Byrd Man

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

1933

San Francisco

“Our political systems have become corrupted. Capitalism and its greed has led to desperate economic times across the world, and capitalism continues to taint our democracy. Look no further than the election of last year.”

The guest speaker continued on about all that crony capitalism had done to get Al Smith elected, but Laura wasn’t listening. Instead, she stared at the newcomer sitting across the room. It wasn’t strange to see new faces at the meeting. In the three years she’d been coming, the attendance of the California Worker’s Party steadily climbed as the Depression dragged on and showed the follies of the current economic system. There were a half dozen people when Laura first started, that number had tripled until they had to rent bigger and bigger spaces for their weekly meetings.

No, it wasn’t that the man in the chair was new; it was that he was entirely out of place. His black pinstripe suit and fedora were new, whereas many of the people in the room had clothing that was clearly old and worn. He sat in his wooden chair stretched out like he owned the place, a soft smile on his handsome olive face. He didn’t at all look like a man who had any interest in radical ideas, but yet here he was.

After the meeting, Laura found him chatting with another man who was new.

“Hi,” she said to the two of them. “I’m Laura Patterson. Party secretary.”

“Anthony Jordan,” the other newcomer said with a smile.

“I’m Vic,” the swarthy man replied.

“What brings the two of you here?” she asked as politely as she could.

“I got laid off from PC Bell,” said Jordan. “Been struggling for months. I just… I’m looking for answers.”

“Yeah, what he said,” said Vic. “Answers.”

The three made idle chit chat before Jordan excused himself. Laura looked at Vic and smiled.

“So, what did you think of Mister Bromowitz?” asked Laura.

“He had a lot of ideas,” replied Vic. “Not much in the way of answers.”

She gave him a forced little smile. “Well, we have to educate people on the problems with the system before solutions can be reached.”

Vic laughed. “Yeah and while you talk until you’re blue in the face, the enemy is out there winning the war. While you’re enlightening, they’re buying politicians. While you debate, they conquer. Comes a time when you put the talk away and get to work.”

“You sound like you have all the big ideas,” Laura said coolly. “You talk tough, but you dress like a banker.”

“Yeah,” Vic said with a grin. “I dress like one, but I'm about as far from a banker as you can get. Here—“

He reached into his jacket pocket and passed an envelope to Laura. It was heavy and when she opened it up, she saw a fat stack of hundred dollar bills.

“What in the—“

“It’s a gift,” he said softly. “Give it to the party treasurer. Use it for bail money when protesters get locked up, pay for whatever the party needs, buy guns for all I care. It’s yours. Do with it what you will.”

Laura looked at Vic with uncertainty. He kept flashing that toothy smile. Plenty of people wanted to help, but very few could contribute like this. The party attracted the poor and downtrodden, not men in flashy suits who carried large bankrolls. People like that had no need for radical ideas.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“A friend of the cause,” he said with a wink. “Someone who wants to make a difference. Let’s leave it at that, comrade secretary.”

---

Present Day
Los Angeles

Brentwood
3:31 AM

Jessica Hyatt was in heaven. Over a dozen people talked amongst themselves in the den that was lushly decorated with plump, crimson settees and chintz chairs. Penelope talked nonstop about politics with one of the men that had escorted her to the Harvey Edwards show. Up close, Jessica recognized him as Raymond Hollister, the movie star.

The introductions had been fast and furious. Everyone in the little coterie was someone that had influence in LA. Lawyers, entertainment people, and even a few doctors were among those chatting about socialism and the Lost Cause of the West. They all had been at the concert earlier in the evening and broke out in applause when Jessica entered the house in Penelope’s wake.

Currently, Jessica stood on the edges of the group with a drink in one hand and a soft smile on her face as she watched the goings on.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

She turned around and saw a man watching her. He was on the shorter side, just a few inches taller than her, and heavyset with prematurely gray hair. Even in the dim lighting he wore a pair of dark sunglasses. He cradled a pipe in his large hands.

“Just admiring from a distance,” she said with the same smile on her face. “I admire their passion and their insights.”

“It’s quicksilver,” the man said after a puff on his pipe. “Or perhaps, quicksand. What they’re talking about, I mean. Lamenting the poor socialists republics, weeping for the cause that never stood a chance.”

Jessica raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a fan, mister…”

“Roy Abercrombie,” he said gruffly. “And I was a fan, missy. A whole hearted supporter, as much as a man who is 4F can be. But I saw the in-fighting and the squabbling over men and material. Meanwhile, MacArthur – and Long, to a lesser extent -- could run roughshod because they didn’t give a damn about things like sovereignty or rule of law. The thing that will always separate the dreamers from the doers is that basic human respect.”

“I think that’s horribly cynical,” replied Jessica. “You’re suggesting the only way for the west to have won was to install a dictator like MacArthur, when MacArthur is exactly what they were fighting against. Then they lose the war if they do that.”

“Another thing separating the dreamers from the doers,” Abercrombie said smugly. “While the dreamers settle for moral victories, the doers settle for real victories.”

Jessica was about to interject when she was stopped short by a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I see you’ve met Roy,” Penelope said with a smile. “Proof that even groups like this have contrarians in their midst.”

Abercrombie shrugged. “I’m sorry, Pen. The deification of the west is a bugaboo with me. I’m just letting some of our younger friends know the truth.”

“Thank you for your service, Roy.”

Penelope placed her hand on Jessica’s elbow and slowly led her away. She navigated them through the party and towards a staircase at the
back of the den.

“Roy directs films,” said Penelope. “So, naturally he thinks his opinions and insights are solid gold.”

“I recognize the name,” Jessica said once they were on the stairs. “He does westerns.”

“So clearly he is the authority on politics and government.”

Penelope led them to a bedroom. Jessica figured it had to be the master bedroom of the house. Like the furniture in the den, everything here was crimson. Crimson sheets on the bed, crimson curtains in the window, a plush crimson carpet underfoot. On the wall were pictures of a woman with short hair. Not exactly pictures, but more like stills from a movie.

“La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc,” Jessica said in perfect French. “The Passion of Joan of Arc.”

Penelope’s eyes brightened. “You know it?”

“Of course,” she said softly. “It was my mother’s favorite movie.”

“It’s funny,” Penelope said with a chuckle. “The movie was made to rally French nationalism after the Great War, but then it eventually becomes co-opted by the leftists. The great subversive movie that is still banned in America to this day.”
Jessica looked from the still to Penelope. The short hair she wore was a perfect match for the actress playing Joan.

“It’s a film about a martyr,” said Jessica. “For a cause where everyone is a would-be martyr, it’s powerful stuff.”

She flashed a smile. It was a warm thing that made Jessica’s back tingle.“You sound as cynical as old Roy downstairs.”

“Just an insight, devoid of bias.”

Penelope inched closer. “Well, what else can you tell me, Jessica? What about me?”

Jessica paused. She was unsure, but Penelope nodded and gave her a reassuring smile.

“I think there’s a reason you model your hair after Joan of Arc, the same reason you host Hollywood elite in secret parties that are filled with subversive thoughts, the same reason you go to a concert being watched by the Pinkertons and happily get your picture taken.”
Penelope leaned in. They were so close, Jessica could feel the woman’s breath on her face. It was sweet, the same scent as her perfume.
“You’re a provocateur. Agitation is your identity. Whoever, whatever you were before the cause is gone. You live, breath, and sleep the cause because it is your identity. If you’re not causing trouble, then you’re not the person you want to be. If you’re not hosting these meetings, then you’re left alone with just yourself, stripped away from that identity. Whoever that person inside of you is, you can’t stand her so you fight for an unwinnable cause to avoid thinking about her, to avoid becoming her again. Because, if you do become that horrible, selfish person again, you couldn’t live.”

