Byrd Man

The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

Sticks & Stones Pub
Peckham
11:00 PM

Charlie Enfield finished off his pint of lager and wiped the foam off his upper lip. The pub was packed and everyone talked up tomorrow's game. English flags draped every square inch of the pub's walls, miniature versions of the flag on sticks protruded from odds and ends on the bar. A group of pissed lads sang the West Ham song to jeers and catcalls. Charlie laughed to himself and pushed his pint glass away. The barman raised his eyebrows at him, but Charlie shook him off and instead placed two quid under his empty glass for the pints.

"There's my favorite American!"

A weathered hand touched the back of Charlie's hand. He turned and saw Sid the Yid's thick glasses staring up at him. Sidney Greenstein, Sid the Yid to the street, operated the fourth largest shylock operation and sports book in South London. Charlie couldn't begin to calculate how much money he'd lost to Sid over the years. The older man pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and blinked as Charlie offered him a half-hearted greeting, doing his best to smile.

"I'm not putting no money on the game," Charlie said with the shake of his head. "The line ain't strong enough to put money down on England, and I sure as hell ain't putting as much as a single shilling on the Krauts."

"Bah," Sid spat. "You and half of fucking South London. Them's thats putting money on it are all betting England. All these wankers and bums suddenly become John Bull overnight. I need bets on West Germany to even the odds."

Charlie let him complain while he lit up a cigarette. He placed the pack back in his jacket pocket and pulled out a twenty pound note. Sid eyed it.

"I'll put this on an over-under."

"Over under is four goals," Sid said, never looking away from the note. "Twenty quid will pay out to eighty pounds."

"I'll take the under," said Charlie.

Sid snatched the cash from Charlie. The note disappeared from Sid's hands with the practiced speed that only a shylock had. They talked a few more minutes, mostly about underworld gossip that both of them had heard over the past few days. Who was fucking whose old lady, and who was planned to be fucked over for fucking someone's old lady. All crooks gossiped, but Sid was like an old woman getting her hair fixed. He seemed to trade in rumors almost as much as he traded in cash and coin. That came in handy most of the time. But not right now. Not when Charlie had to keep it quiet.

Ten minutes was all he could take before excusing himself and stepping outside. He finished a cigarette and stomped the butt out before checking his watch. Almost right on time was the taxi that pulled up to the curb. It's on-duty light was out. Charlie got in and looked at the heavyset man with thick eyebrows, a wool peaked cap hiding his balding head.

"Coach."

---

James "Coach" Crowder pulled away from the curb and back onto the road. Charlie lit up a fresh cigarette and offered him one, like he always did. Red sometimes joked that the cigarette company must give Charlie commission for every fag he pushed onto someone. Coach used to smoke, but he managed to kick the habit a long time ago. He still liked the smell. There wasn't in harm in that.

"You talk to Red?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah," said Coach. "This run here is the next to last piece. I've got to nick one more thing in the morning, but it'll be easy enough."

Charlie grunted and Coach glanced over in his direction.

"You okay to drive?"

"Just had two pints," Charlie said with a shrug. "I've been more pissed during jobs."

"Do us a favor and crack the window."

Charlie complied and let the wind take his excess smoke away. They remained silent on the drive south. The Yank had a certain charm to him, a charm that Coach was mostly immune to. They worked together fine and had no problems, but they never made small talk and would never be anything like being friends. That was okay with Coach. He wasn't here to make friends. His eyes glanced up at the photo of his three children tapped to the sun visor. They were the reason he was here, driving a hack and whatever he needed to do to make ends meet.

When they hit East Dulwich Charlie sat upright in his seat and gave directions. A few minutes later they came to a petrol station and garage nestled off the main road. All the lights were out, save for one dim bulb that burned inside. Coach parked and they headed towards the door. He could tell from the way Charlie walked that he was armed. He bit his tongue in order to keep silent about it. Stupid thing to do, carrying a gun. Coach knew they were a necessity for the line of work they were in, but right now there was no need for it. Just a needless risk.

