"I want to stop the whistle-stop campaign!"
Dewey declared during a Republican conference call.
"No—you must continue, Dewey. As long as you appear in public, your numbers won't fall too quickly. There's barely more than a month left until the election. Hold on, and we can win."
One party boss urged.
"Can't we think of something new—like Truman's train campaign? Didn't our short films work well before?"
Dewey said bitterly. Each time he stopped somewhere, his support dropped a little more.
"The short films can still be made, Dewey. But forget other tricks. You've already won—stability is what matters now. If we gamble on innovation and fail, that would be catastrophic."
Another Republican elder cautioned.
"Then at least let me say what the people really want to hear! Every day it's the same hollow words—the people are tired of it."
Dewey made a last effort.
"Dewey, understand this: the hopes of everyone rest on you. For your campaign we've borne years of criticism and attacks. Whether the people in those few states like you or not doesn't matter. According to the latest polls, even if we lose them, you'll still win the election. Just keep giving your train speeches.
"By the way—where has Truman gone now?"
Dewey's face darkened. He turned to his running mate, California governor Earl Warren.
"Los Angeles."
"Ha! Los Angeles is Republican territory. If Truman picked Los Angeles as his final battleground, he's courting humiliation!"
One party boss sneered.
Los Angeles – Gilmore Stadium
Thanks to The Daily News's heavy buildup, the stadium was already packed to bursting.
Everyone's eyes fixed on the entrance. Soon, President Truman—fresh from giving three speeches in Las Vegas—would emerge with his wife and daughter.
The crowd exploded into thunderous cheers when they appeared.
Truman began, once again, with the same three opening "moves" he had used in Price—simple jokes and introductions that closed the distance. They still worked perfectly. Every gaze upon him was filled with goodwill.
Then came the policies. Truman hesitated. Today's script, rewritten by Leo, was different. The neutral words were stripped away, the attacks pointed directly at the Republicans.
Leo had done this because in Las Vegas, the crowd had roared as Truman left:
"Hit them hard, Harry! Take down the big corporations!"
So Leo sharpened the speech. But should Truman read it? Reading it would mean offending every Republican.
Just as he faltered, a voice from the crowd rang out:
"Harry, hit them hard!"
The same words, the same tone. Truman lifted his head and locked eyes with a young man shouting passionately. In that look, Truman felt himself transformed into a fighter for the people. His chest surged with words he could no longer hold back.
He set the script aside, slapped the microphone, and launched into his speech.
His voice rang with emotion, his words crisp, carried by Leo's arsenal of stirring phrases. Every short passage was met with roaring cheers.
By the end, Truman himself was swept away by his passion. He unbuttoned his suit coat, raised his right fist, and thundered:
"I can sum up the Republican vision in one phrase: Big Business First!
The Republicans are the wealthy elite, bought and paid for by Wall Street. They don't care about farmers, they don't care about workers. But who built America's greatness?
Farmers and workers—not the glittering few on Wall Street!
Those are the people Dewey serves. But I—I serve you!
Put Republicans in the White House, and we'll repeat the endless cycle of boom and bust from the 1920s.
People of America, stand with me! Together, let us fight that useless Congress—a Congress that has contributed nothing to our nation!"
The crowd had never heard such a sharp, defiant speech. They erupted—cheering, leaping, men tossing hats, women throwing scarves into the air.
The next day, the stadium was full again. And the day after, and the day after that. People even drove in from small California towns Truman had never visited, just to hear him.
For eight straight days the rallies jammed Los Angeles traffic.
Through The World Times and The Daily News, Truman's fiery words reached households across America. Children in the streets shouted: "Hit them hard, Harry!"
Thanks to Leo's careful strategy, Truman finally shed the label of the "uneducated, incompetent president."
Now, in the hearts of Americans, he was a warrior against big business, a lone but valiant champion.
When Truman and Leo returned to Los Angeles, Gallup released its latest poll.
By early October, Truman trailed Dewey by just 3 points. But the campaign office sighed with regret.
"Leo, if only we'd used this earlier—or if we had just one more month, I'm confident I'd surpass Dewey."
Truman said.
"No, Harry," Leo replied calmly. "This couldn't be used earlier. The timing was calculated. Short enough that Republicans won't have time to find its weaknesses. Too early, and they'd lash out desperately. Remember, many states are still under Republican control—they could've struck back more easily. Now is just right.
