Byrd Man

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

The Fantastic Four

“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.”

C O N C E P T A B S T R A C T:

A secret NASA project featuring physicist Dr. Reed Richards, biologist Dr. Susan Storm, and astronaut Major Ben Grimm was created to invent the world's first faster than light warp drive, with the plan of expanding space flight outside of the universe.

When the government announced they were cutting the project's funding, Reed took it upon himself to see if the warp drive would work. He took Sue, Ben, and Sue's younger brother Johnny to the launch site and they installed Reed's warp drive before blasting off into space. Reed started the warp drive once in position. The spaceship disappeared in a blinding white light.

Ninety minutes later, the shuttle returned to Earth's atmosphere with all four of its passenger's unconscious and forever changed. Reed could manipulate and stretch his body to any form or size. Sue has the ability to turn invisible and create force fields. Johnny gained the ability of pyrokinesis and can make his whole body burst into flames without being damaged. Ben's entire body-skin, bones, organs-all were changed to hard rock. He is nigh invulnerable and has super-strength.

The US Government seen the upside to these powers. With Air Force general William Lumpkin as their government liaison and handler, the four are dispatched to far-corners of the globe and beyond to investigate strange and unusual phenomenon. Known publicly as Mister Fantastic, Invisible Woman, Human Torch, and The Thing. They have become the Fantastic Four.

In the thirteen months since their accident the Fantastic Four have had adventures ranging from stopping Mole Man's army in the Ukraine to encountering the galactic bounty hunter Lobo. Reed and Sue even managed to find the time to marry, with Johnny giving Sue away at the altar and Ben acting as Reed's best man.

Soon after their run-in with rogue time agents Per Degaton and Kang the Conqueror, the truth behind the Four's accident was revealed. They encountered a mysterious figure known as the Watcher. Immortal and omnipotent, it was reveled that it was the Watcher who saved the Four from their shuttle accident and bestowed their powers to them. Before sending them back to Earth, the Watcher explained that he had saved them and given them powers in order to prepare for an upcoming apocalypse, the destruction of Earth and the genocide of the Human race all at the hands of one being, something looming in the darkness and coming for Earth.

A R C S:

Do Androids Dream of Windy Weather?- The Four are dispatched to a island off the coast of Washington state to deal with an experiment gone wrong. An android has gained sentience and has threatened to wipe out all of Seattle if the Four do not intervene and put him down. Easier said than done!

Warworld - Answering an interstellar distress signal, the Four are ambushed and their ship crash lands on a planet run by a sadistic overlord named Mongul. The Four have to fight in his gladiatorial games day after to stay alive and keep looking for a chance at escape.

Through a Glass, Darkly. - A wormhole opens in Germany and the Four pass through into another world, a mirror version of their own with the entire planet under the bootheel of a dictatorial and crazed world leader. His name: Dr. President for Life Reed Richards. The Four have to figure out how to stop an inter-dimensional invasion as Reed comes to grips with his own inner demons.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Daredevil

"A good lawyer knows the law. A great lawyer knows the judge."

Matthew Michael Murdock ♦ 6/5/87 ( 30 ) ♦ Male ♦ Heroic

C O N C E P T A B S T R A C T:

Matt Murdock is a "bad guy." A slightly twisted life has turned our blind lawyer into one of the city's best mob lawyers and a reviled figure in the criminal justice community of New York. Then at night, he becomes the Devil. The Devil is feared in the underworld as a violent criminal who is slowly climbing the ladder to become the city's kingpin. The part is an act, with Matt using the front as a criminal to actually attack the people who killed his father.

A R C I D E A S:

Nolo Contendere - After accepting to take up the murder defense of a young man pro bono, Matt begins to discover his client is truly innocent despite his many claims that he is guilty. As Matt tries to get the case thrown out based on evidence, Daredevil looks into the young man's past and neighborhood and discovers a sinister conspiracy.

Casus Belli - A shaky alliance between the mob and the Crusaders MC is in tatters after a drug deal gone bad ends with dead men on both sides and a missing briefcase with a million dollars in it. While Matt Murdock tires to prevent a gang war between his clients, Daredevil tears up the city in search of the perpetrators of the attack and the missing money.