Jessica could see tears forming in her eyes. They threatened to spill out.

“How do you know me so well?”

Jessica leaned in, her lips parted and her eyes closed.

“Because I’m the same damn person.”

They kissed, long and hard. When they were finished, Penelope took Jessica by the hand and led the two of them to her big bed with the crimson sheets.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Manhattan

Mal Resnick rolled off the woman with a sigh of contentment. He'd needed to get laid badly, and the whore beside him had been good for that and then some. She was blonde and shapely and had legs that went on forever. The looks were important, but she did more than that; she made Mal feel like her whole world was about Mal and pleasing him.

For Mal, that's what you paid hookers for. Not for the sex, or the looks, or even the leaving; but for the attention. Every other broad he screwed in his life wanted something out of him. Money, drugs, stability, etc. And yeah, the hookers wanted money, but there was no illusions and the high-class ones were damn fine actors that was for sure.

"You were great," he wheezed to girl as he went for his smokes on the nightstand. "Thanks for meeting me on such short notice."

"Don't thank me," the girl said quietly. "Not yet."

Mal didn't understand what she meant by that. He turned away from the nightstand and was about to ask her when he saw it.

Him.

He saw him.

Parker, coming through the goddamn fire escape with the raised window sill in one hand, a pistol in the other.

----

Four Hours Earlier

Parker stared at Graves from across the table. The old man calmly added sugar to the steaming cup of coffee in front of him. Parker didn't say a word, his big mitts in between his own hot cup of coffee.

"How goes the Mal hunt?" Graves asked, blowing on his coffee before taking a sip.

"I think you know," said Parker. "And I still haven't figured out what Mal Resnick has to do with you. You part of the Syndicate?"

"Do I look like I'm part of that group?" asked Graves. "And if I was, I could certainly have Mal Resnick taken care of by someone closer to him than you, Parker."

"So what's your game?"

"What if I told you three things, Parker?" Graves ticked points off with his fingers. "One: Mal Resnick has an attraction to high-end call girls, one of whom is on the way to a rendezvous with him as we speak. That rendezvous is away from the secure building. Bodyguards will be watching the front, but the building has an easily accessible fire escape."

"Then why am I still talking to you?" asked Parker.

"Two: Mal's double cross of you was intentional, Parker. He was in deep with some Syndicate people and your would-be murder would wipe away his debt and then some."

Parker shook his head and looked away from Graves.

"Bullshit. Why would anyone in the Syndicate want me dead? It's ridiculous. I've always been an independent operator. Never pulled a job for them."

"It's not the Syndicate," said Graves. "It's the people behind them. The Vasco Family."

Parker shrugged his wide shoulders. "Never heard of them."

"Yes you have," Graves said with a smirk. "They own this city and half the eastern seaboard. They're behind the Syndicate, they're behind the governors of sixteen US states, they're behind GE. Crooks, businessmen, and politicians all in one neat little package. And they're after little ode you, Parker."

Parker stood up. He looked down at Graves and shook his head. He started towards the door before Graves grabbed him by the wrist.

"Where are you going?"

Parker scowled. "Somewhere the hell away from your crazy ass."

"It's true, Parker. They want you. Not for anything you've stolen from them as a robber, but what you did to them as a Minuteman."

Parker frowned and looked down at the old man.

"Minuteman?"

"That's the third thing, Parker," said Graves. "Croatoa...."

The word seemed to slide from Graves' mouth and it echoed through Parker's skull. It pounded inside his head. He heard drumbeats, he smelled saltwater and heard seagulls.

Atlantic City...

The Seven Minuteman.

Parker's knees buckled and he blacked out.

---

Center City, WA

Tracy Lawless sat in his car and watched the comings and goings at the deli. Mixed in with the usual patrons seeking out chopped liver and sandwiches were hard men who went straight to the backroom and would emerge without having bought anything from inside. Belyakov's Delicatessen served as the base of operations for Center City's ROC contingent. Russian Organized Crime moved into town about five years ago and had been spreading its tentacles ever since.

They started in LA after the Cold War ended and the Russian Mafyia consolidated power in the former USSR, their idea of American colonization. The gangsters succeeded in American penetration where Marx, Lenin, and the KGB had failed. Like a snake, they slithered up the west coast through the big cities until they arrived in Center City. Hyde watched their movements with a wary eye. For now, ROC paid up like the rest of them but they were growing stronger each day. Time would come that Hyde would have to cut them down.

If Tracy's information was good, that time appeared to be now. The names Ricky Fat gave Tracy all matched members of ROC, the number he dialed last night was that of Belyakov's Deli. It appeared to Tracy that ROC committed an unsanctioned kidnapping in Center City. If Tracy knew Hyde like he thought he did, there was only one solution to this problem. But that would come afterward. For now, getting Linda Flynn back safely was priority one.

---

"And you're sure about this, Tracy?"

"As sure as I can be."

Thomas Flynn leaned forward in his chair and spread his arms along the rich wood surface of his desk. Tracy saw the gears in his head turning, he could practically hear what Flynn was thinking. Which is why it was no surprise what he said next.

"I don't want to pay the ransom," he said softly. "I love my daughter, I do... but her stupidity and weakness has cost so much. If daddy keeps bailing her out, she'll keep doing it again and again. She needs to pull herself up by her own bootstraps."

Tracy's neutral look did not betray the thoughts he had in his head. He used to think Sebastian Hyde was a cold son of a bitch, but now Thomas Flynn was the standard bearer when it came to that regard. Teeg Lawless had been an abusive, hateful man, for sure. But if Tracy or his brother Ricky had been kidnapped, Teeg would have moved heaven and earth to get his boys back. He wouldn't leave his sons to the wolves, and he certainly try to justify it with bullshit conservative rhetoric.

"Who runs these Russians?" Flynn asked.

"Konstantin Belyakov. He owns the deli where they congregate at and a half dozen other front businesses in the city."

"Does he work for... you employer?"

"Not exactly," Tracy said with a shrug. "He pays a cut to my boss like everyone else does, but he doesn't work for anyone but himself."

"Tracy," Flynn said slowly. "These people will be calling me within the hour with ransom demands. They want five million dollars that I don't want to give to them... but what if we had something they wanted?"

---

Manhattan

Mal Resnick, nude and fighting for his life, smacked away the pistol in Parker's hands. That was okay with Parker. He needed to do this by hand. After what Graves told him, that was the only way he could do it.

"Parker..." Mal stammered as he tried to take a swing at Parker. Parker blocked the shot and slammed a big fist into Mal's solar plexus. The shot made the chubby little man gasp and fall to his knees.

Parker got his big hands around Mal's neck and squeezed. He imagined that Mal was Javier Vasco, Medici, and anyone of the Thirteen bastards who'd done this to him. Not only had they taken his life away from him, but Vasco had made a move against him in this new life and that brought it all back crashing down.

Mal Resnick let out a little gurgle as Parker broke his windpipe. He let Mal's twitching body fall to the floor. He looked at the naked woman who eyeballed Parker with a frightened look on her face.

"Put on some clothes," was all he said as he picked the gun up off the floor.

"And give me the keys to your car."

For better or worse, Parker was back.

And he was pissed.

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

@Vilageidiotx

Posts going for IC?

What do you mean?

@NecroKnight

He means post, motherfucker. Vilage is PoW whip.