"Open up," Charlie said loudly, rapping on the metal roll-up door of the garage. "Red sent us."

A few moments later the door started up. An old man in grease stained overalls greeted them before beckoning them inside.

"So who do you think's gonna win tomorrow?" The old man asked.

"England," was all Charlie said as they walked through the garage, past Vauxhall Victor on blocks, all its tires removed. "Watch the Wingless Wonders fly."

"Hoping they do," said the man. "My generation beat the Hun, generation after that took it to Jerry, so I have little doubt about the lads ability to contain Franz Beckenbauer."

They were led to the back of the garage and through a door. Parked amidst junkers was a black '56 Wolseley done up with official Metropolitan Police Force accoutrements. As close to the real thing as you could get. Coach smiled and looked it over. In the back he saw two piles of clothing folded neatly, bobby caps on top of each pile.

"Damn strange request," said the old man. "Damn strange. Never seen nothing like it before."

"It's why we pay you so much," said Coach. "You can handle strange, pops."

He looked from Coach to Charlie."Just... promise me it ain't gonna end roughly."

Charlie looked at the old man and shook his head.

"You know what we do, pops. Our mob ain't in the murder business."

"I know, but it's the copper outfits. I don't want you to go all St. Valentine's Day on some wankers, bringing trouble back to my door."

Charlie laughed. "This go sideways, The Sweeney are gonna have bigger fish to fry than some South London geezer."

Coach looked at Charlie, his eyebrows raised. "Good?"

"Yeah, I'll drive it over and sleep there for the night."

"Get some rest. Big day tomorrow."

Charlie nodded before climbing into the mock cop car. Coach passed the old man and shot him a mock salute, smiling to himself as he headed back to his taxi. He watched the Wolsely roar down the road past him, Charlie honking the horn playfully as he passed. Coach climbed into the car and shook his head.

"The fucking self-proclaimed criminal mastermind of the London Underworld, ladies and gents. Flying like a bat out of hell with an illegal weapon on his person."

Coach checked the clock on the dash and sighed. He'd find the nearest payphone and ring Red that they'd gotten the car and uniforms. He still had another hour before he needed to be home for the kids. Flicking the off-duty light to on-duty, he headed out into the night in search of a fare.

The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

Also, this one. It's American, but it has the right tone:

The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

Required viewing:

The Crew – "Wingless Wonders" (A British Noir RP)

OFFICIAL METROPOLITAN POLICE REPORT
FOR INTERNAL DISTRIBUTION ONLY

NAME:
Charles Enfield
DOB:
26/5/1939
HEIGHT: 6'0
WEIGHT: 185 pounds.
HAIR COLOUR: Black
EYE COLOUR: Blue
KNOWN ALIASES:
"THE YANK", "CHARLIE WHITEBREAD", "CHUCK BRIXTON"

HISTORY:

Charles Enfield, aka "The Yank", et. al, is the suspected second in command of an armed robbery gang operating in the Greater London area. Born in 1939 to a prostitute in Brixton, Enfield was arrested at the age of twelve for attacking a group of neighborhood bullies (See: Met file 3579551). When interviewed by PC H. Bingham, the boy said that the attack, which required all boys be admitted to hospital, came after relentless teasing about his mother's line of work, and the unknown man who was his father. During PC Bingham's interview, Enfield revealed that his mother had told him his father was a US air pilot who came to London during the War, and was shot down and killed over Germany. (See Met field report #852369) Based on Enfield's DOB and later inquires he made in America, it is assumed this story was a fiction his mother spun to keep him happy.