Hostis Humani Generis - A vigilante has come to the city, reigning down death and destruction to those in need of punishment. Among the killers targets is Matt Murdock, the city's number one criminal lawyer.

N O T E S:

Nothing to add at the moment.

Sample

Manhattan Criminal Courthouse
Part 21
Lower Manhattan
11:21 AM

"Mr. Murdock, do you plan on a lengthy cross-examination of the witness?"

"No, Your Honor," I said as I stood. "I'll be brief."

I couldn't see it, but I could hear the muscles in Judge Sandra Young's face form into a smile. Noon was fast approaching and Judge Young likes her smoke breaks. I was honestly surprised that she had allowed the current session to run now for over three hours without breaking.

"You may proceed," she said.

I made my way from the defense table, passing by Assistant DA Blake Tower on my way towards the lectern facing the witness box and the jury. I heard Tower's right eyelid flip in a wink at me, a force of habit I assume. His gait was that of a man who was confident on the point of cocky. And who wouldn't be cocky after the testimony he had just withdrawn from his witness?

With Tower holding his hand, Detective Sergeant Michael Tork had just delivered an hour's worth of testimony that guided the jury through his investigation. Working out of the NYPD's 33rd Precinct, Tork and his four-man narcotics unit conducted a two month investigation into the suspected drug dealing activities of one Jesus Reuben Martinez, resident of Washington Heights and a known member of the Puerto Rican Army.

Jesus sat at the defense table, looking on while his heart raced a mile a minute. I could probably have smelled the sweat beading on his forehead from outside the court room it was so pungent. He had every reason to be worried. Tork's testimony was solid. He had explained in that clear and clipped cop-speak that his unit had observed Martinez in and around the Wilson Terrace Housing Projects where he lived, but they could never get concrete proof that he was dealing. He was careful on the street, conducting his business in the housing project where the cops couldn't go without arousing suspicion. Martinez would take the train somewhere downtown, but they always lost him in the shuffle of the commute. Close to packing up the case, they turned instead to the eye in the sky.

Jesus Mendez had the honor to be among the first targets of the NYPD's new drone surveillance program. The drone in question caught Jesus taking a re-up from a supplier and then meeting with the dealers who worked for him to move his product. Jesus had eluded police ground surveillance thanks to his keen observations. But he hadn't thought to look up into the sky.

"Thank you for taking the time to be here, Sergeant Tork," I said a I prepared for the cross.

"You're welcome," Tork said tightly.

A genuine hater. I figured the cop for one of those right off the bat. Now my suspicions were confirmed by the stand-offish answer and the increase in his pulse. A lot of cops make no effort to hide their contempt for defense attorneys. Instead of seeing what we do as a necessary check on the system, they instead see us as quasi-criminals who are just a few steps above the scumbag clients were represent. Not that he would be completely wrong in that assessment. But if he didn't hate defense lawyers now, he sure as hell was about to hate them after I was through with him.

"Sergeant Tork," I said with little to no delay. "Who operated the drone that took the surveillance photos of Mr. Martinez?"

"Officer Pierce," said Tork.

"And he's a member of your narcotics unit?"

"Yes, he is."

"I've been told that the photos you took are of good quality." I turned towards the jury with a half smirk. "I wouldn't know for myself."

I've found that self-deprecating humor can go a long way to disarm juries. Especially given my reputation over the years, playing up my blindness offsets my other less desirable qualities.

"They can clearly make out your client dealing drugs," Tork replied.

"Move to strike that from the record," I asked the judge. "It's inflammatory."

"So noted," said Judge Young. She looked down at Tork from her perch. "And I would remind Sergeant Tork to stick to simpler answers."

"Sergeant Tork, did you write the warrant that led to the use of the drone on my client?"

"No," said Tork. "We didn't have to write a warrant."

I smirked and squared my glasses up. Tork's heartbeat was steady, but starting to rise. He was telling the truth -- a refreshing departure from a lot of cops on the stand -- but he was beginning to get nervous. He knew something was up. With this cross, I was setting the fuse on the bomb that would destroy the prosecution's case.

"Drones and the use of them are relatively new in law enforcement, Sergeant. Are you up to date with all the rules and regulations?"

