The New Syllabus Ch 8

The PAC and the Palette

The afternoon sun beat down on the pristine sand of the Beverly Hills Beach Club, casting a golden glare across the boardwalk. But inside the exclusive, glass-walled pavilion, the atmosphere was entirely political. The Scanlon for State Senate campaign had taken over the entire facility for a high-profile fundraising rally. Massive red, white, and blue banners fluttered in the ocean breeze, emblazoned with the slogan A New Direction for California.

Earlier that morning, before the wealthy donors and press corps arrived, Dixon Wilson had been running the audio check from the main DJ booth overlooking the pavilion. As a successful music producer and part-owner of the club’s entertainment booking, Dixon was tightly wound. He adjusted the sliders on the mixing board, his eyes glued to his phone. The live feeds from California University were a nightmare.

"Hey, man, watch the levels on the wireless mic," a voice called out.

Dixon looked up to see David Silver walking up the steps to the booth, looking effortlessly sharp in a tailored summer linen suit. Behind him, Donna Martin-Silver looked stunning in a vibrant sundress from her own fashion line.

"Sorry, David," Dixon sighed, pulling his headphones down around his neck. "I’m just distracted. Have you talked to Annie? She and Jasper are turning the CU plaza into a war zone, and now I'm hearing Hunter Oil is deploying a private security force led by Teddy Montgomery. It’s getting completely out of hand."

David leaned against the railing, his face clouding over. "I know, Dixon. Donna and I are trying to manage the fallout. Silver-Martin Media Group is pouring a lot of capital into this political action committee for Scottie's nephew. If Scott Scanlon Jr. wins this senate seat, he’ll have the legislative leverage to clean up the university board. But we need to keep this rally pristine. No campus drama on the news today."

Donna stepped forward, squeezing Dixon's shoulder. "We’re doing this for family, Dixon. For Scottie’s memory, too. Young Scott Jr. has his late uncle's earnest heart, but he has the political mind to actually fix things. Just keep the music upbeat and the press happy."

By mid-afternoon, the club was packed to capacity. On the outdoor stage, Scott Scanlon Jr. wrapped up a rousing speech to a standing ovation from the Beverly Hills elite. He bore an uncanny resemblance to his late uncle, though his polished demeanor replaced the oversized Stetson hats of the family's past.

Away from the cheering crowd, down near the beachside cabanas where the campaign’s silent art auction was being held, a man stood in the shadows of a massive abstract canvas. He wore a sleek black suit, a cigarette unlit between his fingers. It was Colin Robbins. He had served his time decades ago, but the high-end art world hadn't entirely welcomed back a disgraced, ex-convict artist.

So, Colin had found a much more lucrative niche.

His latest exhibition, featured at the fundraiser, consisted of heavily textured canvases layered with thick, industrial acrylic paints. To David and Donna’s wealthy donors bidding on them, they were masterpieces of modern media. To the Sinaloa cartel operatives pulling his strings, the hollowed-out, lead-lined backings of those very canvases were perfect, imperceptible vessels for smuggling high-grade contraband and liquid capital across international lines.

Colin watched the politicians mingle, his jaw tight. Suddenly, a shadow fell over him. He turned to see Jasper Vance standing there, looking wildly out of place in a leather jacket against the beach club aesthetic.

"The artwork is beautiful, Robbins," Jasper said, his voice dropping to a low, mocking whisper. "It’s amazing what you can hide right in front of people's faces."

Colin’s eyes narrowed, stepping closer to shield the conversation from a passing waiter. "Jasper. You shouldn't be here. Haven't you and Annie caused enough chaos."

"The university is small-time," Jasper sneered, his eyes flashing with a dangerous intensity. "Kelly Taylor tried to ban us, and Hunter Oil tried to buy us out. But my contacts tell me your 'art supplies' just arrived at the Port of Los Angeles. If you want the cartel to keep funding your little gallery setup, you’re going to help me use your supply lines to shut down our opposition by any means necessary."