Jimmy Cartwright no longer flinched when Arthur slammed his hand on the table. Three months as Chief Strategist for Shelby Company Limited, and the sudden violence of family meetings had become background noise—just Arthur being Arthur, emphasizing a point with force because subtlety wasn't in his vocabulary.
"Fucking politicians," Arthur said, glaring at the newspaper Tommy had spread across the betting shop table. "We spend months destroying Chandler, and what happens? They just find another corrupt bastard to fill his seat."
"They haven't filled it yet." Tommy lit a cigarette, smoke curling through the morning sunlight filtering past drawn blinds. "Special election's not till October. That gives us four months to make sure the right person wins."
Jimmy adjusted his spectacles and leaned forward to study the Birmingham Post article announcing the election. His fountain pen tapped against his notebook in a rhythm that matched his thinking—three beats, pause, three beats.
The other Shelbys had learned to recognize it as the sound of strategy forming.
"Define 'right person,'" Jimmy said.
"Someone who understands how Birmingham actually works." Tommy's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Someone who knows that legitimate government and criminal operations don't have to be enemies. Someone we can work with when our interests align."
"Someone we control," Arthur said.
"Influence," Tommy corrected. "Control's too obvious. We want someone who comes to us voluntarily, not through threats."
Polly Gray sat in the corner, cigarette holder between her lips, watching Jimmy with the sharp assessment that still made him slightly uncomfortable. She'd accepted him into the family after he'd helped that woman escape her abusive husband, but acceptance didn't mean blind trust.
Polly was always watching, always measuring.
"And you want Jimmy to find this mythical politician?" she asked. "Someone respectable enough to win, weak enough to manipulate, and smart enough to actually be useful?"
"Not mythical." Jimmy made notes in shorthand. "Difficult, but not impossible. Birmingham's full of ambitious men with reform credentials and political naivety. The trick is identifying which one has the right combination of idealism and pragmatism."
John Shelby, youngest of the brothers, snorted from his position leaning against the wall. "That's a fancy way of saying 'find us a puppet who thinks he's a prince.'"
"Something like that."
"And you can do this?" Tommy asked. "Engineer an election, install our candidate, keep Shelby involvement invisible?"
Jimmy met his employer's gaze directly. Six months ago, that kind of eye contact with Tommy Shelby would have required conscious effort. Now it was natural.
"This is exactly what you hired me for. Political maneuvering, strategic positioning, achieving goals through intelligence rather than force. Yes, I can do this."
"How long do you need?"
"Give me two weeks to identify candidates and opposition. Another month to recruit our man and build campaign infrastructure. Then three months of active campaigning leading to October's election."
Jimmy flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. "I'll need access to city council records, political connections through Ada's reform networks, and a budget for campaign operations."
"How much?" Polly asked.
"Depends on the candidate and opposition strength. Minimum five hundred pounds. Could run as high as two thousand if we face serious competition."
Arthur whistled. "That's a lot of money for a fucking election."
"That's the price of legitimate power," Jimmy countered. "We can spend two thousand pounds buying a council seat through strategic campaigning, or we can spend five years and ten times that much trying to force cooperation through intimidation. Which approach sounds more efficient?"
Tommy nodded slowly. "Do it. Find us a candidate we can work with, run their campaign, win the seat. Keep our involvement completely hidden—if anyone connects the dots back to us, the whole thing's compromised."
"Understood."
"And Jimmy?" Tommy's tone shifted, becoming sharper. "This isn't like the Chandler situation. We're not destroying an enemy. We're building an asset. That requires different skills—patience, subtlety, long-term thinking. Can you manage that?"
"I spent three years as an independent fixer building relationships across Birmingham's underworld," Jimmy said. "I understand the difference between demolition and construction."
"Good. Because we need this to work. Chandler's fall left a power vacuum in city government. Other factions are already positioning themselves to fill it. If we don't move now, we'll spend the next decade fighting for scraps while our competitors feast."
The meeting continued another thirty minutes, covering logistics and budget allocation. Jimmy took detailed notes, his mind already racing through possibilities.