"I know how to do my job if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, so you know about the rules on surveillance distance with drones? They're much more restrictive with them than they are with planes and helicopters. If you're less than a thousand feet away from the target, you need a warrant. Anything without a warrant is considered an illegal search."

I held up the photographs, making sure they were the right side up and facing Tork.

"From how far would you say these photos were taken, Sergeant Tork?"

Now Tork's heart was racing. I could smell the sweat on him. Along with his change, I heard Tower groan under his breath from the prosecution table and Juror #4 laugh under his breath.

"I'm not an expert on distances," he said defensively.

"No, you're not," I said with a nod. "I'll have one of those come up when the defense presents. No more questions for Sergeant Tork, your honor."

And just like that, the seeds of acquittal have been sewn. Is Jesus Martinez guilty? Of course. The photos prove that. But they weren't obtained legally. That, more than anything, is my job. I have to make sure the cops play fair. I have to test the state's evidence and make sure it holds up. I am a necessary part of the threshing maw that is the American criminal justice system. I poke and prod and pull threads. Better that a guilty man go free on a technicality than an innocent man be convicted on faulty evidence.

At least, that's what I tell myself to make it through the day.

At night I cope a different way.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Daredevil

"A good lawyer knows the law. A great lawyer knows the judge."

Matthew Michael Murdock ♦ 6/5/87 ( 30 ) ♦ Male ♦ Heroic

C O N C E P T A B S T R A C T:

Matt Murdock is a "bad guy." A slightly twisted life has turned our blind lawyer into one of the city's best mob lawyers and a reviled figure in the criminal justice community of New York. Then at night, he becomes the Devil. The Devil is feared in the underworld as a violent criminal who is slowly climbing the ladder to become the city's kingpin. The part is an act, with Matt using the front as a criminal to actually attack the people who killed his father.

A R C I D E A S:

Nolo Contendere - After accepting to take up the murder defense of a young man pro bono, Matt begins to discover his client is truly innocent despite his many claims that he is guilty. As Matt tries to get the case thrown out based on evidence, Daredevil looks into the young man's past and neighborhood and discovers a sinister conspiracy.

Casus Belli - A shaky alliance between the mob and the Crusaders MC is in tatters after a drug deal gone bad ends with dead men on both sides and a missing briefcase with a million dollars in it. While Matt Murdock tires to prevent a gang war between his clients, Daredevil tears up the city in search of the perpetrators of the attack and the missing money.

Hostis Humani Generis - A vigilante has come to the city, reigning down death and destruction to those in need of punishment. Among the killers targets is Matt Murdock, the city's number one criminal lawyer.

N O T E S:

Nothing to add at the moment.

Sample

Manhattan Criminal Courthouse
Part 21
Lower Manhattan
11:21 AM

"Mr. Murdock, do you plan on a lengthy cross-examination of the witness?"

"No, Your Honor," I said as I stood. "I'll be brief."

I couldn't see it, but I could hear the muscles in Judge Sandra Young's face form into a smile. Noon was fast approaching and Judge Young likes her smoke breaks. I was honestly surprised that she had allowed the current session to run now for over three hours without breaking.

"You may proceed," she said.

I made my way from the defense table, passing by Assistant DA Blake Tower on my way towards the lectern facing the witness box and the jury. I heard Tower's right eyelid flip in a wink at me, a force of habit I assume. His gait was that of a man who was confident on the point of cocky. And who wouldn't be cocky after the testimony he had just withdrawn from his witness?

With Tower holding his hand, Detective Sergeant Michael Tork had just delivered an hour's worth of testimony that guided the jury through his investigation. Working out of the NYPD's 33rd Precinct, Tork and his four-man narcotics unit conducted a two month investigation into the suspected drug dealing activities of one Jesus Reuben Martinez, resident of Washington Heights and a known member of the Puerto Rican Army.

Jesus sat at the defense table, looking on while his heart raced a mile a minute. I could probably have smelled the sweat beading on his forehead from outside the court room it was so pungent. He had every reason to be worried. Tork's testimony was solid. He had explained in that clear and clipped cop-speak that his unit had observed Martinez in and around the Wilson Terrace Housing Projects where he lived, but they could never get concrete proof that he was dealing. He was careful on the street, conducting his business in the housing project where the cops couldn't go without arousing suspicion. Martinez would take the train somewhere downtown, but they always lost him in the shuffle of the commute. Close to packing up the case, they turned instead to the eye in the sky.

