Campaign posters had already started appearing on Small Heath's brick walls by early July. Lawrence Blackwood's face stared from half a dozen corners—dignified photograph, Conservative Party colors, slogans about "Restoring Traditional Values" that meant nothing to families struggling to feed children.
Jimmy passed three different versions on his walk toward Webb's school, noting the professional quality and expensive printing. Old money buying visibility.
Children played in the street despite the heat, their voices carrying through the industrial haze. A girl of perhaps eight minded three younger siblings while their mother worked at the factory. Two boys kicked a deflated football between lampposts.
This was what Birmingham actually looked like—working families doing their best with resources that never stretched far enough.
This was what politics should serve. Jimmy told himself that as he approached Small Heath Primary School. He was doing good work, finding a candidate who'd actually help these families instead of exploiting them.
The manipulation required to achieve that goal was just... pragmatism. Strategic thinking applied to democratic process.
The school building was Victorian brick like everything else in Birmingham, weathered but maintained. Through the windows, Jimmy could see empty classrooms—school had dismissed two hours ago. He climbed the stone steps and pushed through the main entrance, shoes echoing on worn wooden floors.
A middle-aged woman sorting papers in the main office looked up. "Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Mr. Webb. Martin Webb. I was hoping to speak with him about a civic matter."
"Room twelve, down the hall and to the left. He's usually there after hours, grading papers." She returned to her sorting without further interest.
Jimmy found room twelve easily enough. The door stood half-open, revealing rows of student desks and Martin Webb himself sitting at the teacher's desk, pen in hand, stack of arithmetic tests in front of him. He looked up as Jimmy knocked.
"Mr. Webb?"
"Yes?" Webb set down his pen. He had the patient, slightly tired expression of a man who'd spent fifteen years explaining fractions to children who'd rather be anywhere else.
Mid-forties, thinning brown hair, reading spectacles that looked cheaper than Jimmy's. His suit was respectable but well-worn—a teacher's salary didn't stretch to regular replacements.
"James Cartwright. I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time? It's regarding Birmingham's upcoming special election."
Webb's expression shifted to cautious interest. "Are you a journalist?"
"No. I'm involved in political organizing, and I wanted to discuss whether you'd considered running for the vacant council seat."
"Me?" Webb actually laughed. "I'm a schoolteacher, Mr. Cartwright. I don't have political connections or campaign funds or any of the things candidates need."
"May I?" Jimmy gestured to one of the student desks.
"Please."
Jimmy settled onto a desk chair designed for someone half his height, adjusting his position to something approximating comfortable. The classroom smelled of chalk dust and children and old wood—familiar scents from his own education decades ago.
Webb had returned to grading papers but kept half his attention on Jimmy, pen moving with practiced efficiency as he marked correct answers and circled errors.
"I've been researching potential candidates," Jimmy said. "Reading letters to newspapers, attending Reform Club meetings, asking around about who actually understands Birmingham's working families. Your name came up repeatedly."
"Flattering, but hardly qualifications for office."
"They're better qualifications than most councilmen have. Lawrence Blackwood inherited wealth and thinks poverty is a moral failing. Catherine Winters means well but she's never actually lived the life she's trying to improve.
You've spent fifteen years teaching children from Small Heath and Digbeth and all the neighborhoods where families actually struggle. You understand them because you see them every day."
Webb finished grading a paper and set it aside. "And you think that translates to political viability?"
"I think Birmingham's working families are tired of being represented by people who've never stood in a factory queue or worried about rent. They want someone who speaks their language, who's actually lived in their neighborhoods, who sees their children as human beings rather than labor statistics."
Jimmy leaned forward slightly. "You've written three letters to the Birmingham Post in the past year about education funding. Each one was well-reasoned, clearly argued, and completely ignored by councilmen who see school budgets as opportunities for cuts."
"You've done your research."
"It's my job. I help organize campaigns for candidates I believe in." The lie came easily—Jimmy had practiced it until the words felt natural. "I read your last letter about class sizes and teacher ratios, and I thought: this man actually cares about Birmingham's future. This man could win."
Webb removed his reading spectacles and cleaned them on his handkerchief—buying time to think. "Assuming I was interested, which I'm not saying I am, what would a campaign even look like? I don't have money for advertisements or rallies or any of the things candidates do."
"You don't need money. You need message, organization, and strategic positioning. I can provide those."
Jimmy pulled out his notebook, flipping to pages of preliminary strategy he'd drafted. "Your campaign runs on authenticity. You're not a professional politician—you're a teacher who sees children arriving hungry at school and wants to fix the systems that create that hunger. You're not promising miracles—you're promising competence, diligence, and actual representation."
"That's... surprisingly compelling."
"It's true. Which makes it more compelling than anything Blackwood or the other candidates can offer." Jimmy closed his notebook. "You'd focus on education funding, worker protections, housing standards—issues that actually matter to Small Heath families.
