Byrd Man

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

I'll work on it. I'm not 100% sure on some of it myself!

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

You can PM or hit me up on discord. I'll be home from work in an hour.

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

Can we have a stereotypical southernet there as an American ambassador? Think Boss Hogg meets Foghorn Leghorn.

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

Montana

Chinook
7:39 PM

Charlie Braddock hurried out of the Blaine County courthouse with Vic trotted in his wake. The square around the courthouse was deserted, only Charlie and Vic's cars were parked in front of the place this time of evening. Charlie's battered truck sat beside Vic's Ford. Both vehicles had a large star on the door with the word's BLAINE COUNTY SHERIFF stenciled inside of it.

"I'm driving," said Charlie.

"C'mon, boss," pleaded Vic. "I'd like to get there in one piece."

"You still aren't used to the roads here. You might get us lost."

"Bullshit."

"That's insubordination, Deputy Klein. Remind me to write you up when I get back."

They climbed into Charlie's truck and sped through Chinook. The town was quiet, as Charlie expected it to be. There were only a little over two thousand people that lived in town, most of them family folks who went home for dinner after they were done working. Those that didn't went to the roadhouses out in the county for drinks and dancing and whatever they needed.

Vic reached into the glovebox and pulled out the glass bubble with the magnetic bottom. He reached out and slapped it on top of the truck's roof. Charlie flipped a switch on the dashboard and the bubble on the roof flashed blue lights. Vic put on the radio and they listened to a station out of Billings that played big band music. The reception was spotty and crackly. Charlie reached over and changed the dial to a Canadian frequency out of Saskatchewan that had a better transmitter, but it played western music.

"I don't wanna listen to that shit kicker music, boss," Vic huffed.

Charlie chuckled and turned it up. Deuce Hopper and his Oklahoma Orchestra were in the middle of a set, broadcast live from somewhere. They were playing "Shame on You." Charlie beat time on the steering wheel with the song as Deuce crooned and played the fiddle. Vic crossed his arms and looked out the window as Chinook's small town faded away and the plains opened up.

Montana sat on the edge of the Great Plains, but Blaine County was smack in the middle of it. Buttes and small mountain ranges helped break up the monotony, but for the most part it was that large, empty expanse that seemed so big that it could swallow entire towns whole.

Vic perked up when they passed a sign on the side of the highway that announced Tony Strafford's campaign for Blaine County Sheriff. Vic shook his head and looked over at Charlie.

"When are you gonna but your signs up, boss?"

"I'll get around to it," he said with a shrug. "We still got almost six months until the election. Easy enough for Tony to put up signs when he works for the highway patrol. Nobody gives a rip about the election until summer's passed anyway."

Vic grunted, his way of disagreeing without disagreeing. Charlie ignored him and went back to listening to Deuce and the boys. It was after dusk when they finally reached Jordan's Crossing. Deuce was in the middle of "Cotton Eyed Joe" when Charlie turned the radio off.

Chinook was a small town and looked like a small town was supposed to look, houses laid out in grids and a main street with businesses. Jordan's Crossing was a nightmare of progress. Hastily built houses lined dirt roads that needed to be paved, liquor stores on damn near every corner, and Dixon Oil signs as far as the eye could see. Even the main street was named after the company.

Late in '58, they had struck oil in this part of Blaine County. In the year and two months since, this small patch of the county had been turned into a boomtown complete with all the problems that came with boomtowns. Migrant workers from all over the US and Canada flooded the place, guys looking for work or looking for an escape or maybe both. They would get liquored up on payday and in a town where men outnumbered women ten to one, fights up ensue. A bar fight was the reason they were out here now.

"What's the place again?" Charlie asked.

"Mac's, I think it's on Third Street, just off Dixon Way."

Charlie found the place a few minutes later. Mac's was a Quonset hut with a door and two windows. A wooden sign with "Mac's" scrawled on it hung above the door. Charlie and Vic got out and went in.

Either a bar fight or a tornado had occurred in the small place. There were overturned tables, broken chairs, blood on the floor. Vic immediately pulled out a notepad and pencil and started sketching the scene. Charlie walked up to a group of people by the bar. There was the bartender, looking pissed. Along with two other men.

"I'm Sheriff Braddock, what happened?"