Jesus Mendez had the honor to be among the first targets of the NYPD's new drone surveillance program. The drone in question caught Jesus taking a re-up from a supplier and then meeting with the dealers who worked for him to move his product. Jesus had eluded police ground surveillance thanks to his keen observations. But he hadn't thought to look up into the sky.

"Thank you for taking the time to be here, Sergeant Tork," I said a I prepared for the cross.

"You're welcome," Tork said tightly.

A genuine hater. I figured the cop for one of those right off the bat. Now my suspicions were confirmed by the stand-offish answer and the increase in his pulse. A lot of cops make no effort to hide their contempt for defense attorneys. Instead of seeing what we do as a necessary check on the system, they instead see us as quasi-criminals who are just a few steps above the scumbag clients were represent. Not that he would be completely wrong in that assessment. But if he didn't hate defense lawyers now, he sure as hell was about to hate them after I was through with him.

"Sergeant Tork," I said with little to no delay. "Who operated the drone that took the surveillance photos of Mr. Martinez?"

"Officer Pierce," said Tork.

"And he's a member of your narcotics unit?"

"Yes, he is."

"I've been told that the photos you took are of good quality." I turned towards the jury with a half smirk. "I wouldn't know for myself."

I've found that self-deprecating humor can go a long way to disarm juries. Especially given my reputation over the years, playing up my blindness offsets my other less desirable qualities.

"They can clearly make out your client dealing drugs," Tork replied.

"Move to strike that from the record," I asked the judge. "It's inflammatory."

"So noted," said Judge Young. She looked down at Tork from her perch. "And I would remind Sergeant Tork to stick to simpler answers."

"Sergeant Tork, did you write the warrant that led to the use of the drone on my client?"

"No," said Tork. "We didn't have to write a warrant."

I smirked and squared my glasses up. Tork's heartbeat was steady, but starting to rise. He was telling the truth -- a refreshing departure from a lot of cops on the stand -- but he was beginning to get nervous. He knew something was up. With this cross, I was setting the fuse on the bomb that would destroy the prosecution's case.

"Drones and the use of them are relatively new in law enforcement, Sergeant. Are you up to date with all the rules and regulations?"

"I know how to do my job if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, so you know about the rules on surveillance distance with drones? They're much more restrictive with them than they are with planes and helicopters. If you're less than a thousand feet away from the target, you need a warrant. Anything without a warrant is considered an illegal search."

I held up the photographs, making sure they were the right side up and facing Tork.

"From how far would you say these photos were taken, Sergeant Tork?"

Now Tork's heart was racing. I could smell the sweat on him. Along with his change, I heard Tower groan under his breath from the prosecution table and Juror #4 laugh under his breath.

"I'm not an expert on distances," he said defensively.

"No, you're not," I said with a nod. "I'll have one of those come up when the defense presents. No more questions for Sergeant Tork, your honor."

And just like that, the seeds of acquittal have been sewn. Is Jesus Martinez guilty? Of course. The photos prove that. But they weren't obtained legally. That, more than anything, is my job. I have to make sure the cops play fair. I have to test the state's evidence and make sure it holds up. I am a necessary part of the threshing maw that is the American criminal justice system. I poke and prod and pull threads. Better that a guilty man go free on a technicality than an innocent man be convicted on faulty evidence.

At least, that's what I tell myself to make it through the day.

At night I cope a different way.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>
You have twenty-four hours. Make it count.

@Inkarnate

That'll work.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Lemme think on it.

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

Cloud Nine

9:14 PM

Ross Maxwell stood on the parapet looking down at the gambling floor. Steady action was taking place down below, but it was a far cry from the fast and furious betting that would be happening in a few hours. From 11 PM to 3 AM, the entire floor would be packed to the rafters with gamblers, each of them with much more money than sense. By his own count, Cloud Nine would probably net a cool ten million dollars this month. That would be outstanding if this were any other casino, but Cloud Nine was nowhere near all the other casinos.