Subsequently, Enfield was arrested all throughout his teenage years for crimes ranging from petty theft, to battery, to even pepping. (See Addendums 257895, 1789623, and 3009513846 respectively) For these crimes, Enfield spent months to years long stretches in juvenile reformatory centers, where he was reported to be a model prisoner. At the age of eighteen, Enfield enlisted in the US Army, claiming his false half-american lineage and seeing the enlistment as an easy path to American citizenship. (See: US DoD File #91478963)

Private Enfield's anti-social behaviour did not stop once he enrolled in the Army. He was cited many times for infractions of Army Code of Conduct both small and large, and then finally arrested on 10/11/59 for assaulting a superior officer. Enfield was dishonourably discharged, his US citizenship revoked, and he was sentenced to a year at a military prison in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. (See: US DoD File #60508033) Like as a teenager, Enfield's behaviour in prison was a stark contrast to how he acted on the street. He was granted early release in the autumn of 1960 and shipped back to England, back to Brixton.

Enfield popped back up on the Met's radar in early 1961, when the Brixton Flying Squad caught a photo of him working the door at The Kit Kat Klub, a gentlemen's club suspected to be a whorehouse and owned by Brixton gangster "Irish" Jim Doyle. (See: Met Intelligence dossier #446359) Enfield was off door duty by the time the Flying Squad returned to the Kit Kat Klub for second surveillance stint one month later.

Around the time of the second surveillance, a man matching Enfield's general height and weight was part of a four-man crew that robbed an armoured car of 25,000 pounds in small denominations. All four men wore ski-masks during the robbery to hide their faces. Enfield is only listed as a probable suspect because a grass informed the Brixton Flying Squad that armed guard James Harris was found out to be in debt to Jim Doyle for over five thousand pounds. (See: Met Flying Squad case file #4964123) Any further inquiries into the ties ended when Harris was found shot to death in his home. (See: Met Homicide file #09081961) Doyle was brought in for questioning, but released.

Since that time, Enfield has been suspected of pulling off as many as a dozen heists in the Greater London area, with some links that he may have helped in robberies in Northern England. Underworld chatter has it that Enfield is seen as a tough figure, and his experience in the US military has given him extensive firearm training -- something many in the criminal underworld see as an intimidating factor -- which matches with descriptions of at least one of the masked robbers in the suspected heists.

The four-man crew Enfield helps run is suspected to be affiliated with one of the major criminal mobs in London, but all grasses have conflicting reports as to who they work and pay protection to. Well-connected, well-trained, and well-equipped, Enfield and his Crew are a threat to the safety of the people of London. It is in my opinion that Enfield and the rest should be surveilled around the clock in order to stop the next robbery before it can happen. Make no mistake, it will happen again.

Sincerely,

Detective Superintendent Thomas Brown
Metropolitan Police Force Organised Crime Division
25/6/1965

Marvel Knights

Part 3:
"Barbarism Begins at Home"

Mood Music

Washington Heights
5:12 AM

Morrissey crooned out of Bullseye's earbuds. In his honest opinion, no assassin's playlist could be considered complete without The Smiths. Morrissey's angsty and playful lyrics, accompanied Johnny Marr's great guitar riffs, provided the perfect soundtrack for murder.

Bullseye could see the entire street below from his vantage point on the rooftop. Through the scope of his sniper rifle, he watched the unmarked police car skid to a stop outside the five story walk-up building. Detectives Jimmy Burke and Mikey Thompson jumped out the car and rushed into the building as "Barbarism Begins at Home" reach its chorus.

Unruly boys who will not grow up
Must be taken in hand.

After killing Malone, Bullseye tossed the apartment and found a stack of documents hidden behind a baseboard in the kitchen. He wasn't sure if Malone was the group's record keeper, or if he had the stash for insurance, but Bullseye found it regardless of the dead cop's intent. Records of money laundering and off-shore bank accounts, proof that the bulk of the dirty money the squad received got passed on to lawyers, judges, and politicians. A whole spider-web of corruption, with Abbott and his men at the center.

Among the documentation had been information about the Washington Heights apartment that was in Malone's ex-wife's name. The apartment hadn't been listed in any IA financial audit of Malone or the rest of the squad. Something valuable was in that apartment. The two cops showing up so soon after Malone's death was proof of that. It would have been much easier for him to break into the apartment and wait to ambush Burke and Thompson from there. But he'd killed Malone up close and didn't want to repeat himself. After all, wasn't variety the spice of life?