"Son of a bitch Crowder, is what happened!" the bartender spat. "He always starts trouble in my place, I always gotta kick him out. Tonight he went too goddamn far."

"He pulled a knife," said one of the men. "He fucking stabbed Matt Relford six times. A bunch of the guys in the bar loaded Relford up in a truck and took him to the hospital."

"Where's this Crowder?" Charlie asked.

"Being looked for," said a voice from behind.

Charlie turned and saw a man in a very expensive suit walk through the door. He was about Charlie's height, so six feet even, with gray hair and gray mustache to match. Patrician would be the word Charlie would have used to described him. He had a Roman nose and oozed money. He was flanked on both sides by musclebound men in black fatigues carrying rifles.

"My security staff are combing Jordan's Crossing and the outskirts looking for Jason Crowder."

"Appreciate the help,' said Charlie. "But that's our job, Mister?"

"Dixon," he said without offering his hand. "Bob Dixon. The Dixon in Dixon Oil. Sheriff, you and your deputy here can rest easy. We've got this under control. The security staff here are made up of ex-police and military officers. So, take it easy."

Charlie chuckled to himself and looked back at the bartender and the witnesses. They didn't know what to do or say now that the man who was responsible for their livelihood was in the room.

"Vic," Charlie said after a moment of silence. "Get statements from these three men here. Same with Mr. Dixon and his two friends."

Charlie walked passed Dixon with a friendly nod. "This is a sheriff's department investigation, Mr. Dixon. I appreciate your cooperation.

Charlie squeezed between the two security goons on his way out the door.

"Where are you going, sheriff?" Dixon asked.

Charlie paused and looked back over his shoulder.

"Going to do my job," he said before walking out the door.

----

Los Angeles

The Voodoo
12:12 AM

The Voodoo was made up in witch doctor chic. Candles provided the lighting for the place, they were mounted in tiki torches around the club. Tribal masks, bones, and voodoo dolls hung on the wall alongside fake shrunken heads.

The dance floor of the nightclub moved and shook, filled to capacity with young, black men and women dancing to the band onstage. Front and center was a young black man with an electric guitar, dancing as he played a loud and fast-paced riff. His kinky hair had been straightened and done in a large pompadour, he wore a bright purple suit and gaudy rings on his finger. Behind him, a drummer, bass player, and two horn players tried to keep up. The words 'T-Bone & The Bone Patrol' were stenciled on the drumkit. T-Bone slung his guitar behind his back and grabbed the microphone in front of him. The crowd cheered and the band went into a holding pattern as he half-sung and spoke the verse.

"Man, I came home the other night and all my shit was out in the front yard. I said there couldn't be one thing going wrong, that crazy ass girl of mine. Let me go over here and see what's wrong with her this time."

The crowd, the men in the crowd at least, cheered at the words.

"Went up in the house and she's sitting looking all crazy I said 'What's wrong baby?' She said 'You don't love me.' I said 'You know I love you.' She said 'No you don't. You stay out all night with yo friends, drinking and carrying on and you don't even think to call and let me know where you at' I said,'Well hold on a minute baby. Let me tell you one more time and maybe you'll believe me', so I told her something like this:"

T-Bone whipped the guitar back around and started playing a furious riff that sounded like a mix of the old blues standards and big band, but big bad music was never this fast or this aggressive. He kept his face close to the mic as he howled the chorus.

"I said I love you baby until the day that I die! I Spell it L-O-V-E. C'mon girl why you do this? You know I love, I love you, I love you! You know I tell you!"

In a flash, the guitar was back around T-Bone's back and he was clinging to the mic while the crowd erupted in cheers. Sweat was pouring off his face as he spoke again.

"I said c'mon baby let me back in the house. You know I love you. She said 'You don't even buy me presents'
'Yeah, I did. I bought you a box of chicken but I ate it on the way home.' She said, 'You don't even know my name!' I said yeah it's Melissa. She said 'No dumbass, it's Roxanne. Spell it out for me' Damn, man. Hold on. So I had to tell her something like this:"

This time, T-Bone danced to the beat in a strange duck-hop as he went into a guitar solo. He ran from one side of the stage to the other as the crowd went wild. He returned back to the mic, throwing his head back and slinging sweat across the stage, to belt out the chorus.

"I spell it R-O-X-A-N-N baby! Her name is Roxann and she's rocking my world. You know I love her, I love her, I love her, I love her, and so I tell her!"