Political campaigns were just gang warfare with different weapons—voter registration instead of territory control, newspaper endorsements instead of intimidation, rallies instead of street fights. The principles were identical: identify your strengths, exploit opponent weaknesses, control the narrative, win through superior strategy.
He was very good at this.
When Tommy finally dismissed everyone, Jimmy gathered his papers and headed for the door. Polly caught his arm in the hallway.
"You're confident," she observed.
"I have reason to be."
"Confidence is good. Arrogance gets you killed." Her grip on his arm tightened slightly. "You've done well these past months, Jimmy. Proven yourself clever and loyal. But political operations are different from criminal investigations. More moving parts, more opportunities for complications."
"I understand the risks."
"Do you?" Polly released his arm. "You're playing chess with people's lives now. Your candidate—whoever he is—will have dreams, ambitions, principles. You'll be corrupting those. Bending a good man toward bad purposes. That weighs differently than forging documents or arranging disappearances."
Jimmy met her eyes. "I'm aware of the moral implications."
"Being aware and living with consequences aren't the same thing." Polly's expression softened slightly. "Just don't lose yourself in the cleverness, lad. It's easy to forget that your chess pieces are human when you're focused on winning."
She walked away before Jimmy could respond, leaving him in the hallway with her warning echoing in his mind. He pushed it aside.
Polly worried too much—came with being the family's conscience. Jimmy knew exactly what he was doing.
---
Birmingham City Council chambers occupied the second floor of an imposing Victorian building on Victoria Square, all marble columns and vaulted ceilings designed to make common citizens feel appropriately small. Jimmy climbed the stone steps that afternoon carrying a leather portfolio and wearing his most respectable suit—the one that made him look like a solicitor rather than a gangster's fixer.
The public gallery held perhaps two dozen observers scattered across uncomfortable wooden benches. Jimmy selected a seat in the back row with clear sight lines to the council floor below and pulled out his notebook.
The afternoon session was already in progress, some tedious debate about street maintenance funding. Jimmy ignored the actual discussion and focused on the councilmen themselves, cataloging details that might prove useful later.
Lawrence Blackwood: Sixty years old if he was a day, representing the wealthy Edgbaston ward. Conservative Party, old money, the kind of man who thought Birmingham's working class existed to serve their betters.
He dominated the council through seniority and connections, his voice carrying weight even when his logic didn't. Blackwood would almost certainly run for Chandler's vacant seat—saw it as his natural right, probably.
Catherine Winters: Mid-forties, Independent representative from a mixed working-class district. Jimmy had heard Ada mention her name at family dinners—some kind of housing reform advocate, former social worker.
She spoke with the passionate intensity of a true believer, citing statistics about overcrowding and infant mortality that most councilmen ignored. Dangerous, if she decided to run. Genuine reformers were harder to compete against than cynical politicians.
Edward Morrison: Labour Party, trade union background, represented factory workers in the eastern wards. Not particularly bright but politically savvy in the way of men who'd spent decades navigating union politics.
He'd run for Chandler's seat if Labour chose him as their candidate, but Jimmy suspected the party would look for someone more polished.
Jimmy took detailed notes on each councilman's speaking style, voting patterns, and interpersonal dynamics. Politics was theater—the real decisions got made in committee rooms and private conversations, but the public performance revealed character and vulnerabilities.
The session droned on. Blackwood made a speech about fiscal responsibility that boiled down to cutting services for poor neighborhoods. Winters countered with impassioned arguments about moral obligations that went nowhere.
Morrison negotiated a compromise nobody wanted. Three hours of government in action, achieving nothing while maintaining elaborate pretenses of democratic process.
It was perfect cover for the kind of manipulation Tommy wanted. These people were so busy performing respectability they'd never notice someone actually pulling strings.
Jimmy left the gallery as the session adjourned, making mental notes about which councilmen seemed influential versus which were merely loud. Building a viable candidate meant understanding the power structure, identifying who mattered and who could be safely ignored.