A light came on in the apartment a few minutes after the cops went inside. He saw them rushing through a room in search of something. He saw Burke shoot upright and laugh before letting his breath out. Whatever it was, they found it. Bullseye put Burke's smiling face in the middle of his crosshair.

A crack on the head is what you get for not asking
And a crack on the head is what you get for asking

He let his breath out slowly and squeezed the sniper rifle's trigger.

---

Harlem
5:13 AM

Raymond Jones stared down the barrel of a gun. Sergeant Vince Abbott, his eyes wide, stood in front of him with his service glock inches away from Jones' face. Jones was completely naked, having just bedded down for the night with two of his women when Abbott and one of his boys came through the door. The two girls were still in the bed beside him, sheets pulled up around their breasts.

"Call it off, Jones," Abbott screamed.

"Call what off?"

The barrel of the gun struck him across the side of his head. He swayed and stumbled back a few feet, but he stayed upright and felt blood starting to drip from his temple.

"You motherfuc--"

Abbott pushed him backwards until he was pressed against the wall.

"Don't play dumb with me! I start squeezing you for more money, and the next thing I know Malone is killed. Not only is he killed, there are promises to kill the rest of us. Tell me now or I will paint the back of this fucking wall with your brains."

Jones chuckled. His head hurt so bad that even that small allowance shot red hot pain through his skull.

"You kill me and there's no way to call anything off."

Abbott didn't miss a beat. He stepped back and aimed his gun at the two women on the bed while maintaining eye contact with Jones.

"You think I care about them hoes?" Jones laughed, showing off his rows of metallic teeth. "Bitches like that are a dime a dozen. C'mon, Mr. Police. Got any more threats? Gonna threaten to run me in? On what grounds, motherfucker?"

Abbott started to answer when his phone began to ring. He answered it without looking away from Jones.

"Yeah?"

His mad look disappeared. One of worry replaced it.

"Wait, what the fuck? Say that again."

---

Washington Heights
5:15 AM

"Jimmy's dead," Mike Thompson cried into the phone. "I got a fucking sniper over at the apartment. Got me pinned down."

Mikey gripped the phone with one hand, his service weapon with the other. He was crouched against a wall. The place had no furniture, so the walls out of sight from the windows were the only place to hide. Jimmy Burke's body lay just a few feet away, a huge chuck of the side of his face gone.

"Have you called the cops?" Abbott asked over the phone.

"I called you first, Vinny. Dispatch is the second call."

"Don't call them."

"What?"

"Think about what we got in that apartment, Mikey. We're on our way. Just, get out of sight and be calm. We're on the fucking way."

The call ended and Thompson swore loudly. He sat there for a few minutes, breathing heavily and sweating. It was easy for Vinny to say that shit from wherever the fuck he was. He wasn't here. He hadn't heard the shot, so loud it was still ringing in Mike's ears. He didn't have to look at Jimmy's dead body, still oozing blood out in the hardwood floor.

"Fuck this," he said and started to dial 911.

"I got shots fired, and an officer down here at--"

He stopped speaking when he heard the door fly open. Could it be Vinny and backup. He peaked around the corner of the wall towards the door. A... man in a costume stood in the doorway, white earbuds stuck in his ear and something metallic and sharp in his hand. Was that... a fucking throwing star?

"Hi."

Thompson turned the corner and raised his gun. He got a shot off just as the costumed man threw whatever it was from his hand. The door frame above the man exploded in a chunk of wood chips. A microsecond later he felt something hard hit him in the forehead. The force of it dropped him to the ground, a sharp pain accompanying the blow. He suddenly realized he couldn't see, but he could feel pain and blood and something solid and sharp in his forehead.