More claps and whoops and T-Bone wiped the sweat from his face.

"She said 'Alright, you know I love you. I can't say no to you. You can come in the house.' I thought we was going to make some love but I heard a knock at the door... I was like, 'Goddamn. Who is it man?" White man said, 'I apologize for knocking so hard. This is Houston PD, we're looking for T-Bone Harris.' I said 'Hold on. He's in the back. Let me go get him for you.' So I went to the back of the house, man my woman's sitting there and says 'Where you going?' I said 'I gots to go!'"

T-Bone picked his guitar and played furiously as the song came to a climax.

"I started running! I started running for this white man take me away. She said 'Get yo shit and get outta here boy!'"

The song ended suddenly and the crowd thundered its applause. Harris waved his hands and bowed. The band followed his lead.

"Thank y'all," he said into the mic. "Y'all too kind. We gonna take a break, but we'll be back in about twenty or thirty minutes."

Harris set his guitar down on a stand by the stage and followed the rest of the band out in the back. A Petey Peterson tune came on the sound system, a fast-paced number that got the people on the dance floor moving once again, although plenty headed back to their tables during the lull in live music.

Elliot Shaw watched all of this from the Voodoo's bar. He nursed an old fashioned and watched the comings and goings of the club goers. Except for himself and a Mexican pachuco in a baggy suit, the rest of the club was all negro. No showing of Claire Beauchamp so far. An hour in and Sidney Applebaum's tip looked to be worthless.

He lit up a cigarette and thought about prowling by Beauchamp's pad when another white man came through the door. He was tall, close to six foot six, with a baggy suit and dark blonde hair in a crew cut. Elliot made him as a cop right away. The suit helped hide his piece in a shoulder rig. If he was the type of cop Elliot figured him to be, then he would have a drop piece and a sap somewhere on him. A negro followed him into the bar. He was tall, but not quite as tall as the white man. The negro's suit wasn't as baggy, so Elliot could clearly make out the service weapon in his shoulder. LAPD had a handful of negro cops, but he had no idea there was one working plainclothes.

He turned away as the two cops found a table. They didn't so much find one as the white man flashed his badge at a couple sitting at a table and made them leave. The Petey Peterson number ended. Following it was a slow Little Sadie Hamilton song that cleared the floor for slow dancing. The white cop stood and walked up to one of the cocktail waitresses. She wore a low-cut purple dress that showed off legs and cleavage and the cop was staring hard. He took her by the hand and walked her out to the dance floor.

"Motherfucker," Elliot heard the bartender muttered over his shoulder. "Fuckin' Hoyt."

He turned around and saw the man giving the dancing couple the stinkeye.

"He do this often?" he asked the man.

"Shit yeah," he said with a shake of his head. "Always coming in her with his token nigga Detective Thomas, getting free drinks, fucking my girls, and shaking me down for money. You okay, man. You been nursing your drink, which I don't car for too much, but you been keeping to yourself. So many white men come here and walk around like they're the fucking mayor of South Central. Imagine if I went into a white club. Not strutting, just going in for a drink. They'd lynch my ass."

Elliot nodded in sympathy and killed his drink.

"Another old fashioned."

"That's what I like to hear," said the bartender.

He turned to look back at Hoyt. The big man had his hands on the girl's ass as they danced. He saw several men at tables staring at them, glaring was more like it, as they moved across the dance floor. For his part, Thomas paid little attention and was staring at a notebook on the table.

Elliot polished off his second drink and paid the bartender for the two drinks, a hefty tip included.

"For your Hoyt troubles," he said as he passed over the money.

"Much obliged, mister."

With two drinks under his belt and no sight of the girl, Elliot was preparing to leave when he saw a man bolt on to the dance floor from the back room of the club.

"Somebody call the police!" he shouted. "There's a dead body in the alley!"

Murmurs broke out and people started to hurry towards the side exit of the club, the two cops taking the lead. Elliot was one of ones going towards the door. He muscled his way through the crowd and came out in front just at the exit of the club. He saw blonde hair tangled on the ground and a white woman in a red dress laying on her side. Hoyt and Thomas were above the body, Thomas squatting down to brush the hair from the body's face.

It was Claire Beauchamp with a neat little hole in the middle of her forehead.

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.