I'd handle the logistics: voter outreach, messaging, newspaper advertisements, organizing volunteers. You'd be the authentic voice. I'd be the strategist making sure that voice reaches people who need to hear it."
Webb returned to his grading, but Jimmy could see the idea taking root. The teacher's pen moved more slowly now, his attention split between arithmetic tests and possibilities he hadn't considered before this conversation.
"Why me?" Webb asked finally. "If you're a professional campaign organizer, you could work with anyone. Why approach a schoolteacher with no political experience?"
"Because professional politicians think about power. You think about children." Jimmy let the words settle. "Birmingham needs representatives who remember that government exists to serve people, not the other way around. You'd be that kind of representative."
"And you'd expect what in return? Campaign managers don't work for free."
"I expect you to win and actually try to help Birmingham. If you do that, I've succeeded."
Another lie, but Webb had no way to know that. Jimmy maintained his earnest expression—just another idealistic organizer looking for a candidate worth supporting.
Webb set down his pen completely, giving Jimmy his full attention. "I'd need time to think about this. To consider whether I'm actually qualified, whether it's fair to my students to divide my attention, whether I could handle the scrutiny that comes with public office."
"Of course. Take a few days. Consider the possibility. Talk to people whose judgment you trust."
Jimmy stood, pulling out a business card he'd had printed specifically for this recruitment—James Cartwright, Political Consultant, with a telephone number that connected to a Shelby-controlled line. "If you decide you're interested, contact me. If not, I'll find another candidate. But I hope you'll seriously consider it, Mr. Webb. Birmingham needs voices like yours."
He left before Webb could ask more questions, retracing his steps through empty hallways. Behind him, the teacher remained at his desk, staring at the business card, arithmetic tests forgotten.
Jimmy had seen that expression before—the moment when someone realizes they might want something they'd never considered possible. Webb would think about the conversation, turn it over in his mind, discuss it with friends.
Within a week, he'd convince himself that running was his own idea, his own decision, his own moral obligation.
The hook was set. Now Jimmy just had to reel him in carefully.
---
The Shelby betting shop operated at controlled chaos most afternoons—soldiers collecting protection payments, bookmakers calculating odds, Tommy conducting business from his office while Arthur handled enforcement logistics. Jimmy had learned to work through the noise, his corner desk positioned where he could observe operations while maintaining focus on his own projects.
He was drafting preliminary campaign budgets when Ada arrived, pulling off her coat and hat despite the summer heat. She spotted Jimmy and crossed to his desk immediately.
"I heard you met with Martin Webb."
Jimmy looked up from his calculations. "News travels fast."
"Eleanor Davies mentioned it. Her father knows someone who works at Webb's school." Ada settled into the chair beside his desk, enthusiasm bright in her expression. "Martin Webb, really? He'd be a brilliant candidate."
"You know him?"
"I've heard him speak at Reform Club meetings. Twice, I think. He's thoughtful, principled, actually cares about education and worker protections. If you can convince him to run, you'd be doing Birmingham a real service."
Tommy emerged from his office, probably drawn by Ada's raised voice. "What's this about Webb?"
"Jimmy recruited him," Ada said. "Or tried to. Martin Webb for Chandler's seat."
"He's considering it," Jimmy corrected. "We spoke this afternoon. He needs time to think."
Tommy leaned against the doorframe, cigarette between his fingers. "Ada knows him?"
"We've met briefly. He speaks at progressive gatherings sometimes—education funding, child welfare, those kinds of issues. He's genuine, Tommy. Actually believes what he says. That'll make him credible with voters."
"Makes him unpredictable," Tommy said. "Genuine believers are hard to manage."
"Genuine believers are what we need," Ada countered. "Lawrence Blackwood is running on his family connections. Catherine Winters has the right ideas but she's too radical for most voters. Webb could actually win because he's authentic without being threatening."
Polly emerged from the back room where she'd been counting receipts. "The girl's excited. That's either very good or very bad."
"Very good," Ada insisted. "Webb could actually help working families instead of just promising to help while doing nothing. That's rare in Birmingham politics."
"And you'd be willing to help the campaign?" Jimmy asked. "Your reform networks could provide volunteer organizers and voter outreach."
"Of course I'll help. This is exactly the kind of candidate I've been hoping Birmingham would elect."
Ada's enthusiasm was completely genuine—she had no idea she was volunteering for a Shelby operation disguised as progressive reform. "When he accepts—and he will, Jimmy, men like that can't resist trying to help—I'll introduce you to people at the Reform Club who can contribute expertise and labor."
Tommy exchanged a look with Polly that Jimmy couldn't quite interpret. Some silent communication about Ada's involvement, risks and opportunities balanced in a glance.