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

Los Angeles

Pinnacle Studios
4:35 PM

Jeannie Rothstein-Shapiro silently watched the movie on the screen before her. She and Elliot Shaw were the only two people in the small ten seat theater. Set up just down the hall from her office, it was how Jeannie watched dailies and reels from all the different movies being produced by Pinnacle.

Currently, they were watching a reel from the latest Jimmy Fastsitter and Bobby Chambers picture. Set to be released at the end of June, Tramps in Tripoli would be the follow-up to last year’s smash hit, Bums in Baghdad. Tripoli would be the seventh of the Fastsitter and Chambers road films. They were all the same, more or less. Fast talking Jimmy and cool as ice Bobby pretty much played versions of their celebrity personas, except they always got into crazy hi-jinxes across the globe.

There was always some kind of comical chase through a sound stage meant to look like it was on location, Jimmy always did some kind of comedy shtick to get them out of trouble, and there was always an exotic beauty for Bobby to serenade, and the beauty was always a white woman with a tan and a brunette wig. And they always ended with the two pals setting off to their next adventure. If Tripoli made back its budget, then a script was already awaiting them for next year: Louts in Lisbon, coming to a theater near you in 1961.

“So, you’re telling me the girl was radioactive?” Jeannie said, not really paying attention to the action on the screen.

“The shit I found in her apartment seems to indicate that she was at least sympathetic to the radical left.”

“Fuck. This is grief I don’t need.”

Jeannie rubbed a meaty finger on her left temple and Elliot stayed silent. He’d worked for her long enough to know when to talk and when not to. He smoked a cigarette and watched Bobby croon to a fake Libyan on the screen.

“The cops are gonna come to you,” she finally said after a long silence. “Asking for help. Help them, but keep an eye on where the investigation goes. If they get anywhere near the radical shit, run interference. Give them the interracial stuff if you have to. That will mar her legacy, but fuck it. Shall We Dance? is apparently selling out all its domestic screenings thanks to the murder, so we’ll make our buck and be done with her. But if it gets out we hired a commie then the government will be all up Pinnacle’s ass.”

Elliot nodded and took a drag on a cigarette. He remembered reading about what happened to the movie industry in the first few years after the war. The US government declared the movies an arm of socialist propaganda for the western states. Studio heads were fired, directors, screenwriters, and actors were blacklisted, and government censors had to approve everything. Eventually a new presidential administration led to the removal of government intervention and back to business for the movies.

But that shaky peace lasted only until the old rumors of red infiltration of Hollywood were reignited by Claire Beauchamp’s political leanings. It wouldn’t take much to restart the censorship and blacklisting, a government muzzle on the pictures. On the screen, Jimmy Fastsitter ran away from a group of Mexicans made up to look like Arabs, complete with turbans and fake scimitars.

“Stop this shit from spreading,” Jeannie asked with a voice that carried no warmth. “We clear, Shaw?”

“Yes, ma’am,’ replied Elliot. “Crystal clear.”

---

77th Street Station
5:12 PM

Jefferson Thomas got to the station almost three hours before his shift started. That was his usual routine during a case that had his interest. It always reminded him of why he loved the job, made him excited to be a detective. It also didn’t hurt things that he stopped by Leon’s before his shift to get some more powder. A bump on the dash of his car had gotten him going, so now he was ready to start where they’d left off on the Beauchamp case.

There were nearly two dozen messages waiting for him at his desk. Ninety-five percent of them were media inquiries, newspapers and radio stations and scandal rags alike. Elliot Shaw had apparently returned his call while he was off duty, beneath the name was a number listed as his home number. The man’s title, Vice President of Production Affairs, made him sound more tame than he actually was. If you wanted any real information about a member of Pinnacle Studios, then you had to go through Elliot Shaw. He was the investigation’s first stop in finding out who the victim really was, and why someone wanted to kill her.

The next message made Jeff feel a bit queasy. Captain Arnold Prescott had called his desk, looking for him. Everybody in the LAPD knew Prescott and the type of operation he ran. They were officially known as the Intelligence Unit, but everyone knew them as the Red Squad. Essentially Pinkertons on a local level, they investigated subversive activities in Los Angeles. They were rumored to have a hand in everything from wiretapping to blackmail and strikebreaking. And now the head of the Red Squad had called Jeff personally. Why?

The answer came when he shuffled the paperwork on his desk around. He saw the envelope sitting beneath paperwork and remembered seeing it the night of the Beauchamp murder. During the craziness, he hadn’t been able to look at it. Now, he picked it up and opened it. It was an LAPD arrest record on Wendall NMI Brock, the South Central DB he'd been working before the Beauchamp murder, and it was heavily redacted. It listed Brock’s name, date of birth, and last known address at the top. It only had one arrest on it, a drunk and disorderly from ’58, but everything after that had been censored by someone. Three whole pages, and nothing but a simple misdemeanor two years ago.

“What the fuck is going on?” Jeff muttered to himself.

“Mr. President.”

Hoyt was standing there, early like Jeff and ready to go. His sport coat was off and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. Jeff saw blood spatter on Hoyt's tie. His knuckles were swollen, but not cut. It was the swelling that came from hitting something with brass knuckles for far too long.

“Hoyt,” Jeff mumbled, putting the arrest record down quickly. “What are you doing here?”

“Big case, partner,” the big man said with a wink. “I got the itch to work. Been here since three. How about you?”

“Yeah,” Jeff said, nodding. “I need to call that studio guy back. He left a message.”

“We’ll do that later. We got a mandate from the captain. All negro sex offenders in the South Central area are to be rounded up immediately and thoroughly questioned. As you can see, I've been doing my part.”

A smile crept up to Hoyt’s face. It was a smile in name only, and it scared the hell out of Jeff. He knew what thorough questioning meant. It meant brass knuckle work, rubber hose work, phone book work. And new dental work for the guys they brought in.

“Now come on back,” Hoty laughed. "And help me out, boy."

---

Washington DC

Hay-Adams Hotel
8:34 PM

Russell Reed stayed silent while he and Jeff Brewer watched the makeshift screen rigged. A projector behind them was running footage of President Norman ‘s campaign stop in Iowa. If you just saw the president you would have confidence in him and the government he headed. Michael Norman was directly out of central casting, Hollywood’s idea of what a US president should look like with his square-jaw and perfect head of steel-colored hair.

But once you talked to the president for more than five minutes, that confidence evaporated. He was just so… awkward when it came to dealing with people, bad at making it seem like he cared and was actually listening to them. At best, he was distant with them. It gave him the air of being stuck up, something you couldn’t do if you were scrounging for votes in Pigshit, Iowa.

“I’m still confident in the polls,” Brewer replied.

Russell didn’t say a word. The suite on the hotel’s top floor served as campaign headquarters for the reelection of the president. They sat in two chairs facing Brewer, formerly the White House’s deputy chief of staff, now served as campaign manager.

“If we’re going up against Houghton, we’ll win in a landslide. Even if it’s against Baker, we’re still polling ahead by a good ten point margin.”

“Don’t trust polls, Jeffery,” Russell said, his eyes fixed on Norman trying, and failing, to kiss a baby on the forehead. “Anonymity at the ballot box is one of our most sacred traditions, so people will lie if pressed.”

On the screen, Norman was talking to a man. There was no sound, but the man’s body language implied he was not a fan of the president. His scowl furrowed deeper and deeper the longer Norman spoke.

“Jesus,” said Brewer. “We’re supposed to edit this down to thirty seconds to put in a newsreel, but I don’t see how we can get more than ten seconds of good footage.”