Thompson let out a gasp when he realized what it was. That realization would be one of the last conscious thoughts he would have as his brain began to shut down from the blunt force trauma and destruction from the throwing star.

---

Bullseye stepped over the two dead bodies and found what it was they had come to the apartment to find. A ripped up floorboard panel revealed two zipped up gym bags. He reached down and zipped them open. One was stuffed to the brim with cash, the other with three neatly packed kilos of heroin. For Abbott and the cops, the cash and dope was worth dying for, and especially worth killing for.

With a smile, Bullseye grabbed both bags and slung them over his shoulder. He stopped by Thompson's body and grabbed his cell phone. He'd need it later for his final play. The Smiths faded and the O'Jays started to sing "For the Love of Money." Maybe a little on the nose? Perhaps, but his phone was on shuffle so what could he do? With the O'Jays still singing, Bullseye walked out the door with the dirty cops' stash as police sirens started to sound from somewhere close by.

Marvel Knights

Yeah, I couldn't tell. The cops in the Bullseye story don't have any high-tech weapons.

Marvel Knights

<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

I don't work that way, m8.

@Ruby

You do you then, homie.

Marvel Knights

Boo your WIP. Just hold off until it's all done and post then.

Marvel Knights

Part 2:
"Redbone"

Harlem
2:14 AM

Mood Music

Detective Thomas "Red" Malone limped down the hallway of his brownstone, one hand against the wall while the other hand gripped his service glock. He was too afraid to put weight on his left leg. He knew it was broken, at least in two places. Blood dripped down the open wound on his forehead and the wounds on his chest and made the floor slick as he tried to walk across it barefooted.

He had been getting ready for bed when the bedroom door flew open and a man came in. The son of a bitch had a knife in one hand and used it like he knew what the fuck he was doing. Malone managed to get to his gun, but not before taking at least a half dozen stab wounds to the torso, neck, and face. The sight of the gun made the fucker retreat, but not before delivering a crushing kick to Malone's leg. He heard the bone snap, felt the pain so intense he almost vomited right then and there. Malone fell back on the bed screaming while the attacker disappeared further into the house.

Malone looked through his nightstand for a his phone, but it was nowhere to be found. He still had a landline down the hall that he could use to call 911 and then Abbott and the rest of the crew. If he could get to the phone then he would be safe. Malone slipped against his own blood and managed to catch himself before he put any more weight on his broken leg. When he was sure he was steady, he looked up and saw the attacker in the hallway. It was dim, but he could see the glint of a giant hunting knife in the man's hand. Malone raised his glock at the same time the man flicked his wrist. Suddenly, a great searing pain shot through Malone's chest. He looked down and saw the knife embedded in his chest, all the way to the hilt. The shock of it made him put weight on his leg and slip on the blood.

The pain and lack of attraction sent Malone down the ground, flat on his back. The fall knocked his breath from him and he gasped before coughing, phlegm and blood spraying from his mouth. Malone could feel the knife in his chest bob up and down with every breath. The attacker stood over him and looked down. There was no look of sadness, anger, or joy on the man's face. To Malone, he looked like a landscaper in the middle of mowing a lawn. The man yanked the knife from Malone's chest, causing pain to shoot through his body as blood poured from the wound.

"The only comfort I have," the man said softly. "Is in a few minutes, you'll never feel anything again."

Malone let out a scream as the man came at his face with the knife.

----

Forty-Five Minutes Earlier

Bullseye sat in his car, parked down at the end of the block from Detective Malone's house. Soul and classic R&B played on the car radio while he flipped through Malone's NYPD service jacket. Whoever hired him for the job had deep connections within the NYPD. Along with Malone's jacket, he had the jackets of the rest of the five-man squad, and a separate folder from Internal Affairs.