"Don't think you're doomed. Three percent may still bring surprises. And don't forget—I kept an ace up my sleeve."
Truman's head shot up. "You did?"
Leo nodded.
"Of course. Not much, but enough. Ultimately, the choice will be made by the American people. And from what I see—they prefer you."
He handed Truman a newspaper. It showed Dewey's rally in Los Angeles.
James of The World Times had written:
"This New York governor, even with Earl Warren as his running mate, clearly failed to interest Californians. He chose a smaller hall—and still couldn't fill it. His hollow speech put the audience to sleep. Dewey complained the people lacked passion. He's right. Los Angeles has no passion for a representative of Big Business."
October 18 – New York City
With two weeks left, Dewey's train stopped in New York. In his Albany office, he told his campaign chairman:
"We lack passion. Everyone stares coldly, lifelessly. We can't go on like this."
"But the party leadership—"
The chairman hesitated.
"This is my campaign!" Dewey snapped, his eyes hard. "Where's Truman going next?"
"By invitation of Chicago's mayor—Chicago."
"Find out if his speech there differs from California. If not, unleash every media contact we control. Criticize his sharp words. The corporations he attacks will join us under pressure. The wave of opinion will drag his numbers down.
"And in Chicago, arrange… something. If Truman were to 'accidentally' fall and break a leg mid-speech, that would solve our problem neatly."
Dewey sneered.
Truman and Leo knew nothing of this. They were at Washington station, Truman bidding Leo farewell.
The recent success had made Truman recognize Leo's importance. Reluctantly, he asked:
"Can't you come with me? Don't we need to go over the speech again?"
Leo pulled his hand free. "No changes. Use the California speech. Chicago has even more workers and farmers—your passion is your greatest weapon. I'm going ahead to clear the field for you. Chicago has workers, yes—but also tycoons, and its Mafia isn't with us."
"What will you do?" Truman asked.
"Simple," Leo said flatly. "Anyone not with us—will die. Chicago will be ours."
As the train started, Walt approached Leo.
"Boss, before departure, Mike called. He's gathered the Mafia's elite in several farms outside Chicago. Just as you instructed—moving small groups that converged quietly. But he asks—should we warn Hoover? After all, the numbers are big."
"How many?" Leo asked.
"Over 5,000."
"We'll call Hoover once we reach Chicago." Leo replied.
Chicago – an Italian Restaurant
Though it was the dinner rush, only six men were inside—two seated, four standing. Outside, countless cars jammed the street. Two hostile groups glared at one another.
Inside, Mike delivered his ultimatum to Chicago Mafia boss Sam Giancana:
"Sam, hand over Chicago. In return, I'll give you two legal casinos in Las Vegas and a seat at the next Mafia national conference."
Sam's face burned red with fury.
"Are you mad, Mike? Without territory, I'm no boss. And you'd dare break Hoover's truce? The FBI will be on you forever."
Mike shrugged.
"So you refuse?"
"Of course I refuse. And listen—this Valentino you follow may be brilliant, but he's made many enemies. Follow him into darkness, and you'll come to ruin."
"Refuse if you want. Prepare yourself." Mike rose and left.
At the farm outside Chicago, he reported to Leo, who had just arrived.
"Shall we begin?"
"Yes. I'll call Hoover."
"Hoover here."
"It's me. Leo."
"I should hang up. If you're calling from Chicago at this moment, it can't be good."
"You could. But then you'd miss first-hand news of something big."
Hoover, who had been reclining, sat upright instantly.
"Tell me it's not what I think. You promised me—"
"Truman's giving his final speech here. I can't gamble. You know me, Hoover. I can lose—but not this time."
"Damn it. Too late to send men." Hoover cursed.
"You can at least call off your local forces. Tell them not to respond. That way, they live."
"You've broken the rules, Leo! You broke our pact."
"Have I?" Leo's voice was cool. "You've always played the neutral enforcer—punisher of those who broke the rules. Tell me, Hoover, during the assassination attempts on me—did you ever warn me? No. After I survived, did you punish the perpetrators? No. You protect the existing wealthy, not all wealth. You broke the pact first, my friend.
"Now get up—you have work to do in Chicago."
Leo hung up.
Hoover sat stunned, then sighed. He thought he had hidden his bias. Clearly, Leo had seen through him.
This time, Leo was declaring his own violation a balance against Hoover's past inaction.
