Fuck I need a beer.

His head swam unpleasantly as he gained his feet and looked around, taking inventory. Looked like about a dozen girls had stayed over. And maybe half that many fellas. Apart from Artie, he could see a couple of sailors crashed on blow-up mattresses, which bumped against the floating bar like giant bath toys. He didn’t really know them, but he always made sure to invite some guys from the forces to his parties. At first Ms. O’Brien had insisted on it as a sort of public relations exercise, but Slim Jim found he got on a lot easier with them than the business types he was forced to mix with anyway. That’s how he’d met Snider, at some Kennedy gig or something for crippled war heroes back in New York last year. Old Artie was the very picture of respectability when he was out on government business, but Slim Jim had found him to be a hellcat of a drinker and a skirt chaser, gimpy leg and all, when the pressmen weren’t looking. He was a good guy to have around. Sort of reminded him of the old days.

“A pot of coffee, Mr. Davidson?”

“Huh? Oh yeah. Thanks, Albert.”

He tried to blink away some of the crust from his eyes, but his butler steadfastly refused to come into focus. Albert was another good guy to have around, but in a completely different way from Artie. Albert, an honest-to-goddamn English butler, was an absolute fucking marvel at turning up exactly when he was needed. Like now, with a pot of strong black coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich.

“Breakfast of champions, big Al. Thanks, buddy.”

The tall, gray-haired servant bowed his head slightly. “Of course, sir. Your bath is drawn and your clothes have been set out for the day. A printed schedule is on your desk in your private quarters. Shall I see to the other guests?”

Slim Jim couldn’t help sniggering. The “gentleman’s gentleman” managed to flick just enough of a spin on the word guests to imply they were anything but.

“Get old Artie into bed, if you can, Al. And his girlfriend. You can bundle the rest downstairs to the cafй for breakfast and them pour ’em into cabs. Put it all on my tab.”

“Very good, sir. And Mr. Kennedy’s man would like a word with you, too, when you have a moment.”

“He still here?” asked Slim Jim. “I didn’t take him for such a live wire.”

“He has been away and returned, sir. He is waiting for you downstairs in the main conference room.”

Slim Jim shook his head. It seemed his whole fucking life was like this now, a never-ending series of meetings with no chance of escape. He rubbed the blurriness from his vision and took a long draw on the mug of coffee that Albert had poured for him. It’d taken a hell of a lot of work convincing the old geezer to let him drink out of a mug instead of some bone china cup-and-saucer arrangement. He’d hoped that maybe he could get in a few hairs of the dog this morning before heading upstate for a surfing lesson. He was really getting into surfing. But he could see that the giant machine known as Slim Jim Enterprises was going to gobble up his entire day all over again.

“Okay, Albert. Did you get…uh, what’s his name, this Kennedy guy?”

“Mr. Doyle, sir.”

“Did you get him some coffee and a roll or something? Can’t leave him scratching his ass, I suppose.”

“Chef has sent up a tray of fresh pastries and a pot of coffee, sir. Mr. Doyle understands you have been indisposed. He is happy to wait.”

Slim Jim brayed out a short, sharp laugh. “I’ll bet. Okay. Gimme ten, fifteen minutes and I’ll be down.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And don’t worry about Snider, I’ll see to him myself.”

“Yes, sir.”

As his butler disappeared inside, looking like some windup figure on a cuckoo clock, Slim Jim drained his coffee and ambled over to the prone form of Artie Snider. He was in uniform, sort of. His pants were down around his ankles, and his shirt had ridden up to expose a growing paunch. A couple of the bimbos were stirring on the far side of the pool. One of them waved lazily and he waved back, smiling as best he could with his hangover. It never hurt to be friendly, even with the little guys. Especially with the little guys, in fact. Ms. O’Brien had taught him that, too. The little guys were fighting this war, she always said. They were gonna win it, too. And the world would be theirs. And his, if he kept ’em on his side.

Music suddenly came on, blaring from hidden speakers. Loud enough to wake the hard-core hangers-on. No doubt on Albert’s order. Some dumbass uptime song called “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” The butler’s idea of a joke.

“Hey, Artie,” said Slim Jim, toeing his friend on the side of the head, getting a nice feel of the unconscious blonde’s thigh while he was at it. “Get up, man. I gotta go, and those war bond assholes are gonna be looking for you soon.”

Snider grunted and nuzzled deeper into the starlet’s crotch. He didn’t look like he was going anywhere quickly. Slim Jim shrugged, walked over to the pool, scooped up a mug of cold water, and returned to pour it all over them. The effect was instantaneous. Snider came awake with a roar, and his companion with a squeal.

“What the fuck?” he cried out, shaking his head like a wet dog.

“Gotta get a move on, buddy. Time’s a-wasting. You can crash here if you want, but you got that gig up in Frisco later this morning. You’re gonna catch hell if you blow ’em off again.”

“Yeah, right,” the big man grunted. “Frisco…right.”

He had some trouble getting to his feet. His knee reconstruction, which wouldn’t have even been possible without twenty-first technology and know-how, still wasn’t perfect. Slim Jim gave him a helping hand. The reek of sour alcohol on his breath was something to behold.

“You too, darlin’,” he said, gently digging his foot into the girl’s behind as she rolled over. It was an outstanding behind, after all, and just sitting there, begging to be interfered with. Her bikini top, one of the new teensy-weensy ones, fell off as she got up and she giggled unself-consciously, giving Slim Jim an eyeful and an unspoken invitation.

Dames, he thought. They never fucking change, no matter what part of town they’re from.

Artie was too far under the weather to notice, and probably wouldn’t have cared anyway. They’d shared plenty of women before.

“We ain’t gonna surf today, Jimbo?” he asked. “I thought we was gonna have a lesson up the coast? The water’s good for me leg, you know.”

“We were,” shrugged Slim Jim. “But I got this Kennedy asshole downstairs wants a piece of me first. And you got your gig in Frisco. I’ll have my guys fly you there and back. You shoulda been there already. We can party tonight.”

“Me, too?” asked the girl. What was her fucking name?

“Sure, darlin’,” said Slim Jim. “Bring some friends. We’ll rip it up.”

The music had woken everyone by now. Slim Jim could have sworn it was getting louder. It was surely getting more uncomfortable on the “beach” as the sun climbed higher. One of the sailors rolled off his inflatable mattress with a splash and a holler. That awful fucking pop song finished and a new track came on. Crunching guitars and gravel-voiced singer. He recognized it immediately as the Foo Fighters’ last single, “Innocence,” one of his faves. His flexipad was programmed to wake him with it every morning.

“What is that noise?” asked the bimbo.

“That is the unborn genius of Dave Grohl, sweetheart,” he informed her. “Have some fucking respect.”

“So you figured out which one you’re putting into the White House yet?” he joked. “Or is old Joe planning to give all of his boys a turn?”

The Kennedy clan fixer, Mike Doyle, didn’t bother to hide his aversion. He didn’t like dealing with Slim Jim, and they both knew it. Mrs. Davidson’s little boy had spent a good deal of his former life getting the shit kicked out of him one way or another by the likes of Doyle. The guy screamed ex-cop, and even though he was now taking his coin from an old bootlegger, it must have galled him something awful to have to deal with somebody like Slim Jim as an equal-or even, let’s face it, as a superior. Because in the end, Doyle was just a spear-carrier.