The Uptown Narcotics Task Force operated autonomously from any one NYPD precinct and their mandate was to stomp out major drug traffickers in Harlem, Spanish Harlem, and Washington Heights. So far they had arrested a few, but the IA folder made a compelling case that the task force ended up replacing the dealers with themselves. They were accused to skimming drug money, extorting drug dealers, and selling confiscated narcotics back to the dealers at marked up prices. IA's case was just speculation and innuendo. Nothing concrete had ever emerged. The one thing apparent was that Detective Sergeant Vincent Abbott ran the show for both the legal and illegal activities the task force engaged in.

The Crystals played "And Then He Kissed Me" on the radio by the time Bullseye started on Malone's service jacket. Abbott would have been the easy choice for a first target. As the brains of the operation, taking him out would be a sound move. Like in the military, kill the officers first to create confusion among the men in battle. But Bullseye had learned another way to operate during black ops. Malone wasn't the brains, but he was the heart of the team. The Big Man, they called him in the IA file. He was big and had a temper on him. He was suspended once when another black officer called him a "redboned nigger" and he beat him to a pulp. Malone acted as Abbott's enforcer when needed and he kept the other men in line if any of them started to question their mission. He was lovable and well liked by everyone on the team. Killing him first would sew fear and dissent in the team. Not the same as taking Abbott out, but maybe more effective.

Wilson Pickett started singing about Mustang Sally when Bullseye killed the engine of his car and stepped out into the night. He carried to guns, just the hunting knife holstered on his hip. That's all he would need. He took a deep breath and crossed the street towards Malone's brownstone.

---

Harlem
4:43 AM

Vince Abbott looked at the crime scene and tried his best not to throw up. The body of Malone -- The goddamn Big Man himself -- sat slumped against the wall with a pool of blood around him. His white undershirt and underwear was stained in blood and shredded from cuts. A giant gash in his chest still dripped blood. Abbott had begged for them to throw a tarp over his body, cover it in some way, but they refused. They needed to take pictures and collect evidence.

Abbott's eyes shifted upward. On the wall above Malone's head were words written in blood, Malone's blood.

"1 Down 4 to Go"

Abbott turned away from the scene and hurried out. The rest of the guys were out there, waiting for him to give the bad news. He pulled out a cigarette with shaking hands and tried four times to light it before it finally caught.

"Nobody goes home and nobody sleeps until this is over," Abbott announced. "Now mount up. We're about to fucking remind Uptown New York who the fuck we are."

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

December, 1956
Washington D.C.

Alexander Roy turned the collar of his coat up to keep rain away. He stood out of the Occidental Grill and tried to flag a cab down. He regretted not taking an umbrella with him to the dinner interview. It had been an interesting experience with the senator-elect. Eric Fernandez had a lot of ideas, most of them progressive but plenty of them ambitious. It was clear he saw a bright political future for himself. And he was asking for Alex's help to make it come true.

A taxi sped by, ignoring Alex's frantic gesture. He cursed and turned to head back into the restaurant when a black limousine pulled the curb. Alex looked at it while a dark tinted window slowly rolled down. Jim Sledge's doughy face stared back at him with a grin.

"Mr. Roy, need a lift?"

Alex climbed into the car, thanking Sledge as he did. He gave a slight start as he saw someone sitting in the rear facing seat of the limousine. He'd seen him before, of course, stalking through the capitol on the way to the Senate even before the election. But Alex had never been this close to Russell Reed.

"Hello, Alex," the vice president-elect said with a warm handshake.

"Mr. Vice President," Alex managed to say. "Congratulations on the election."

"We did what we could," said Reed. "We were helped by a less than stellar opposition, though. Congratulations to you and Congressman Hayes as well, Alex. Tennessee is well-served by Hayes."

"Like Wisconsin will be well-served by Eric Fernandez," Sledge said slyly.

Alex coughed and adjusted his tie while both Sledge and Reed shared a smile and a look.

"Don't worry, Alex," Reed said with a pat on his knee. "Washington is full of gossip, but Jim and I know how to keep a secret. Will is going to be crushed by you leaving him, but I get it."