Hoover dressed slowly. When he buttoned his jacket, his kindly face was gone, replaced by grim severity.
His secretary entered.
"Sam Giancana called—panicked. Mike declared war. Meanwhile, Hyman Roth of Miami, representing the Jewish mob, is demanding answers. He's questioning whether we can still control the underworld."
Hoover fastened his tie. He dialed Roth directly.
"Roth, you'd better keep playing your president-in-the-shadows game in Cuba. The American underworld isn't yours to rule. Maybe the Miami sun's baked your brain. Do I need to drag you to D.C. to cool you off?"
Roth, cowed, faltered. "Mr. Hoover, I was wrong. But Wall Street—"
"Tell those greedy bastards—they broke the rules first. And my files hold more than political crimes!" Hoover snapped.
"Yes… I understand."
Chicago – a Cigarette Factory Basement
Sam Giancana pounded the table in fury. Hoover ignored his calls. Roth too. Even the Irish mediators refused to answer.
Fear gripped him. He remembered the insults he had hurled at Leo earlier. Yes, Valentino had many enemies—but crushing him would be just as easy.
He frantically searched his desk, found Leo's card, and was about to dial—
When his consigliere, Caravaggio, burst in, pale-faced.
"Boss, it's bad. The Corleones have launched a full-scale assault!"
Sam gasped.
"Which neighborhood?"
Caravaggio's voice shook.
"All of them!"
A week later, Truman arrived in Chicago. In the face of countless newspaper headlines painting Chicago as unsafe, Truman chose to take direct action: he rode in a parade float through the city.
The World Journal's James sharply commented:
"The President used his own actions to prove that Chicago is, in fact, one of the safest cities in America."
Safe indeed—because every building that could pose a threat to Truman, and every stretch of the parade route, was filled with mafia members.
They moved in pairs, watching each other, guarding the President's safety.
At last, the float stopped at Chicago's city square, where tens of thousands of citizens had gathered, waiting for Truman's speech.
But the crowd had to wait longer than usual, because right before going on stage, Truman found Leo and asked for last-minute edits.
Having tasted the benefits of sharper rhetoric in California, Truman demanded that Leo make the speech even more extreme.
And so, Chicago's citizens were in for a thrill.
After introducing his family and using a few relatable anecdotes to warm up the crowd, Truman opened with:
"Who is threatening the lives of us Americans? Who is pulling the strings behind our poverty?"
He then, in words thick with fire, tied Dewey tightly to Wall Street.
Next, Truman glanced at a passage Leo had underlined as optional—a particularly sharp attack. He drew a deep breath, and decided to go all in:
"During World War II, did Wall Street stand with us?
No! Let me tell you: when our allies were being devoured by the Nazis, our bankers were busy doing business with that devil!
That's what they are. That's what Dewey is. When profit comes knocking, it doesn't matter whether it's an angel or a demon!"
At that moment, Truman tore off the mask completely—equating Dewey, the Republican Party, and fascism.
The crowd's cheers thundered through the square. Tens of thousands roared in near-unison:
"Crush them, Harry!"
After Truman left Chicago, Leo arrived a day later. He sat in a darkened room and listened to the entire mafia council.
Unlike the feudal-style summit during Vito Corleone's era, this national mafia conference, organized by Mike, resembled an emperor handing out fiefdoms.
All that could be heard was gratitude; no one dared oppose.
And why would they? Everyone knew what had happened to the Gangano family—its members' bodies had been quietly encased within the pylons of a newly built bridge.
The few regional dons who attended understood well: their fear was not of Mike himself, but of the young, unbelievably powerful Italian-American tycoon standing behind him.
With Chicago's "problem" resolved, Leo's influence expanded. By controlling Chicago, an industrial hub packed with workers, he secured several major unions.
At this crucial stage, Leo now commanded a number of high-turnout voting blocs.
At the same time, he instructed Mike to deploy enough mafia men in districts where Truman was at a disadvantage—watching the ballot boxes, and helpfully "guiding" confused voters toward the right choice.
The odds tilted even further in Truman's favor.
Returning to Washington humming a tune, Leo stepped into the campaign office, only to find Truman sitting gloomily.
"What's wrong, Harry?" Leo asked.
"Look at this, Leo." Truman handed over a stack of freshly printed newspapers.
Leo scanned them, frowning. Influential political dailies had turned their guns on Truman, accusing him of misleading the public for votes—calling him a clown who pandered to the crowd.