"Mr. Maxwell," one of the security guards touched his shoulder. "You have a visitor."

Ross turned away and followed the guard upstairs to his private office. Maxwell had a cigarette in one hand, a tumbler of scotch in the other. He downed the drink and flicked the cigarette butt into the tumbler when he saw Sal Valesta waiting for him in front of his office.

"The answer is still no," he said as he walked past the bigger man into the office.

"You haven't heard me out," said Valestra.

"I have," Ross said, sitting down behind his desk. "And as much as it's costing you to fly up here every time, I think the one who can't hear is you."

Valestra smirked. "I can hear just fine. And what I'm hearing from you is a guy who doesn't get it. The Valestra Family gets a piece of every gambling institution, be they legal or otherwise, in the state of California. Just because you fly above the state, it don't make you fucking immune. For that cut, we provide protection."

"From what?" Ross asked with his own smirk. "I have my own security, they thoroughly search every customer's possessions prior to their flight up here, and I have plenty of state lawmakers in my own pocket. Everything you could offer me, I already have."

"No, there's one thing you don't have." Valestra stood in front of the desk, looming over Ross. "You don't have protection from us."

"Leave," replied Ross. He stood and locked eyes with the heavyset mobster, never once blinking. "Leave peacefully, or I'll have my men throw you off the ship. I don't mean that as a figure of speech, either. Leave now or you'll be a greasy little stain on some street in Bakersfield."

Valestra turned and walked out without another word, slamming the door as he left. Ross sighed and collapsed back into his chair and could feel his hands shaking. A few minutes later, the door opened and David Mather came in. David, his partner in business and in life, look concerned.

"I don't know why you don't give them the money, Ross?"

He rubbed his temples and said, "It's the principal of the matter. We built Cloud Nine from the literal ground up-- " Ross diverted his gaze to the picture on the far wall. Him and David during the war. Dashing USAAF Captain Maxwell and brilliant engineer Mather. "-- and now they want to take it from us, piece by piece. That's how it starts, just a small bit here. And then it's not so small, and the next thing you know we're on the outside looking in."

David sighed. "I know, I know... I just... I just wished sometimes you weren't so principled."

Ross let a grin loose on his lips. "I thought that was one of the things you loved about me?"

"Depends on what day it is," David said with his own smile. "Now, aren't you needed back out on the casino floor?"

----

Sal Valestra came out on to the observation deck of Cloud Nine. A half dozen people were standing around the glass bubble that rested on the top of the floating facility. Above them were the balloons that helped keep the whole thing aloft, but everywhere the eye could see was an unobstructed view of the land all around them. It was a cloudless night. A crescent moon hung off in the distance with stars all around it. Below was California in all its bounty. Just off in the distance Sal could make out the jagged shoreline where land ended and the Pacific began.

He reached into his jacket pocked and pulled out a cigarette case. Sal put one of his Cornells in his mouth and lit it before stepping forward to the railing. He took a long drag and spoke to the man beside him without looking at him.

"He didn't go for it," he said, exhaling smoke.

"So we've got the green light," Johnny Leggario asked.

"Yeah," said Sal. "Where's the little German?"

"He's at the show. Mariano and the Moonlights are playing and the doc is a sucker for that big band crap."

"No shit," said Sal. "I fucking love Mariano. I might have to check it out since my flight don't leave until midnight."

Johnny flicked ashes off his own cigarette, a Henry, and stuck it back in his mouth.

"So what's our window on this, Sal?"

"I'll probably get Sully on the phone after I'm back home in LA, so around one in the morning? Clock starts then, so your getaway will be timed for one in the afternoon tomorrow. How big is your crew?"

"With Sully and the inside man? Five. Me, the doc, and Stein are doing the heavy lifting."

"Shit, three guys?" Sal blew smoke and shook his head. "If it were anybody else but you three, I'd call bullshit. I know you're solid as a rock, the doc is out of this world, and Stein? You picked a hell of a crew."

"Like Billy Carter, I swing for the fences."

Sal dropped his cigarette and stomped it out on the heel of his shoe.