"Hayes is content to keep being reelected by the people in his district," said Sledge. "You're not going to get anywhere being his chief of staff. Eric Fernandez, on the other hand? Ambitious. Just as you."

"Stoke that ambition," said Reed. "Make him look beyond the Senate to something higher, something that could easily be in his grasp."

Alex furrowed his brow and looked between the two men. "Why?"

"Trust me," said Reed. "Just work with Fernandez over the next few years, get him thinking even bigger than he already is, and work like hell for him. You won't be talking to me much, Jim here will be point of contact. But, be loyal to him except when we need you be loyal to us. You do that and I'll take you further than Fernandez ever could. All the way to the White House. "

Reed held a hand out for Alex. He looked down at it and thought for a moment. He knew about Reed's reputation on the Hill. Once he got his hooks in someone, then he seemed to have control of their very soul. It was the same way with poor Senator Sanderson and Jim Sledge. They served him without any question like slaves. But then there was the trade-off. Sanderson was a senator now, and Sledge was one of the most powerful in the party simply because Reed said so.

Alex shook Reed's hand and nodded.

"Whatever you need, sir."

"Good." The warmth that had been on the vice president-elect's face vanished. "Jim will be in touch. Now, get out the car and get to work."

---

Present Day
Los Angeles

Baxter Hotel
3:31 AM

Alex watched Eric Fernandez snoring on his bed. They'd had a few drinks to celebrate the deadlock at the convention, but too many. Eric wanted to be awake and sober when the inevitable wheeling and dealing started. He expected the calls to be coming and going from his hotel room to the other bosses, horse-trading and arguing his case as to why he was a better choice for the nomination. So he had asked for water to be generously applied to the drinks Alex was fixing.

After the fourth drink he was drunk. After the sixth he was out. Eric was a lightweight when it came to drinking. That's why Alex lied about watering it down. He knew that for the next part to work for Reed, Eric needed to be out of the picture. Alex sat down on his bed and watched his friend and employer snore heavily. He had a drink in his hand, his seventh so far. He was drunk, but nowhere near close to passing out. He wondered if that was a good or bad thing? Was he drinking in celebration for having pulled off all that the vice president had asked of him, or was he drowning his sorrows over betraying a friend.

"Don't worry," Alex mumbled into his drink. "There's always '68."

---

7:30 AM

"I just don't want to nominate a guy who is gonna lose," Lennie Parrish growled. "I don't give a fuck if he's president or not. Give me someone who can win."

"And the junior senator from Wisconsin is a winner?" Walter Babbit asked before scoffing. "He was the goddamn mayor of Green Bay before he was a senator, and that was four years ago."

"And I don't know if I like that name of his," Wilbur Helms said from his wheelchair. "It don't sound American to have a President Fernandez."

From his seat at the big table, Big Jim Dwyer took it all in while his feet failed to touch the floor. The bosses were just as deadlocked as the delegates. The Norman camp was fiercely entrenched, as were those that supported Fernandez. The president had the power of the incumbent, but he was too unlikable and his administration unpopular. Fernandez was an outsider, yes, but a political naif and idealists. Besides, his policies were too liberal for some. Big Jim glanced over to the corner where Vice President Reed and Jim Sledge sat. So far, neither men had much to contribute. Russell had delivered a few opinions on Norman's ability to win, but they seemed little more than platitudes.

Big Jim finally spoke. "Okay, so let's recap. What we need is an experienced politician, one who is still a conservative. One who has name recognition and incumbency value, but not the president himself?"

Big Jim saw Sledge and Charlie Ricketts exchange looks. There seem to be a nod that was almost undetectable from Sledge. With a gleam in his eye, Ricketts spoke the words he'd been waiting almost four hours to say.

"What about Reed?"

Half the men in the room looked stunned. The other half were pretending to be stunned. For his part, Reed stared straight ahead impassively. One man who was so shocked he seemed to be on the verge of tears was Wilbur Helms.

"By god, I never thought of Russ. It's perfect!"

"He's a southerner," said AJ Patterson. "There's stigma there."