Russell leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. Brewer shook his head and searched his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. When he found it, he lit up and dragged deeply before he blew a thick cloud out of his mouth. The man was nervous. Russell understood perfectly those nerves. All of their careers were relying on the goofball on the screen.

“Have you heard any more news about Fernandez?” Brewer asked.

“My friends say he was in Boston last weekend. Without a doubt, he was meeting with Big Jim. Big Jim keeps his own counsel, so there’s no way to know the results of that meeting. Even if he has New England, it's only for the first ballot or so. Big Jim is good about making sure his side is the one that comes out on top, so he'll switch sides once he sees how the wind is blowing.”

Brewer looked out the corner of his eye at Russell. “And what about our friends from Sun City?”

“Sledge reported back that they’re on board. So, that’s a lot of states with a lot of delegates in our camp to start with. Even if Fernandez gets something out of his travels, it won’t be enough.”

“Let’s hope. I don’t want to even about think what a convention fight will do to the president once we get to the general.”

Russell didn’t reply. Instead, he watched the president on the screen back away from another angry man, a secret service agent getting between the two of them and holding the man back as Norman walked away to the next unfortunate Iowan.

For four years, Russell had watched Michael Norman fumble with the power of the presidency while Russell had to carry his water. And now he was asking people to let this slow motion train wreck continue for another four years. Russell regretted ever attaching his political fate to this clown who could barely carry on a conversation with the average voter, regretted using his power and political capital to get him elected four years ago. As Senate Majority Leader, he had a power that only the presidency could rival. If he were from anywhere but Georgia, he'd have been a shoe-in for the '56 nomination. But, thanks to men like Jefferson Davis and Huey Long, southerners were always long shots when it came to the White House. He had to settle for the vice-presidency.

At least for a little while longer.

“Get sound of the speech and put that in the newsreel,” Russell finally said. “Put in a few quick shots of the president shaking hands, that’ll get you fifteen seconds at least. It's not much, but we need people across the country to actually see their president for a change.”

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

1934

Bakersfield, CA

The big, black ’32 Buick Bonanza came to a screeching halt outside the front of Bakersfield Savings & Loans. Four mean leaped from the four door sedan and hustled towards the bank. All four men wore sharp suits, black and grey, with matching hats. They all wore leather gloves, gloves that held guns. The Two men at the front wielded Thompson submachine guns while one of the men behind them carried a shotgun and the other held on to an automatic pistol. Of the four, the man with the pistol was the only who did not cover his face with a bandana. His uncovered face was handsome, a trim mustache on his upper lip.

They glided into the bank. The two Thompsons rang out in the half filled bank lobby. The dozen or so customers and employees all turned in fright. The man with the pistol held it up and looked at the people in front of him.

“This is a robbery,” he announced. “Everyone stay calm and nobody will get hurt. Now, please everybody get down on the ground.”

Another burst of gunfire from the Thompsons sent the customers and employees down to the bank’s marble floors. The two men with the machine guns hurried behind the counter of the bank while the man with the shotgun and pistol kept their weapons trained on the people in the lobby.

“We’re here for the banks money,” the mustached man said calmly. “Not yours. We’re not criminals, folks. It’s the banks that are the true criminals. They take your money and prepackage it back to you in the form of loans with interest rates you cannot afford, for things you do not need. They are a tool of the capitalist bourgeoisie, a means that they use to keep the working class down. They are why we are in this Great Depression, they are why you starve while they grow fat. They are—“

He stopped short when he saw the two men with machine guns come around the corner with their guns in one hand, sacks in the other. The mustached man let out smirk and took a bow as the rest of the men raced towards the door.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation. Have a good day.”

He winked and followed his cohorts out the door and back into the Buick. Once the doors were shut, the car lurched forward and squealed down the road. Its overpowered engine roared as the man behind the wheel, one of the two with the Tommy guns, navigated through the streets of Bakersfield.

“What was that, Vic?” the man with the shotgun asked, scowling at the man without the mask.

“Working on my patter,” Vic replied with a shrug. “Something to keep them occupied while Boykins go in, Joey.”

“Well, cut it out.” Joey had removed his bandanna, his bushy eyebrows knotted together in agitation as he looked down his beak like nose at Vic. “I didn’t understand half of what you just said.”

Of course you didn’t, thought Vic. You and the Boykins twins are just three dump Okie hicks who can barely read. Vic was technically a hick himself, born on a farm in Wisconsin back in ’06. But he was a well-read hick, one who read his history and his economics and knew it well enough to know that Marx was right about the world. The Depression was proof of that. People were dying daily, but all the businessmen cared about were their lost profits. They saw guys like Vic and Joey and the twins as expendable. They were a commodity to be bought and sold and to be sacrificed.

“What are y’all gonna do with your share?” One of the Boykins asked, Vic wasn’t sure which, from the front seat. “It’s nothing but liquor, ponies, and pussy for me!”

Vic chuckled to himself. This was his fourth straight week working with this crew. They’d been hitting banks across California, all those small and mid-sized towns between the big cities of LA and San Francisco. By Vic’s recollection, they’d hauled in enough money to have four equal shares of twenty thousand dollars. More money than Vic had ever made in his life time, money enough to coast for a few years.

“I know what I’m doing with mine,” said Vic. “There’s a little Hooverville I saw when we hit the bank in Palmdale. I’m gonna give them all my share.”

That brought yells of disbelief and argument from the other three men. Vic ignored them. Instead, he saw the sign announcing that they were leaving Bakersfield behind and eased back in his seat. The rest of his crew could complain all they wanted to, but Vic knew he would eventually convince them to give their money away too.

Vic hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t a criminal. In his mind, he was something else. He was fighting for something he couldn’t quite comprehend yet, something he couldn’t put a name to. There was an idea in the ether, but he would soon understand it in a few years time. Victor Hecht wasn’t a criminal; he was a revolutionary.

---

Now
Cloud Nine

1:45 AM

Johnny Leggario watched the blackjack dealer reveal his hidden card. The ace of spades rested beside the king of hearts.

“Twenty-one,” said the dealer.

The dealer swept his small pile of chips away. Johnny flicked his two ten cards back in the dealer’s direction. He was now down three hundred dollars based on the crude math he was doing in his head. That was okay with him. He’d soon be getting it all back and then some.

After a few more losing hands, he stood and walked around the casino floor. He saw Stein across the floor, nominally playing roulette but his eyes watching everything but the little ball spinning around the wheel. Prussian Joe stood at the craps table, his small fist shaking the dice and letting it loose on to the felt. The eight people crowded around the table cheered, several slapping Joe on the back in congratulations. Johnny grinned to himself. At least someone else was winning.

Johnny made his way across the floor towards the far wall. You had to look at it closely, but you could just make out the little seams on the wall that revealed a hidden door. The door was how the security staff arrived and left the casino floor. He stopped short of the door and paused to light up a cigarette. While he did that, Prussian Joe and Stein made their way towards him. The little German checked his watch and nodded at Johnny.

The hidden door opened a crack. A single, blue eyeball looked out before the door swung inward. David Mather, in his tuxedo and slicked back hair, stepped aside and let the three robbers through the door. Stein pushed him against the wall while Johnny closed the door behind them.

“Valestra said if I let you do this, you’ll leave us alone,” he muttered to the men. “You’ll leave Ross alone.”

“That’s your deal,” replied Johnny. “We have a different one. If none of your people resist or fight back, we won’t hurt a soul. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Mather.

Prussian Joe nodded to Stein. The big man pulled a pistol and sap from his waistband. He sapped Mather on the back of the head. The man let out a gaps of surprise and crumpled to the floor. Stein passed Johnny the gun, Prussian Joe a switchblade from his pants pocket, while he held on the sap.