On his way out, he passed a bulletin board announcing the special election schedule:
Candidate registration: July 15th - August 1st
Primary campaign: August - September
Election day: October 15th
Four months from candidate selection to victory. Tight but manageable. Jimmy had orchestrated more complicated operations in less time.
He walked back toward Small Heath through Birmingham's late afternoon smoke, the industrial haze giving everything a hazy, dreamlike quality. Three months ago, these streets had felt hostile—Shelby territory where he was merely tolerated.
Now they felt like home. The factory workers nodded as he passed. The shopkeepers knew his name. Even the street children recognized him as someone under Shelby protection, which meant untouchable.
Integration complete. Jimmy Cartwright belonged to something larger than himself now, and the belonging felt surprisingly good.
---
The Shelby betting shop had emptied by the time Jimmy returned that evening. Most of the soldiers had dispersed to their various territories, leaving only Tommy in his office reviewing ledgers and Polly counting the day's receipts.
Jimmy knocked on Tommy's door frame. "Got a minute?"
"Come in." Tommy didn't look up from his books. "Find our candidate?"
"Found three possibilities and eliminated all of them." Jimmy settled into the chair across from Tommy's desk, opening his notebook to the relevant pages.
"Lawrence Blackwood will almost certainly run—he's old guard Conservative with money and connections. Too strong to beat and too entrenched to control. Catherine Winters is genuine reform candidate with actual principles, which makes her unpredictable. Edward Morrison lacks the intelligence for strategic thinking."
"So we're back to finding someone new."
"Not new. Unknown." Jimmy flipped to a different page. "Someone with reform credentials but no real political experience. Respectable profession, clean background, intelligent enough to be credible but naive enough to guide. I spent the afternoon analyzing Birmingham's civic organizations, and I found him."
"Him?"
"Martin Webb. Forty-two years old, schoolteacher at Small Heath Primary for the past fifteen years. Active in local education advocacy, occasional speaker at Reform Club meetings, genuinely respected in working-class neighborhoods.
He's written several letters to newspapers about school funding and worker protections—intelligent arguments, well-reasoned, the kind of thing that makes him look principled without actually threatening existing power structures."
Tommy finally looked up from his ledgers. "A schoolteacher."
"Perfect cover. Teachers are respected, trusted, seen as genuinely caring about Birmingham's future. Webb has reform credentials that will attract progressive voters, but he's politically inexperienced enough that we can shape his campaign strategy."
Jimmy tapped his notebook for emphasis. "He's exactly what we need—someone good enough to win who'll naturally defer to people with more political expertise. Us."
"You've researched him?"
"Extensively. He's widowed—wife died in the 1920 flu pandemic, no children. Lives modestly despite respectable profession. Attends church regularly but not obsessively. No criminal connections, no scandals, no financial problems. Clean as they come."
"Which means he'll never agree to work with us."
"He doesn't have to know about our involvement," Jimmy said. "We recruit him by appealing to his idealism—Birmingham needs voices like his, working families deserve representation, he could actually help people.
We fund the campaign through shell companies and legitimate donors. We provide strategic advice while letting him believe he's making his own decisions. By the time he's elected and discovers our connection, he'll be too invested to back out."
Tommy considered this, lighting a fresh cigarette. "You're describing manipulation."
"I'm describing politics. There's no difference."
"And you can actually recruit a schoolteacher? Make him believe he's running his own campaign while we pull the strings?"
"Tommy." Jimmy leaned forward. "I convinced Inspector Davies to destroy evidence through blackmail. I orchestrated Robert Chandler's complete destruction through strategic information release. I talked you into letting Billy Kitchen live when everyone wanted him dead. Yes, I can recruit one idealistic schoolteacher."
A slight smile crossed Tommy's face. "Confident."
"Accurate."
"Do it. Recruit Webb, build the campaign, win the election. Budget approved for two thousand pounds. Keep our involvement invisible. And Jimmy?"
The smile vanished. "Don't underestimate him. Intelligent men are unpredictable, even when they're naive. Especially when they're naive."
"Noted."