Many opinion pieces from prominent social figures were included. They posed as neutral, but their sympathies clearly leaned toward Dewey.
Between the lines, they condemned Truman's fiery speeches as nothing but tricks to grab attention and votes.
Some went further:
"Truman's words equating Republicans with fascists and dragging corporations into politics have undermined America's very foundations. He is an enemy of the nation."
Leo instantly understood Truman's fear. Though just words on paper, he could sense the net closing in.
Their opponent was clever: Truman's recent popularity hinged entirely on his image as a lone fighter.
So they attacked precisely that image—twisting his fiery rhetoric into proof that he was nothing but a deceitful politician who'd say anything for votes.
If that label stuck, then Dewey's reputation, once tarnished, would naturally be restored.
"This needs to be fixed quickly," Leo muttered, rubbing his temples. The election was far trickier than he had thought—every elite player in this game was a master of open and hidden strikes.
"I know," Truman said. "But how? Hold a press conference tomorrow and clarify?"
"That would play right into their hands," Leo shook his head. "No matter how you explain, they'll just twist your words to fit their narrative."
Even Leo had no immediate solution.
Just then, the office phone rang. Leo picked up—it was World Journal's editor-in-chief, James.
With a smug tone, James said:
"My friend, I imagine the press backlash has been giving you headaches. Luckily, I have the cure."
Leo's eyes lit up. "Go on."
"Dissolve the World Journal's review board," James replied, seizing the moment.
"Impossible. Forget it—I'll solve it myself. Goodbye."
Leo knew the man was a coward at heart. Sure enough, James instantly softened, lowering his demand:
"My intel really is valuable. Fine—let me join the review board then. At least, before our articles are vetoed, give us a right to appeal."
"Deal. Now talk," Leo said.
"Well, it's hard to explain over the phone. I've sent my secretary over. The World Journal's predecessor archived countless political papers—including debates from the 1944 election.
Let me just say: Mr. Dewey's language back then made Truman's words today look tame."
An hour later, Leo and Truman were poring over the papers James had sent, their eyes shining brighter with each page.
The next morning, major newspapers once again attacked Truman as a populist clown. But before they could prepare the next round, their presses were ordered to stop.
In Dewey's New York campaign office, the candidate held a newspaper in trembling hands—shaking with anger and fear.
The World Journal's headline screamed: "People of America, can you trust a man this inconsistent to be your President?"
Beneath it, the editors had laid out Dewey's own fresh attacks against Truman—calling him an extremist—and then, directly below, placed articles from 1944 showing Dewey himself spewing even sharper rhetoric against Roosevelt.
How had this been dug up? What a disaster.
That was Dewey's last clear thought before he was drowned by ringing phones.
Hour after hour, until sunset, he answered, his voice hoarse from apologies.
The words he heard most: "Idiot." The second most: "Reckless."
The final call came from his running mate, California governor Earl Warren:
"Dewey, no more clever tricks. If we just sit still, we won't lose.
You know how much pressure everyone's carrying for you. Don't let us down.
You will be President. Don't make a move. You'll be fine."
Holding a glass of red wine, Dewey sank into his sofa, watching the New York sunset in silence.
His campaign chairman tiptoed over. "Sir, do we proceed with the plan?"
Dewey waved his hand wearily.
"I was naïve. I thought this campaign was mine to run. Stop everything. Let's hope they're right—that I can win lying flat."
After Chicago, Leo and Truman halted the train expedition. Instead, they focused on consolidating the ground they'd gained—challenging Republican incumbents in those areas, re-checking supporter lists.
But really, it was just tying up loose ends. Everyone knew that in politics, promises over the phone meant nothing until the very last moment.
October 31st brought two heavy blows.
The New York Times published its month-long investigation: Dewey would win 29 states and the presidency; Truman only 11.
Meanwhile, Gallup's latest poll: Dewey 49%, Truman 45%.
"So we're still going to lose," Truman chuckled, clinking glasses with Leo.
Campaigning was a brutal test of will and stamina. By now, neither man let numbers affect them.
"Maybe," Leo grinned. "But Harry, I just feel you're going to win."
Truman shrugged. "I like your confidence. I'm going to bed. On election day, I'll head back to Kansas City, sleep better at home.
If I lose, I won't return to Washington."