“Let’s get to it,” Johnny said as they walked through the corridor with the two others in his wake.

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

Thanks, but no thanks.

Marvel: Knights of New York

131st Street
Harlem

I stood on the sidewalk and watched the traffic coming and going. The steady rain from earlier was gone, replaced by the occasional mist, but I still wore my hoodie up to keep my head dry from a sudden return to a downpour. Plenty of foot traffic on the street meant the people of Harlem were more optimistic about the weather than I was.

"GIVE TO THA LAWD!"

I had to suppress a laugh when he heard the shrill cry. On the corner of Lennox and 131st street, Sister Mercy was doing her thing. She'd been working the corners of Upper Manhattan for nearly twenty years now, dressed in her black nun habit and ringing that bell while she shouted about fire and brimstone and the only way to heaven was to give to the "lawd."

"'For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils' First Timothy 6:10, people. GIVE TO THA LAWD!"

You wouldn't think it by looking at her, but the sister was without a doubt the best street hustler of all the would-be conmen and scammers operating out on the streets. It didn't hurt that she has a dynamite racket. It takes real balls to impersonate a nun, and the sister had balls. The truth was that sister was actually a brother by the name of Jackson Coleman. Jackson was a former B&E man who hit the right racket to feed his drug addiction. I knew him back before he went to jail, back when I was gangbanger Carl Lucas. We got back in touch after my homecoming and I found an unlikely ally in the hustler. From time to time over Sister Mercy had helped me out with errands and intel for a price. A cross-dressing junkie nun who cons people with a bell and the bible. I had to grin. Where else but Harlem?

"Say, Sister Mercy," I said as I palmed two twenties and shook the good sister's hand. "What do you know good?"

"'Blessed are they who observe justice, who do righteousness at all times', Psalm 106:3," she said loud enough for the pedestrians passing by to hear before whispering. "Luke Cage, my man. What's up, homie? GIVE TO THE LAWD, PEOPLE."

"Wondering if you had your ear to the ground on something, Sister."

I held up my cell phone. On the screen was the picture I had taken at the crime scene of Bobbito Garcia's murder. It was zoomed in on the calling card, the bloody crown found inches away from the dead boy's body.

Sister Mercy let out a low and soft whistle before returning back to the work of yelling about damnation and monetary salvation. She thanked a passerby as they tossed a dollar into the bucket at her feet. After a few moments of thought, she finally shook her head.

"That's out of my range, brother. Hood politics and shit. Only thing I know is that they call themselves the Kings of Harlem."

"A gang?" I asked.

"An army," she whispered. "They are Day of the Jackal-type motherfuckers. They roll on anybody they don't like, and they roll in force. That's all I know."

"What about your network? All those homeless fools."

Sister Mercy stopped ringing her bell for a second before she nodded. "Joe the Bum. He's a homeless guy that bottom feeds by hanging around young drug slingers, get's free taste of the product, does errands for them for cash. They supposed to be slinging, and if they are Joe would know all about them.

"You better, Sister. I don't want to kick a nun's ass."

"I do what I can, nigga," she whispered softly. "I'll be here tomorrow morning with Joe the Bum."

"Sister, I could kiss you..."

"'But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart,' Matthew 5:28, brother. Repent and GIVE TO THA LAWD!"

I laughed and walked away while Sister Mercy started back up. Thanks to her, I had a line on the people who potentially did it. Now, I needed to find out exactly why they would have wanted to kill Bobbito.

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

Massachusetts

Brockton
2:34 PM

Eric Fernandez looked over his ice tea at the nattily dressed little man. Eric placed his height at somewhere around five feet even. His clothing, an immaculate navy blue suit with a large red bowtie, made him look even smaller than he was, so small that he could sit in a larger man’s lap and look like a ventriloquist dummy. The two men sat in the man’s round kitchen table to do business.

On the surface, you would think the nickname Big Jim to be an ironic one. But to those in the know, Big Jim Dwyer lived up to every bit of that moniker. To most people, they thought of Boston as the seat of political power in New England. To think of Boston and Massachusetts was to think of the glamorous Kane family, a dynasty of mayors, governors, and senators. Eventually US presidents would join the list. The Kane family was power personified. But their power was an illusion, something they had been granted by the little man in the big bowtie. Because the actual seat of power in New England rested twenty miles south in working-class Brockton, in this little house.

He held no political office, had never held an office in his thirty-five year career in public service. On paper, James Dwyer was commissioner of the state’s Public Works, and Transportation committees, as well as chairman of the board of Public Service. Decades on the three boards gave him complete control over the state’s public works, roads, and industry regulatory practices. No elected official could get serious legislation passed in the state without Big Jim’s blessing; no company could set up shop in Massachusetts without Big Jim getting something in return.

Over the years, his power grew into other nearby states via highway expansions and corporate extensions. Vermont, Maine, and New Hampshire lawmakers all knew Big Jim could arrange it so the big highway came through their district, or he could arrange that company could bring six hundred jobs to their town. Eric knew Big Jim handpicked the delegates who represented Massachusetts at the democratic national convention, and he at least had a say who represented the other New England states.

“I’m disappointed, senator,” he said after a long sip of iced tea. “I’ve heard that you’ve gone to other party leaders, hat in hand. The convention is a month away and now you finally come to darken my door.”

“I’m going west to east, sir,” replied Eric. “Everywhere, I’m getting no interest.”

“As you should.” Big Jim ticked off points with his petite fingers. “One: The west sees Norman as their president, so no go there. 2: The south would vote for Comrade Hou if it meant getting Russell Reed a shot at the White House. 3:… did you talk to Chicago?”

“I talked to Mayor Ricketts for two minutes before he brought up money and slush funds.”

Big Jim let flash a smirk and said. “3: Chicago wants you to buy them off, as Chicago always wants people to do, and you’re above that. But the current administration doesn’t have those qualms. Everywhere else has slammed the door in your face. So, I’m the last stop and the only option left.”

“I’ve still got New York left,” replied Eric. “They’re my absolutely last stop. I figured you would like that.”

The old man let out a warm laugh. “I do like that. But, from what I’ve heard, the reason you aren’t getting anywhere is because you aren’t playing the game.”

“It’s about change,” said Eric. “Something different than what we have now. Norman and his whole cabinet are corrupt.”

“Save it for the campaign trail,” the old man said firmly. “That high minded rhetoric works for the masses, but not for the bosses. With the bosses, it’s all about what you can do for them.” He held up a wrinkled palm before Eric could speak. “I don’t mean money, I mean horse-trading. Eric, I like you. I’d like you to represent my party over Norman. He’s an empty suit, I mean you can see them pulling his goddamn strings.”

“Then I need your support,” Eric pleaded. “A strong showing for me by New England and my base in the Midwest could be enough to throw the vote into a deadlock. The embarrassment of a sitting president not winning on the first few ballots damages him enough in the general election that they have no choice but to pick me.”

Big Jim sat silently for a moment. He sipped his tea and stared off into the distance.

“I have a price,” he said, looking back at Eric. “I get to pick your vice president.”

Eric almost frowned but thought better of it. Since President Wheeler’s first election after the war, each party’s presidential candidate had been allowed to choose his own running mate and the delegates would vote him in as a fait accompli. The days of wide open elections for the spot were long gone.

“Who is it?” Eric asked carefully.

“You’ll know when I tell you,” the old man replied quickly. “Yes or no, senator? This is a one-time offer.”

“Yes,” said Fernandez. “You’ll pick the vice president.”