"Only difference is, Billy Carter misses he has to go sit his black ass down in the dugout. You miss? Well, it's a long drop to the round below, Johnny."

----

Los Angeles

Silver Lake
10:11 PM

Jessica Hyatt stirred sugar into her coffee and looked down into it. She was by herself in a corner booth at an all-night diner. The rest of the patrons included a lush nodding off into a plate of fried eggs, a gaggle of high school kids monopolizing two tables, and an older couple that looked like they had been in love thirty years and thirty thousand miles earlier. She looked up at the sound of the bell by the door. Special Agent Nate Parker slid into the seat across from her.

"Good evening, Ms. Hyatt."

She didn't say anything. At least the man had the decency to call her by the name she chose. He wouldn't call her by her real name, a constant reminder of the power he held over her. Jessica sipped her coffee as the waitress came over and Parker ordered a black coffee.

"So, who am I finking exactly?" she asked after the woman was gone.

"Nobody," he said with a gentle laugh. "At least not yet. I think I have engineered your perfect entree into the sphere of the Good People."

"I'm all ears."

"Are you familiar with Harvey Edwards?"

"You can't be in my world and not know him," she replied. "The patron saint of leftist causes."

Jessica saw something twitch underneath Parker's right eye. He gave her a smirk and folded his hands together.

"I'll allow you some leeway, given your age, but Harvey Edwards is a traitor to this country who espouses anti-American ideas and causes from the safety of China."

"After what the government did to him, I can't blame him for leaving."

"He deserved worse," hissed Parker. "He deserved a bullet to the back of his head."

There was a lull in the conversation as the waitress brought Parker his cup of coffee. Jessica took the moment to sip her own coffee and look at the man as he added sugar and cream into his cup. He had his dander up over something as trivial as Harvey Edwards. That worried her because that meant that Parker was a true believer. All the horseshit about the Pinkertons doing what needed to be done to protect America, the stuff politicians always used whenever they defended the Pinkertons, he actually bought it. And that scared her because a true believer could not be reasoned with.

"What does Harvey Edwards have to do with this?" she finally asked.

"After prolonged negotiations, he will be preforming in LA two nights from now, part of a west coast tour that will undoubtedly be seen as a political statement since it's almost the twenty first anniversary of the western state's surrender. You will go to the performance and cause a scene. There will be a woman there who will take notice. She likes dramatic iconoclasts, especially those with liberal pedigrees and a love of provocation. I expect that you'll be contacted by her shortly afterwards."

"And who is this woman?" Jessica asked with an arched eyebrow.

"You'll know her when you see her," said Parker. "And after you've seen her, you won't forget her."

---

Kansas City

The Hotel Savoy
2:04 PM

Frenchie Gallo mingled with the rest of the wiseguys in the hotel conference room. Bosses from around the country had all gathered here on the top floor of Kansas City's finest downtown hotel to discuss business. Frenchie was here as Sun City's representative, but he was just one of the eleven men who made up the board. The five families of New York were represented, as was Providence, Chicago, LA, New Orleans, and of course Kansas City.

Geno Como of the KC family had spent the better part of the board's morning sessions arguing with Bobby C. New territory was opening up in the Dakotas and Montana thanks to oil and natural gas booms. There was a growing need for hookers, gambling, and all matter of vice-related services the boys offered. Como wanted the territory because Kansas City was the best option, but Bobby C. had stated his case for the Chicago Outfit. His argument boiled down to "Fuck you, I'm Bobby C." Eventually, the old man stepped in and called for a vote. The Comos won the vote 9-2 and got the right to administer the new territory.

After that, Frenchie got up and made his pitch. Every single organization would use the politicians in their pocket and their connections with the political machines in their territory to get Norman friendly delegates sent to the convention this summer with the orders to vote for the sitting president. A lot of grumbles and questions until Frenchie brought out the quid pro quo. All the old men remembered the days when the boys ran Havana like their own fiefdom, so it was no surprise to Frenchie that the mere mention of it brought a hush to the room. The old called for a lunch recess to think it over and they adjourned.

Frenchie felt a gentle touch on his elbow. He turned around to see nobody there, but then he looked down.

"Franco," Anthony Fortunato said with a gentle smile. "Walk with me."

