screen.

"They don't hire niggas to be police," she slurred.

"Right," said Jeff. "But they do hire negroes. I'm one of those, ma'am. I'm here because Wendall Brock had this house listed as his address."

"The motherfucker didn't live here!"

The old lady swayed on her feet and gripped against the screen to help from tottering back further. Jeff put his badge up and pulled out his notebook.

"But you knew him, right?"

"He rented the garage behind my house. He was late on his rent. Now, I gotta clean his shit out and try to fix it up for a new tenant."

"You haven't touched it yet? I need access to that garage."

"Well, I need a warrant, Mr. Po-lice."

Jeff ignored her. He stepped off the porch and walked around the side of the house. The old lady squealed and tried to chase after him. She walked on unsteady feet and yelled at Jeff as they headed into the backyard. There was a detached wooden garage will a metal roll-up door.

"Uncle Tom motherfucker!"

"You want to go to jail, granny?" Jeff asked as he looked at the woman. "Public intoxication, obstruction of justice, harassing a police officer. Take your pick and I can call patrol up. You'll be in central lock up before five, hanging with the whores and the bull dykes. What do you say?"

The fight went out of the old drunk. She started to back away from Jeff and towards the house.

"I'll get out of your hair so you can work, sir."

She shuffled back into the house and slammed the door shut. Jeff heard the loud clang of the bolt locking into place and laughed softly to himself. With her gone, he turned to the garage and pulled on a pair of leather gloves.

The autopsy on Brock proved very little insight into the events leading up to his murder. The massive gunshot wound to the head had been the cause of death, no surprise there. Jeff also wrote up a request for the lab downtown to do a blood test on Brock for any kind of narcotics.

He pulled open the roll-up door and looked in on a one-room apartment. There was a dresser that looked like it opened up on a Murphy bed, a cheap desk with a folding chair and a typewriter, and a toilet and sink in the far corner of the garage. Jeff sketched a layout of the apartment before stepping in.

The place was neat, far neater than he expected it to be. Whatever Wendall Brock had been in life, neat had been among his features. The clothes in the dresser were neat and folded on the hangers. Jeff pulled out the bed and was not surprised to find it made with the corners tucked in neatly. He scribbled "military?" in the notebook before turning to the desk.

Nothing was in the typewriter, but a stack of typing paper was in the top drawer of the desk. He rifled through it and found something he wasn't expecting underneath the paper. Pamphlets and political tracts on a variety of subjects rested at the bottom of the drawer. They skewered to the far-left and approached radical. One was titled "Houism: A Crash Course", one said "LAPD: KKKorupt KKKops," still another was title "Who Will Survive in America?" Jeff took notes on the tracts and stuck a few in his pocket.

He walked out the garage and pulled the door down. He heard a rattling noise and looked towards the house to see the blinds in one window closing shut quickly. Jeff smirked and pocketed the gloves in his sports coat before walking back towards the street. He was starting to feel the need for another snort. His last had been a few hours earlier and had managed to last him longer than he thought it would.

Jeff laid out a small line of the brown stuff on the dash of his car and snorted it up. He let out a sigh of relief and leaned back in the seat. The wave of pleasure crashed through his body and put his mind at ease. It also helped him think. The case Hoyt had dismissed as Darktown intrigue seemed a bit more complicated than even Jeff thought it would be.

Wendall Brock was a neat, politically interested man who probably was a writer. Did he write the tracts in the drawer? Maybe. The DOB on his license put him at the right age to have taken part in all the political shit that happened during the war. If he was as left as the pamphlets implied, he would be on a list somewhere. He started the car and headed back towards 77th Street Station, buzzed on both big H and the progress in the investigation.

----

Hollywood
9:09 PM

Elliot Shaw exited the movie theater along with a pack of people. He had been among them during the showing of Shall We Dance?, a ballroom dancing farce picture Pinnacle Studios wrote, shot, and released all in the span of two months. It was middle of the road stuff. Raymond Hollister starred as a nice guy engaged of a shrew of a woman. The shrew demanded that he take dancing lessons before their wedding. Enter Bridgette Davenport as the beautiful dancing instructor. Anyone who's seen a movie knew the rest of the story. Shenanigans ensue, and Hollister and Davenport fall in love and end up together.

Clair Beauchamp had a supporting part in the picture. That's why Elliot had went to see it, to see her in action. It would have been easier to watch the film at one of the private screening rooms Pinnacle had on its lot, but Elliot wanted to watch it among the people to see if she lit up the screen as much as Jeannie claimed she did. Her part was Davenport's best friend, shoulder to cry on, and comic relief. Jeannie was right that the girl lit up the screen. She had about fifteen minutes of screen time but always stole focus anytime she came into the picture. A couple of the gags made even Elliot laugh. He knew the people in the theater ate it up. So maybe there was something to the claim she was the next big thing.