Leo understood. Better to leave with dignity than slink away from the White House in shame.
"Leave it to me, Harry. You've done all you could. Rest well."
As Truman left, he turned back.
"Marshall told me not to say this, but I'll be honest. In these last days, everyone who thinks we're doomed is worried about being left out of the spoils. Some will act early. You may see plenty of ugly moves."
Leo hugged him. "Harry, they've already started."
After Truman departed, Daniel came carefully to report:
"Boss, Charlie called. Altria Group wired—demanding an emergency shareholders' meeting tomorrow. We can't reach Phoenix anymore."
Leo frowned and dialed Phoenix. Surprisingly, the call went through. On the line, Phoenix's furious voice roared:
"Leo, you have to win. My brother has me locked down with dirty tricks. My father put him in charge of my business at American Realty. If Truman wins, I'll be free again. My future depends on you—you mustn't lose!"
Leo hung up, Daniel asking:
"Can we trust him?"
"I want to," Leo said. "But at my level, no one's truly trustworthy. Doesn't matter. If I win, their words become truth."
Daniel opened his little notebook, rubbing his thinning hair. "More bad news, boss. Boeing stake blocked by Seattle's government. Military's stalling. Augustus may be trapped in Britain. Morgan family tried to raid his office—Charlie stopped them. Merlin Group's stirring trouble in the association. The Central America project stalled. Real estate stock under attack. Banks tightening loans. Austin stuck in Pennsylvania. He says his old boss Evan's trying to lure him away—mentions Citibank founders Will and Samuel. He thinks they're behind the stock manipulation. Told me to warn you."
Leo sighed. "A storm's coming. They're all waiting for me to lose, so they can carve me up. Still, not bad—at least I've built enough power that even if I lose, I'll keep my life and fortune."
Daniel nodded. "Turner's got eyes everywhere. No sign of a hit."
Leo smiled grimly. "Not yet. But if I fall back west in defeat, they'll pounce. Unless… do I really lose?"
He tapped Daniel's notebook. "Keep it safe. When I win, we'll settle each score."
November 2, 1948. Election Day.
Across America, citizens headed to the polls.
Truman, back in Missouri, voted with his family in Excelsior Springs, then went to his childhood store, ate a sandwich, drank milk—calm and relaxed.
But in Washington, the campaign office buzzed. Phones rang nonstop, blackboards filled with state numbers, tension thick in the air.
Leo held the New York Times front page, predicting Dewey's victory with 341 electoral votes.
By noon, after a quick box lunch, all phones rang at once. Virginia was called for Truman. Cheers erupted. One by one, states rolled in—but the numbers still left Truman trailing badly.
At 5 p.m., Leo took a call from Robert Taft.
"By 9 p.m., it'll be clear. Chicago Tribune's already printing Dewey-victory editions. Leo, let's talk seriously. You've made enemies. You're not even in a party. As a Republican, I invite you to join us—support Dewey now, and we'll protect your fortune. If you wait until Truman loses, we can still help, but you'll have to pay."
Leo chuckled. "Thanks, Robert. But I don't think you're going to lose."
By 6 p.m., in Kansas City, Truman asked his bodyguard about results—he was far behind. Quietly, he checked into a hotel and went to sleep.
Meanwhile, Leo stayed in Washington, focused on the blackboard. "Stocks don't matter. This board does."
Suddenly: "Texas—Truman wins!" "South Carolina—Truman wins!" "New Jersey—Truman wins!"
By 10 p.m., Truman had nearly caught up. The atmosphere grew tense again—two key states remained: California and Ohio, both Republican strongholds with huge electoral votes.
The office held its breath. The Ohio call came. The young clerk answered, shaking. After three agonizing minutes, Leo barked: "Don't go to the board—say it out loud!"
The clerk blurted: "Ohio—25 votes—Truman wins! We win!"
The room exploded in joy. Elderly men leapt into dances. Papers flew through the air.
At 4 a.m., Desmond, as official chairman, announced to waiting reporters:
"As of 4:00 a.m. on November 3, 1948, President Truman has secured 266 electoral votes—the number required to win. We declare Harry S. Truman re-elected President of the United States."
In Kansas City, Truman was woken by Secret Service.
"Mr. President, you've won."
In New York, Dewey paced his Waldorf suite until he noticed his bodyguards had vanished into the night. He collapsed into a chair. He knew—the presidency had vanished with them.
Truman had won.