"Keep Shelby connections invisible," Tommy said finally. "Webb can't know who's actually funding his campaign. Ada's involvement is good cover—she provides legitimate progressive credentials while we provide resources through shell companies."
"Understood."
"And Jimmy?" Tommy's voice hardened slightly. "If Webb's as principled as Ada thinks, he'll ask difficult questions eventually. Make sure you have answers that don't expose us."
"I always have answers."
Ada left shortly after, still enthusiastic about Webb's potential candidacy. The moment she was gone, Polly moved to Jimmy's desk.
"My niece is very excited about your candidate."
"That's good. We need her connections."
"Is it good?" Polly's expression suggested she saw complications Jimmy was missing. "Ada believes in genuine reform. If she discovers we're manipulating Webb, using him as a puppet for Shelby interests, she'll be furious. Possibly furious enough to cause problems."
"She won't discover it. Webb won't discover it. That's the point of keeping Shelby involvement hidden."
"Nothing stays hidden forever in Birmingham." Polly lit a cigarette, studying Jimmy through the smoke. "You're playing a dangerous game, lad. Managing a candidate while managing your allies while managing the opposition. Lots of moving parts, lots of opportunities for complications."
"I've handled complicated operations before."
"You've handled investigations with clear enemies and clear objectives. This is different. You're building something rather than destroying something, and building requires different skills."
She tapped ash into a tray. "Just remember that Ada's not a tool to be used. She's family. If your cleverness puts her at risk, Tommy won't be pleased."
Polly walked away before Jimmy could respond, leaving him with the uncomfortable sense that everyone saw dangers he was somehow missing. But he pushed the discomfort aside.
They worried too much—came with being older, more cautious. Jimmy knew exactly what he was doing.
---
The Reform Club occupied a Georgian building on Colmore Row, all understated elegance and middle-class respectability. Jimmy arrived that evening wearing his best suit, carrying his leather portfolio, looking like the kind of professional consultant who might attend political meetings.
The main hall held perhaps forty people scattered across chairs arranged in rough semicircles. Middle-aged professionals, younger activists, a handful of women who'd probably been suffragettes before the war.
This was Birmingham's progressive class—educated enough to recognize problems, comfortable enough to believe solutions came through policy rather than revolution.
Catherine Winters stood at the front of the room, mid-speech about housing conditions in Small Heath and Digbeth. She was in her mid-forties, tall and solid, with the comfortable authority of someone who'd spent years in social work. Her clothing was practical rather than fashionable, her voice carrying to the back row without shouting.
"Infant mortality in Birmingham's poorest wards is three times the national average," Winters said, citing statistics from memory. "Three times. That's not inevitable. That's policy failure.
When families live in overcrowded housing without proper sanitation, when children sleep four to a bed in rooms that never get warm, when mothers can't afford medical care—these aren't acts of God. These are choices our government makes when it prioritizes business interests over human lives."
The audience murmured agreement. Jimmy made notes, analyzing Winters' rhetoric and delivery. She was effective—passionate without being shrill, specific without being academic, angry in ways that felt justified rather than unhinged.
Dangerous.
He spotted Ada in the third row, leaning forward in her chair, completely engaged. She was nodding along with Winters' points, occasionally whispering comments to the woman beside her.
This was Ada's world—intellectual activism, progressive politics, belief that good arguments and moral clarity could actually change things.
Jimmy felt a brief pang of something—guilt, maybe, or recognition that he was about to corrupt this space with managed opposition. But he dismissed the feeling.
Politics was never pure. Better to have Shelby-influenced reform than Blackwood's conservative exploitation or genuine reformers who'd get crushed by established power.
Near the front, he noticed a woman in her early thirties taking meticulous notes—short dark hair, focused expression, quality clothing that suggested education and money. Dr. Helen Foster, if Jimmy's pre-meeting research was accurate.
Former suffragette, current political organizer, exactly the kind of professional campaign manager Webb would need for credibility.
After Winters finished speaking—scattered applause, enthusiastic responses from the audience—people broke into smaller discussion groups. Jimmy approached Dr. Foster as she gathered her notes.
"Dr. Foster? James Cartwright. I wonder if I might have a word?"
She looked up, assessing him quickly. "I don't believe we've met."
"We haven't. I'm a political consultant, and I'm organizing a campaign for the upcoming special election. I'm looking for an experienced campaign manager, and your name came up as someone who actually knows how progressive campaigns work."
"Flattering. Who's the candidate?"
"Martin Webb. Schoolteacher, education advocate, genuine reformer. I'm handling strategy and funding, but I need someone with your organizational expertise to manage daily operations."
Foster's expression shifted to interested. "Martin Webb. I've heard him speak. He's intelligent, principled. Naive about politics, though."
"That's why he needs an experienced manager. Someone who understands progressive voters and can build volunteer networks."