Thunder rumbled somewhere off. Elliot lit up a cigarette and hit a payphone. He fed it a few quarters and dialed Sid's number. It rang a few times, letting Elliot take a long drag off his smoke and exhale it before the ringing stopped abruptly.

"Whisper Magazine, from your lips to our pages."

"Sid, it's Elliot Shaw."

"Elliot! Long time no speak, buddie!"

Sidney Applebaum, managing editor for Whisper, was a cockroach. He scuttled around Hollywood in search of what he labeled "prime sinnuendo." He was one of the people who knew where the bodies were buried. He was rumored to have file boxes stashed somewhere filled to the brim with dirt on movie stars, studio moguls, and anyone in the entertainment industry. Shit too depraved to put into his magazine. Applebaum was hated by the studio heads because of the dirt. The potential for blackmail loomed large with Sid.

Elliot was afraid he had dirt on him as well. 5/6/56 writ large. That was the day of the shootout Dorchester. The day he quit the Boston PD and headed to west to escape the bad press and any potential incitements. If anyone knew about it, it would be Sid fucking Applebaum.

"You got some hot copy for me, Elliot?"

Elliot would often feed Sid gossip he heard about rival studios. He was nominally an executive, so he occasionally hobnobbed with the competition and talked shop. He was sure the others did it with him as well, which is why he always gave them low-level gossip.

"Not this time, Sid. I need information. What do you know about Darktown nightclubs?"

"Oooh, you mudsharking, Elliot? I've been thinking of doing an all interracial issue. The love that dare not speak its name, tiny white ingenues with well hung Mandingos. What do you think?"

"Fascinating, Sid. I'm working on something. Gimme the lowdown on some nightclubs and I might give you some copy if it all goes according to plan?"

A lie, but a small one. He wouldn't tell shit about the girl, but he could always let slip that Dexter Parkerberry was currently in a dry out farm in Malibu because of his Big H addiction. It was dirt, but not damning enough to hurt Parkerberry's career the way Clair Beauchamp would be hurt if it got out she liked dark meat.

"The big spot is Minnie's Playroom. There's also The Voodoo and Red's. T-Bone Harris is supposed to be playing The Voodoo. You should check him out. I don't like that blues shit, but that boogie is doing something else."

"Thanks, Sid," Elliot said with a smirk. "I'll be sure to get his autograph."

----

Mullholland Drive
11:19 PM

Jessica Hyatt drove along the curvy road at speeds that were too fast. Her thoughts weren't on the road. They were back in that little room with Agent Parker. The man had her dead to rights. He knew all about her history with marches and protest. And he knew about who she was before she was Jessica Hyatt.

Tears were forming in her face, making the road blurry. It wouldn't be that hard, she thought. Just let go of the wheel and at the next turn she would fly off the side and down into the canyon below. There would be pain, so much pain. But that would be the last thing she would feel before death. No more hiding who she was, no more lies and no more secrets.

She turned off the lights of the car and let it race down the road in darkness. It got the better of her and she quickly turned them back on in time to see a bend in the road. Jessica cut the wheel sharply before the curve. The over adjusting caused the car to spin out in the middle of the road before the side of it banged against a metal barrier on the road's edge.

She sat there, heart racing and gripping the wheel. She wanted to live. Goddammit all, she wanted to live. She thought of herself as a coward. The will to live, even in this shitty situation, had won out over her courage. She thought of her father and how he had ended his life before he could be caught. The people who knew who she really was had called him brave and said he had gone out on his own terms, a radical to the end. But she never knew the man because of that act. But that was different, wasn't it? There was no way he would have lived had he been caught. The government would have seen to it.

Jessica started back the way she had come, back towards LA. A few miles down the road she pulled off the side and lit a cigarette, her thoughts back to Parker and his mission. A simple infiltration job, he had said. For someone with her pedigree, getting in and earning trust would be easy. Once she was in, she would let the Pinkertons know everything there was about the Good People.

According to Parker, they were a small group of like-minded individuals operating in LA. Radicals, anarchists, socialist -- you name the leftist philosophy-- all part of a secretive meeting group hosted somewhere in the city. The FCB and the Pinkertons were actively looking for them, but they could never get close. Jessica knew that people like her could smell a fed from a mile away. They were rumored to have entertainers in their midst, people who could shape the messages coming out of the studios. If subversives were influencing the culture, that might actually make Mr. and Mrs. Small Town America question their government and the Pinkertons couldn't have that.

Jessica flicked the butt of her cigarette out the car and started it back up. She pulled back on to Mulholland Drive and flicked her lights on. Find them, Parker had said. Find them, identify them, and we're square. You go about your business and we never bother you again. She didn't believe that for a second. But what choice did she have? She was against a rock and another rock. Helping Parker was like gnawing her arm off to get free. But better one-armed and free than trapped and dead.

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

EDIT: Although I think Georgia should definitely be independent.

@Pepperm1nts

The Peach Republic.

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

Don't be thirsty.

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.