“And I will fight like hell for you if the convention gets thrown into the back room.”

Eric stretched out over the table and they shook hands, his large mitt swallowing up Big Jim’s tiny hand.

---

Los Angeles

LAPD Hall of Justice
2:32 AM

Jessica Hyatt kept to herself in the corner of the jail cell. The half dozen women in here with her were mostly prostitutes with bored looks on their faces. One woman in a blood spattered nightgown sat alone in her own corner, her slipper clad feet folded beneath her as she rocked and looked off into the distance. The red dress that had turned so many heads at the show was now drawing the wrong kind of attention with the women in the cell. A couple of prostitutes looked at her and talked among themselves, laughing quietly at some joke.

In terms of attitude, she was somewhere between the dazed woman and the hookers. Years of protesting and public demonstration meant she was no stranger to a holding cell, but she wasn’t hardened to the experience like the working women. They were stories of the women’s jail matrons, bull dykes who did horrible things to girls simply because they could. She had never experienced it, but she had never stayed in jail long enough for it to become an issue. There was always someone with the protesters who bailed them out after a short time. But this time she was taking a gamble. Parker had ensured her he would have her released by noon if nobody else paid her bail, but that still meant over twelve hours here. She wasn’t sure she could wait that long.

“Hyatt,” one of the guards announced, walking to the door of the cell. “You’re free to go.”

Jessica followed the guard out of the cell and down the halls, relieved to be free but also worried about what was coming. Parker said he wouldn’t release her until noon, so this was someone else. As sick as staying in the cell would have made her felt, knowing Parker’s plan was working made her feel sicker.

Ten minutes later, she walked out the front of the Hall of Justice. A car sat idled at the curb. A uniformed chauffer stepped out of the driver’s side and walked around to the back door. Jessica hesitated, at least until the driver opened the door and she saw inside the car.

“Hello there.”

The woman from the show, the one with the plum gown and the sardonic smile. She’d traded in the gown for a shirt the color of the gown and black slacks. Even if the clothes were different, the smile was still the same.

“Bravo,” she said. “Quite the performance tonight, easily worth what I just paid to bail you out, Miss?”

“Hyatt,” Jessica said softly. "Jessica Hyatt."

“I’m Penelope.” She patted the seat beside her. “Let me give you a ride.”

Jessica licked her lips and nodded. She stepped into the car and sat next to Penelope as the driver closed the door behind her. She hoped to god that Parker wasn’t watching her from some unseen vantage. She didn’t want the man to have the satisfaction.

---

Pinnacle Studios
12:00 PM

“I’m Wallace Welch with ABS News. This news update is brought to you by Cornell Cigarettes. Cornell Cigarettes: Full flavored and healthy. More doctors smoke Cornell’s than any other brand. We lead off this bulletin with tragic news from Hollywood-- ”

Elliot Shaw turned down the radio in his office. Claire Beauchamp’s murder had happened late enough to avoid the papers, but the radio stations didn’t have deadlines. They’d broke the story in the early morning and it had swept across the country via wireless. It would be in the evening editions of all the papers across the country and the few who hadn’t heard from the radio would know the story.
The phone on Elliot’s desk rang and he ignored it. All his reporter sources were calling him on the lookout for a scoop, as if he would spill something to those bastards. They weren’t friends. What he did with them was a simple exchange.

“Knock knock.”

Elliot looked up and saw Agnes one of the girls who ran the switchboard for the executive offices and Pinnacle, with slips of papers in her hands. Agnes was a would-be actress who thought big knockers meant big acting ability. She was at least good at acting when it came to the sack.

“Hey, stranger,” he said with a grin. “What can I help you with?”

“Your messages from this morning. Sidney Applebaum is on hold. I keep telling him you’re unavailable, but he won’t take no for an answer like the rest. Says you owe him one.”

Shit. Sidney Applebaum, the little heb prick. He’d promised Sid first crack at a story if something print-worthy happened from his darktown nightclub questioning. The next day a Hollywood starlet from Elliot’s studio is murdered at a darktown nightclub. The little cockroach could put two and two together, alright. Elliot would have to give him something eventually. He'd work on a sanitized version of events once he had a better idea of what the hell was going on.

“Tell him I’m out of the office,” Elliot said as he stood. “It won’t be a lie.”

He grabbed his pack of smokes and his .38 from the desk. The smokes went into his jacket while the gun went into shoulder holster. He grabbed his hat from the hat rack by the door.

“What if the boss calls?” Agnes said as she handed Elliot the slips of paper.

“I’m going to see her,” he muttered while leafing through the messages.

Most were from journalists. Several from Sid, a few from Arty Gross at the Times. The last message made him pause. An LAPD detective J. Thomas left a message with Ella less than an hour ago. On it was the direct line to his desk at 77th Street Station. He passed the rest back to Agnes and kept Thomas’ message.

“One more thing.”

Elliot pulled out the list he’d gotten from Clair Beauchamp’s apartment and passed it on.

“You got a reserve directory at the switchboard. Look up these numbers and write down the addresses associated with them, and be quick about it.”

He gave her a playful pat on the rump and sent her on her way. After she was gone, he looked back down at the message. It was only natural that the cops would be calling after they figured out who the dead body was. They’d look into every aspect of the dead girl’s life, and Elliot would be the one standing watch just to make sure nothing bad about Pinnacle came out in their search.

But what if Thomas saw him at the club and remembered him? There was no way in hell he could know it was him that quickly. If he remembered him, then he would have to explain why he was there. That might lead to investigation into an uncomfortable place for the studio. But still, it would be ten times as worse if Elliot hadn’t gotten all that commie shit out of the apartment last night. He still needed to tell Jeannie about that. The two needed to come up with a plan before Thomas and the cops got involved. He lit up a fresh cigarette and headed out to break the news to his boss.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Brooklyn, NY

Parker sat in the rental car and kept his eyes peeled on the street traffic. The meeting spot turned out to be a park. The odds of hitting Mal in the park were bad. Taking him hadn't been the plan, but Parker would not object to doing it here if an opening presented itself. Middle of the night, there wasn't much going on but Parker still watched the cars that passed and the few parked on the street with him. The piece Graves gave him rested on his lap.

Lights flashed across the windshield as an SUV turned a corner and pulled on to the street. Parker ducked down to avoid lights hitting him and watched the SUV idle for a few moments in the street. The windows on the car were dark, but Parker saw movement inside. Several figures inside the car were moving. The back passenger window rolled down slowly. Parker saw Mal Resnick, fatter than he remembered, squinting out in the dark. Mal said something to someone in the car and rolled the window back up.

The SUV's tires squealed as it sped off. Parker counted seconds. At thirty, he started the car and whipped around in the street to follow the fleeing SUV. He caught up with the car as it turned on to the highway. Parker slowed and followed from a distance as Mal's car headed into the city.

---

Center City, WA

Tracy walked through the darkened dance floor of the nightclub. Even though it was eight in the morning, a half dozen people writhed in time with the strobe lights and thumping electronic music. It was too dark for Tracy to see their faces, but he was certain they would have the pinned eyes that came with a coke high. The clubbers gave him a wide berth as he passed through them on his way to the VIP. The club was called Elysium, and one of Hyde's guys ran it.

The guy in question was sitting in the VIP section in the club's rear. Fat Ricky Fat was rail thin with spiky black hair. Elysium's clientele ran towards the college crowd, the trust fund type that blew all mommy and daddy's money on drugs and danced the night away. From what Tracy gleamed, that was the type of kid Linda Flynn was.

"Tracy Lawless," Ricky said in that thick, fake ghetto accent he liked to put on. "Sup, dawg?"