Jimmy pulled out his notebook. "I can offer competitive pay and full operational authority. I handle messaging and strategy, you handle everything else—scheduling, volunteers, voter outreach, all the logistics that actually win elections."
"And who's funding this campaign?"
"Concerned citizens who believe Birmingham needs better representation than Lawrence Blackwood. Donations through a political action committee, all completely legal."
The lie was smooth, practiced. Jimmy had created the shell PAC specifically to obscure Shelby money.
Foster considered this. "I'd need to meet Webb first. Verify that he's actually worth supporting."
"Of course. I'm hoping he'll confirm his candidacy within the week. Once he does, I'll arrange an introduction."
Jimmy handed her his consultant card. "Think about it, Dr. Foster. This could be exactly the kind of campaign you've been wanting to manage—genuine progressive running on actual principles rather than empty promises."
"I'll consider it," she said, tucking the card away. "If Webb's as good as you suggest, I might be interested."
Jimmy circulated through the rest of the meeting, making mental notes about attendees and connections. He spotted Ada speaking animatedly with two women about housing reform, her enthusiasm genuine and infectious.
She belonged here in ways Jimmy never would—these were her people, her causes, her world.
He was the intruder, the manipulator preparing to turn their idealism into a weapon for Shelby interests.
The thought should have bothered him more than it did.
---
Jimmy was back in his office above Morrison's butcher shop, reviewing the day's notes, when his telephone rang near ten o'clock. He picked up after the second ring.
"Cartwright."
"Mr. Cartwright? This is Martin Webb. I hope I'm not calling too late."
"Not at all." Jimmy pulled his notebook closer, pen already in hand. "Have you had time to consider our conversation?"
"I have. I've thought about little else, honestly." Webb's voice carried determination mixed with nervousness. "I've spent fifteen years teaching children. Maybe it's time I tried to help more children by changing the policies that affect their lives. If you're still interested in managing a campaign, I'm willing to run."
"Excellent." Jimmy allowed satisfaction to color his voice—genuine emotion made the manipulation more believable. "You won't regret this decision, Mr. Webb. Birmingham needs representatives like you."
"I hope so. I'm terrified I'll fail at this, that I'll disappoint the families who need help."
"That fear means you're taking it seriously. Professional politicians never doubt themselves because they don't actually care about outcomes. You care. That's what will make you effective."
They spent twenty minutes discussing immediate next steps—announcing candidacy, building initial campaign team, crafting message. Webb asked thoughtful questions, already showing the intelligence Jimmy had identified during research.
This wouldn't be simple puppet manipulation. Webb would need careful handling, subtle guidance disguised as collaboration.
"I need to be honest about limitations," Webb said toward the conversation's end. "We should promise only what's actually achievable. I won't lie to voters about what I can accomplish."
"Of course not. Honesty is crucial." Jimmy kept his voice reassuring. "But honesty in politics means being honest about your goals while using strategic means to achieve them. You want to help Birmingham's families—that's honest. How you build the coalition to make that help possible requires some... flexibility."
"Flexibility," Webb repeated, testing the word.
"Pragmatism. Working within the system to change the system. That's how reform actually happens—through patient, strategic effort rather than idealistic proclamations."
Webb was quiet for a moment. "That sounds reasonable. I suppose I have a lot to learn about practical politics."
"That's what I'm here for. You focus on the message and connecting with voters. I'll handle the strategic complications."
Jimmy made notes while talking. "Can you meet tomorrow afternoon? We should begin planning immediately if we want to launch the campaign properly."
"Tomorrow works. My classroom, after school?"
"Perfect. I'll bring preliminary strategy documents."
After Webb hung up, Jimmy sat back in his chair, satisfaction settling over him like Birmingham's evening smoke. The candidate was recruited. Ada's networks were engaged. Dr. Foster was interested. Opposition profiled and analyzed.
Everything proceeding according to plan.
He pulled out fresh paper and began drafting the campaign's foundational documents—core message, target voters, strategic positioning. Webb's authentic concern for Birmingham's families would be the campaign's heart. Jimmy's manipulation would be its brain.
Together, they'd achieve victory.
And Webb would never know he'd been a puppet from the first conversation.
Jimmy worked past midnight, filling pages with strategy and contingencies. The blood had long since stopped seeping through his ceiling, Morrison's shop closed for the night. The building was silent except for Jimmy's pen scratching across paper and the occasional creak of old wood settling.
This was good work. Meaningful work. Using his intelligence to achieve outcomes that would actually help people, even if the methods required deception.
Webb would help Birmingham's working families—Jimmy would make sure of it, even while using Webb to serve Shelby interests.
The manipulation was just... a necessary means to a beneficial end. Nothing wrong with that. Politics was never pure. At least Jimmy's version produced actual results rather than empty promises.
He told himself that until he believed it.