The old man, head of the Fortunato Crime Family and the boss of bosses, was the closest thing Frenchie ever had to a father. Thirty years ago, he'd taken him under his wing back when the old man was a mid-level wiseguy on the come and Frenchie was just a punk car thief in Brooklyn who only spoke Québécois French. The whole reason Frenchie was Mr. Sun City was because of the old man's benevolence.

"What do you think of this?" the old man asked once they were in a corner by themselves.

"I don't know if I like getting into bed with politicians."

"Ah," Fortunato adjusted his glasses, they were black framed and so thick they made his beady eyes look huge. "But we've always been in bed with politicians on some level. In this country, crime and politics are interwoven. Anybody that doesn't know politics is crime has got a few screws loose."

Frenchie chuckled. "Point taken. But I know our criminals stick by their word. Guys like Reed, on the other hand? People would be alright with politicians being crooks if they actually kept their promises."

The old man shrugged. "They don't keep their promises, we'll whack him."

He couldn't tell if Fortunato was being serious or not. The old man deadpanned him for several seconds before a sly grin broke out on his face. He laughed softly and patted Frenchie on the shoulder.

"I'm kidding, Franco. This thing of ours has reach, but not like that. Plus, I love this country too much to bump off the vice-president."

"Frenchie!" Bobby C. said brightly as he muscled his way between the two men.

He was dressed in his usual loud clothing, bright orange dress shirt with plaid slacks and a sports coat with a tacky Hawaiian tie and aviator sunglasses to cap it all off. Next to the old man, it was a contrast in style. Bobby C. looked like the mobster that he was, meanwhile Fortunato looked like the elderly president of some bank. Wiseguys were like peacocks. Flash suits, watches, and cars were how they displayed their power. Frenchie was guilty of it himself. Only men like Fortunato, the old men in the upper echelons who had real power, never showed off their wealthy. To them, it was tacky and a sign of ill manners. Even as head of the Chicago Outfit, Bobby C. had never got the message.

"How come Johnny didn't come with you?" Bobby asked, peeking over his sunglasses at Frenchie.

"He's working on a few things out in California, helping out the Valestras."

"Crazy fucking kid. I haven't seen him in so long, I'm starting to miss him. Let me introduce you two to someone."

Bobby C. stepped aside and a little man, a few inches shorter than Fortunato, stepped forward. Frenchie saw him during the meeting before lunch. He sat off to the side of the table behind the Chicago delegation, watching but never speaking.

"Jim Sledge," the man said, shaking both Frenchie and the old man's hands. "I'm a political consultant and here on the invitation of... a mutual friend. I'm to report back to him how you all vote."

He was one of Reed's people. He was soft spoken with a face that had a sharp pointed nose that was almost like a rat's. Frenchie knew the type well. If there was dirty work to be done, Sledge would be the one doing it without a doubt. He was about to say something about an outsider being at the meeting when Bobby C. cut him off.

"He was approved to be here," he said with a nod towards the old man. "These politicians may be crazy, but they ain't stupid."

"They told me yesterday," said Fortunato. "And my people made sure Mr. Sledge was not writing or recording anything about the meeting down."

"Yes," said Sledge. His face turned color. "They were very... thorough."

"Well, thank you for coming," said Fortunato. "Let's reconvene the meeting."

They all found their seats. Frenchie sat down thinking about Bobby C. and Sledge. He had originally been Reed's contact, their meeting in Sun City two weeks ago. So why had Reed sent Sledge to Chicago instead of Sun City? Across the big table from Frenchie, Sledge whispered into Bobby C's ear and made the man nod and laugh. Was Reed trying to double down the chances of approval by wooing two bosses? With their respective allies and political pull, both Bobby C. and Frenchie could carry about half the votes on the board by themselves. Maybe that was it? Or maybe it was something deeper?

"Motion is on the table," Fortunato said from the head of the table. "To approve Franco's proposal. All those in favor?"

Nine arms, including the old man, Bobby C., and Frenchie's own, went up into the air. Seeing how the wind was blowing, the other two followed suit. 11-0.

"Motion carries," said Fortunato. "Unanimously. This thing of ours, has just endorsed Michael Norman for reelection as president."

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.