Ricky sat in a booth in the VIP section's far corner. Cash and drugs were scattered across the table, the drugs in little baggies and the cash in hundred dollar bundles. Speed, weed, X, and coke were among the varieties of shit Ricky pushed to the kids who frequented his club. Tracy saw a pair of high-heeled feet sticking out from under the table. Scumbag Ricky always liked to exchange blow for getting blown.

"What brings you here? I be paying Hyde his dues. I be paid up this month, he ain't got no cause to fuck with me."

Tracy didn't say a word until he was sitting across the table from Ricky. He pulled a photo out of his jacket, it was Linda Flynn with her parents. He slid it across the table to Ricky and let him look at it in the dim light.

"She had your number in her room. You know her?"

"I be knowing her," he said before groaning. "Damn girl, do that again... uhh..." He looked at Tracy and nodded. "Yeah, this bitch be coming into my club and dancing and coping."

"She come in last night?"

"Yeah, I saw her with a couple of bitches. They left pretty early."

"What's early?"

"Before three."

"You ever do a trade with her like you're doing now?"

"Nah, dawg. That be for the girls who be lacking funds. I wanna hit it, but that bitch always be paying, even when I offer to trade. I don't wanna stick it, I wanna lick it."

Ricky flicked his tongue at Tracy. A second later, Ricky gripped the table and shut his eyes as the girl under the table finished her work. Tracy felt his annoyance growing as Ricky rode out his climax and the girl came up out the table. He tossed the girl a baggie of coke and pointed towards the door.

"Bathroom be down the hall, bitch. Wash your mouth out."

She scampered off as Ricky zipped his fly up. He looked at Tracy and shrugged. When Tracy didn't speak or move, Ricky scowled and grew agitated.

"What the fuck? I told you what I be knowing, dawg. What you want?"

"I want you to tell me what you know," Tracy said slowly. "And I want you to speak properly. Stop the ghetto talk, Ricky. You're Asian, and from fucking Portland."

"Man, fuck you! I ain't know a goddamn th--"

Tracy came up over the table and grabbed Ricky by his thin neck with one hand while the other went into Ricky's mouth and pulled on his tongue. Ricky squealed as Tracy pulled on his tongue and shoved him hard into the table surface. His head banged hard against the table and he bit his tongue, drawing blood.

"Gahbbammit" He shouted through his injured tongue and reaching for something in his pants.

Tracy had his own gun out and pointed at Ricky before he could even get close to his own piece.

"Give, Ricky," Tracy said calmly. "Give right now or I shoot you in the heart, pull out your tongue and shove it up your own ass."

"Okay, okay!" Ricky sobbed, trying to catch the blood dripping from his mouth. Tracy noticed the ghetto accent was gone. "Look... I... there were these Russian that came to me last week. Mean son of bitches and they... they asked about that girl, okay?"

"What did they ask about?"

"They wanted to know how often she came to the club and she was with and what times she came. They gave me a number to call the next time she came in. They gave me ten thousand dollars to do it. I called them last night."

"Give me their names and the number you called right now...," Tracy said before he added. "Dawg."

---

Manhattan, NY

Parker pulled into a parking spot across the street from the high-rise apartment. He'd trailed Mal's car to the place and watched from halfway down the block while Mal and three goons got out the car and went inside the building. Parker drove around the block and scoped the area out. The building's front door was the only access point and it was guarded by a door man who probably had a panic button near by. The place was a fortress, and he needed to figure out how to break in.

A man walked down the street toward Parker's car. He watched him warily. His suspicion turned to disbelief when a street light shone on the man's face.

"No way," Parker said as the man stood beside the driver door.

"Yes way," said Agent Graves. "Sorry to interrupt the hunt. Wanna grab a cup of coffee, Parker?"

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

1939

Denver

The deuce and a half rolled down the highway towards the city. A dozen men sat in the back of the truck’s cargo hold with rifles and helmets. Closest to the exit was First Sergeant Charlie Braddock. Braddock and his platoon were just a small part of the massive convoy heading into the city.

The 1st Montana, the Republic’s first and so far only army, had been called in to Denver to assist with the offensive to push federal forces out of the city. Back in the early days of the war, the western armies had swept through Colorado and into the Midwest before being slowly pushed back to the Rockies. All the republics and independent city-states from across the west were mustering manpower, a seven nation army, to help with that offensive. Word among the armies was that this offensive, if successful, could end their war. With the federals already bogged down with the south, a strong showing by the west might make the government call for peace so they could focus on one war at a time.

For Braddock and his men, it would be their first real taste of combat. They’d had some skirmishes up near the Canadian border, raiders from Saskatchewan trying to take advantage of the confusion and anarchy in the US. The pirates were driven back where they came from, more than a few bloodied and dead. But Charlie knew that hadn’t been real combat. Not like what they were getting ready for.

The truck suddenly came to a screeching halt. Braddock nearly fell off the bench seat, would have had he not caught himself at the last moment. The men talked among themselves while Braddock lifted the canvas tarp of the truck and looked out.

“Jesus Christ,” he said to himself.

Without talking to his men, he jumped out of the back of the truck. He found he wasn’t the only one. Other men were coming out of the trucks and on to the stalled traffic on the highway, the convoy stretched back miles and miles until you couldn’t see it. But none of them were looking at the roads.

They were looking at the sky.

Planes, so many that they caused the afternoon sky to turn into dusk as they flew overhead. Their engines were so loud that the men had to yell over the noise to be heard. They were thousands of feet in the air, but Braddock could easily tell that they were the big bodied bombers on a run. Some of the soldiers on the ground opened fire with their rifles, but most were too stunned by what they were seeing to respond.

Braddock turned around at the sound of the booms. The armada in the air began to drop their bombs on the city of Denver. The men of the 1st Montana could just look on in horror at the destruction before them, the explosions that came one after another so quickly that it sounded like the roll of a snare drum, the flames leaping up hundreds of feet into the air.

The sound of a closer plane drew Braddock away from the carnage. A fighter plane buzzed low over the convoy and strafed the area with its machine gun. Braddock hit the deck. Dirt and grass exploded around him as bullets whizzed by. He heard a few men nearby scream and fall to the ground. After the plane had passed by, he stood on shaking legs and turned back to Denver.

He saw that the entire city was engulfed in flames. Braddock could feel tears stinging his eyes from both the intense heat and the emotion of it all. Even from this far away, he could hear the screams and smell the burning of flesh.

Montana
Now

Chinook
9:18 PM

Vic Klein was used to contemptible looks. He’d grown up in a rough neighborhood in Minneapolis, too short and too skinny for his own good. A tough upbringing had turned him into a kid who could take a few licks, and give more than a few out himself. That childhood, plus a career in the Minneapolis PD, made Vic impervious to hard stares and cold looks.

The look he was getting from Bob Dixon was certainly one of the coldest and hardest he’d ever received. The two men sat at Vic’s desk at the courthouse. Sheriff Braddock and Jason Crowder were in the basement, the sheriff booking the man for assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder.

“What kind of name is Klein?” Dixon asked with contempt. “Certainly not a Montana name.”

“I’m from Minnesota,” Vic said nonchalantly.

He knew what Dixon was getting at, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The question was one he'd heard all his life, even in Minnesota. It was how people called him a Jew without calling him a Jew.

“My wife is from Chinook. We moved here a few years ago.”

Vic shifted and rubbed the back of his neck. He purposefully pulled at the Star of David necklace he always wore so Dixon could get a good look at it. Antisemitism was nothing new to Vic. He’d been called jewboy by people as long as he could remember.