Jimmy left Tommy's office feeling the familiar rush of a new operation beginning. This was what he'd been built for—complex problems requiring strategic thinking, situations where intelligence mattered more than muscle.
The Chandler investigation had proven his worth. This election would cement his reputation.
He climbed the narrow stairs to his private office above Morrison's butcher shop, the familiar smell of blood seeping through his ceiling. Some things never changed. The blood was always there, reminder that violence lurked beneath every surface, that one wrong move could end in slaughter.
But Jimmy had learned to work around the blood. Above it, sometimes. Using his mind as a shield against the violence that surrounded him.
His office remained exactly as it had been six months ago—cramped and paper-filled, filing cabinets stuffed with intelligence, cork board covered with connections and observations. The only addition was a second desk chair for the occasional visitor and a small locked cabinet containing Shelby operational files that couldn't be stored at the betting shop.
Jimmy spent two hours that evening drafting his recruitment strategy for Martin Webb. The approach had to be perfect—appealing to idealism while laying groundwork for future manipulation.
Show Webb that he could actually help Birmingham's working families while subtly positioning himself as the man who could make that help possible.
It was a con, essentially. An elaborate fraud dressed as civic duty. Jimmy wrote it out in meticulous detail, anticipating objections and planning responses.
He was halfway through the draft when Mrs. Price knocked on his door, carrying a tray with dinner and tea.
"Working late again," she observed, setting the tray on his desk. "You've been doing that more often these past months."
"Big project. Tommy wants me to manage a political campaign."
"Oh?" Mrs. Price studied him with her usual maternal concern. "And how do you feel about that?"
"Confident. It's the kind of strategic work I'm best at."
"That's not what I asked." She settled into the visitor's chair, ignoring Jimmy's slight frown at the interruption. "I asked how you feel about it. Not how competent you are."
Jimmy set down his pen. "It's good work. Meaningful. Using my skills for something that matters."
"Manipulating a political campaign matters?"
"Ensuring the right person wins matters. Birmingham deserves better government than what it had under Chandler."
Even as he said it, Jimmy recognized the rationalization for what it was. But rationalization didn't make it false.
Mrs. Price was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "You've changed these past months, cariad. More confident, certainly. More comfortable in your own skin. But also..."
She trailed off, searching for words.
"But also what?"
"Less kind," she said finally. "Oh, you still do good work—helping that woman escape her husband, arranging new identities for people who need them. But there's a hardness now that wasn't there before. A willingness to hurt people if it serves your purposes."
"I haven't hurt anyone who didn't deserve it."
"Haven't you?" Mrs. Price stood, smoothing her apron. "Eat your dinner before it gets cold. And Jimmy? Think about what kind of man you're becoming. Success isn't worth losing yourself."
She left before he could respond, closing the door quietly behind her.
Jimmy stared at the closed door, Mrs. Price's words echoing uncomfortably in his mind. But he pushed the discomfort aside and returned to his planning.
Mrs. Price was worried about nothing. He knew exactly what he was doing.
The campaign strategy took shape under his fountain pen—recruitment, messaging, funding, organization. Every detail planned, every contingency anticipated.
Martin Webb would become Birmingham's next city councilman, and the Shelbys would have their first legitimate political asset.
It was elegant work. Strategic brilliance translated into democratic process. Jimmy felt the satisfaction of a complex puzzle being solved, pieces falling into place with beautiful precision.
By midnight, he had a complete battle plan. Webb's recruitment would happen next week. Campaign launch by early August. Victory by October.
Simple. Controlled. Perfect.
Jimmy locked his files in the cabinet and descended the stairs into Birmingham's night. The city was quiet at this hour, factory smoke thinning, streets empty except for occasional late workers heading home.
He walked back to Mrs. Price's boarding house through familiar alleys, past the cemetery where Mary rested, past the Garrison where lights still burned in upper windows. His city now. His territory. His home.
Three months as a Peaky Blinder, and Jimmy Cartwright had never felt more capable or more certain of his place in the world.
He had the perfect plan. He had the skills to execute it. He had the support of Birmingham's most powerful family.
What could possibly go wrong?