"He is a southerner," Jim Sledge said. "One who spent the war in a federal prison with the rest of the House of Representatives. He suffered more than most during those years."

"He's also in the room," Russell said loudly. "And capable of talking to you.

"You're tied to the administration, yes," Ricketts said with a look towards Reed. "But almost all the unpopular stuff you were nowhere near. We can distance you more and more from it as we start to campaign."

"Russell Reed as our candidate," Walter Babbit said with a shake of his head.

"It's not that crazy," Parrish said. He looked over at Reed. "You ran strong in the '56 convention."

"The convention isn't the same as the general," replied Patterson. "We haven't had a southern president, a true southerner since I don't count Wilson, since before the first civil war."

"Can I say a few words?"

All eyes turned to Reed. He now stood and walked towards the big table slowly and hunched over, like a jungle cat would approach its prey.

"I almost won the nomination in '56. When I didn't it hurt like hell. It hurt even worse to take the VP spot on the ticket. It embarrassed me to take such a meaningless office as a consolation prize, but I smiled and took it. For the good of the party. And then I got to work, both to elect the president in '56 and myself in '60. Four years of plotting, of working with political machines and carefully curating my image as vice president. Showing the world that I had power and experience, but not enough to tie me to the president's more horrible decisions. I took advantage of the president's unpopularity, the overlapping interests of the bosses, and the political ambitions of the next generation of politicians. I planted the seeds of doubt in the president's mind about his reelection chances and got him desperate, I advised him the only way to get the party bosses on his side was to antagonize them and challenge them. I convinced dark horse candidates they had a shot, convinced party leaders to back the dark horses, and drove wedges through the party's entire united front. This convention was a mess, a deadlock. It was a complete clusterfuck, by my design. But that perfect storm of self-interest, one that destroyed the president's chances of being reelected, created a hole just big enough for me to squeeze through."

"Jesus Christ, Russ." Parrish said. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"I destroyed our party's convention to get me nominated," Reed said with a gleam in his eye. "Just think what I'll do to the Republicans with the election on the line?"

The bosses all looked around the table at each other. For some, like Parrish and Patterson, they were stunned to hear the admission. But Big Jim knew this was coming. He knew ever since Ricketts approached him with Reed's offer. His support in exchange for a Reed-Kane ticket in the fall.

"Let's go with Russell," Big Jim said. "He's just proven how much of a bastard he is. But, at least he's our bastard."

"Fuck it," said Patterson. "Let's go with him. If he loses the general... well, there's always '64."

---

11:25 AM

"How does Wisconsin vote?"

"The great state of Wisconsin cast all its votes for Vice President Russell Reed!"

From his box, Russell watched the votes pour in. A smile worked itself on to his face. He thought back once again to his childhood in Georgia, being the town laughingstock. He had been embarrassed back then and worked hard to be somebody, worked so hard to go to college and law school that he barely had time to eat or sleep. That need to be somebody drove him to the point of collapse and exhaustion. Four years ago, he had received a national embarrassment. And now, after four years of late nights and cross-country travels and almost no sleep, here he was.

"The great state of Wyoming cast all its votes for Vice President Russell Reed."

The phone began to ring. The one with the direct line to Washington. Russell picked it up and answered it.

"Russell...."

He sounded scary. It wasn't that he was angry. It was that he didn't sound like anything, like he was devoid of emotions all together. Russell was glad he wasn't crying. Although, crying would be better than whatever he was at the moment. But he could still savor his victory.

"Mr. President," said Russell. "I've wanted to say this to you for over four years now...."

He trailed off as Clay Foulke banged his gavel to bring the convention to order. Once there was calm, he spoke.

"It is my pleasure to announce the unanimous choice for the Democratic Party's nominee for president will be Russell Rutherford Reed!"

Russell laughed and held the phone up close to his mouth. "I have an acceptance speech to make. Go fuck yourself."

He slammed the phone down and started his victory march to the stage.