“Now, Mr. Dixon,” he started back at his typewriter. “Let’s get this statement out.”

“I don’t want to give a statement,” hissed Dixon. “I want to get my employee back to Jordan’s Crossing. Our production at that site hinges upon him. Mr. Crowder is a very important petroleum engineer for Dixon Oil."

“He’s also drunker than a skunk,” Charlie Braddock said as he stepped into the office. He breezed through the office in that cool, confident way Vic was always envious of. Nobody made an entrance like the sheriff. “And he’s under arrest, charged with multiple felonies.”
Sheriff Braddock sat at his desk and propped his boots up on it.

“What if the man he stabbed declines to press charges?” Dixon asked.

“We’ll ask him,” replied Braddock. “Just as soon as he wakes up from that coma. I don’t know about you, Mr. Dixon, but if I was put in a coma I would be awfully keen on pressing charges against the guy that done the comatosing.”

“Dixon Oil is an international company, sheriff, it spans over four continents. Jason Crowder is a big part of that international machinery. If he’s in jail, then my company is losing millions of dollars.”

Braddock leveled his gaze at Dixon and regarded him coolly.

“I guess Mr. Crowder should have thought about that before he stabbed a man near to death. Judge Howard will arraign him tomorrow, set his bail. But for now, Mr. Dixon, he is staying downstairs.”

Dixon stood in frustration. Vic stood, one hand on his gun, as Dixon walked to Braddock’s desk and slammed his first against the surface, just inches away from the sheriff’s boots.

“You’re making a big mistake, Braddock.”

The sheriff stood. Up close, he was a few inches taller than Dixon and he made sure Dixon was aware of the difference in height.

“I’ll have to ask you to leave, Mr. Dixon, before you end up in the holding cell with Crowder.”

Dixon took a step back. He looked the sheriff up and down. Vic saw the man’s face shift, his anger evaporating into something else. Whatever it was on his face, Vic was certain he didn’t like it at all.

“You’re about the right age, sheriff,” he said too calmly. “Did you serve in the war?”

“12th Infantry Division, 1st Montana,” Braddock said without hesitation.

“I was in the air corps,” Dixon said with a smirk. “I served my country with honor. How about you?”

“I was proud to serve Montana. We didn’t have a tinpot dictator like Dugout Doug in Montana.”

Dixon nodded and started towards the door. He stopped short and turned back to look at the sheriff.

“You know, I flew bombers for the air corps. 1st Montana, they were in Denver, right?” He continued on, not letting the sheriff answer.

“Well so was I. I was above Denver, sheriff. Fought in that battle.”

“That wasn’t a battle,” Braddock whispered. “It was a goddamn slaughter.”

"Just remember who won the war, and who lost it, sheriff. The people of Blaine County like a man who betrayed his country?"

"They like a man who stayed true to his country, even when his government was being true to them. It's why they elected me, and they keep on electing me."

"We'll see about that."

Dixon winked and left the office without another word.

--

Los Angeles

Downtown
7:55 PM

An usher led Jessica Hyatt to her seat. She was among the last people to be seated in the theater. Almost every seat in the small venue had been filled by men and women in their finest formal wear. Jessica’s bright red dress made her stand out, more than a few heads turned as she walked down the aisle. The color of the dress was done on purpose, to stand out and to show her true red colors to the group assembled. She recognized more than a few faces in the crowd. The performance promised to be a who’s who in LA’s elite leftist society, and Jess was at least a nominal member of that coterie.

Her seat ended up being just three rows away from the stage, halfway down the twenty seat row. It was perfect seating, a prime spot to conduct her performance. She knew Parker was somewhere in the auditorium, watching her while his agents watched and recorded the people who came and went. If the Pinkertons were here, then the LAPD Red Squad had to be here as well.

Jessica saw a small entourage being led to a seat at the front row. Two men flanked a woman on either side. The two men were tall and handsome, one of them she recognized from films but did not know his name. The woman wore a plum gown and her light brown hair was cut short above the ears. The woman turned and looked out at the crowd.

She was beautiful, but not conventionally so. Her nose was too short and there seemed to be old acne scars on her cheeks. But it was how she broadcast herself to the world that made her beautiful. A clam elegance and grace, a playful smile on her lips at all times. It was a look of confidence. After a look at the audience, she settled in to a seat between the two men just as the lights flickered in warning of the coming show.

At exactly fifteen minutes past eight, the lights dimmed and the curtain opened. Harvey Edwards hobbled out to thunderous applause. He wore a simple brown suit and red tie, a matching pork pie hat on his head. His iconic sunglasses hid the eyes that had been rendered useless by bomb shrapnel. Everyone in the room, and all over the world for that matter, knew the story of the old bluesman who had been collateral damage during the war and used that to write songs decrying the unjust policies of the southern states. But after the war, he'd turned his focus to the US and how they continued to uphold Jim Crow and silenced critics. For his troubles, he had been given the choice of jail or exile. He was only here after years of negotiating between the US and Chinese governments.

The old man gave a slight bow to the crowd before walking to the stool where a guitar case rested on it. A lifetime of performance gave him the muscle memory to nimbly place the case at his feet and open it. Out came a simple acoustic guitar. The crowd cheered again when they saw the words ‘This Machine Kills Dictators’ scribbled on the body of the guitar. He flexed his hands, the long fingers with their calluses working the frets up and down.

The room went still and quiet as Edwards began to strum. When he sung, a raspy voice that came from a lifetime of smoking, oozed from his mouth and circulated through the auditorium without the help of amplification.

“I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night, alive as you and me. Says I ‘but Joe, you’re ten years dead.’ ‘I never died,’ says he. ‘I never died,’ says he.”

Respectful applause followed the break of the first verse as Edwards went into the song. From her seat, Jessica had an odd thought that almost made her laugh. She held it up until the second half of the song.

“’Joe Hill ain’t dead,’ he says to me. ‘Joe Hill ain’t never died. Where working men go out on strike, Joe Hill is as their side. Joe Hill is at their side.’”

Jessica couldn’t contain herself and had to let loose a burst of giggles. The entire situation was so… bizarre. She was among a group of privileged people who had paid hundreds of dollars for tickets to a show where an exiled negro sang songs that extolled the virtues of the working class. Never mind that all of men and women surrounding her had never had to work and to strike and to suffer for their beliefs, like Joe Hill or even Harvey Edwards. They were armchair warriors trying to buy their bona fides. The absurdity of it all made her cackle with glee.

After a couple of dirty looks, the people around her began to shush her. She had to move now before she lost her composure all together and couldn’t get her speech out. With laughter still in her voice, she stood and shouted loud enough to make Harvey Edwards stop playing.

“The United States is a nation of oppressors, and the oppressed. While we sit here and pat ourselves on the back for our beliefs, negroes in the south are being lynched , the LAPD continues its anti-negro containment policies that is just thinly veiled racial genocide, our civil liberties are raped by the Pinkertons, we must take action. It is not enough to have progressive beliefs, we must also--“

That’s as far as she got before a chorus of boos began to drown her out. Part of it was because she was challenging them, throwing the injustice in the world back in their faces and that no matter how many concerts they went to, it wouldn’t change. But she figured most of them were booing because she was interrupting the show they had paid good money for.

Two ushers came into the aisle and passed by the people sitting beside her to take her out. She resisted until one of the ushers picked her up and drug her away, to the sound of applause and cheers. As she thrashed, she saw the woman in the plum grown watching her with a playful look on her face. They briefly made eye contact briefly, but long enough for the woman to smile at her and nod.