Cloud Nine
9:14 PMRoss 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 PMJessica 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 PMFrenchie 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."
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