Final impact

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.

He rolled his shoulders around inside an off-the-rack suit. It was an older contemporary cut, unlike Slim Jim’s stylish uptime number, and it pulled tight in all the wrong places as he leaned forward.

“Mr. Kennedy understood that he had a deal with you for your support in this matter, whenever he asked for it. You said you’d back his choice for the primaries with money and votes. What, are you backing out or something? You got your own plans, is that it?”

Slim Jim enjoyed the sensation of being able to say nothing for so long, it became uncomfortable. He enjoyed the view out of his picture windows, the expensive fit-out of the conference room, the acres of polished oak table in front of him.

“Nah,” he said at last. “I don’t have my own plans. I gave Joe my word, and that’s as good as ink on paper. Better, in fact. I got a lawyer who’s an absolute fucking wonder at blowing holes in bits of paper. You tell him, when one of the boys is ready to run, I’ll do whatever I can to help…”

He left the sentence hanging long enough for Doyle to understand more was coming. “But?” said the fixer.

“But,” added Slim Jim, “I’m still waiting to hear from him about a little favor that I asked for back in Hyannisport.”

“Uh-huh,” said Doyle, warily. “And that’d be?”

“The Zone legislation,” said Slim Jim. “The sunset clause. Your boss promised me he would help kill it in the House. You make sure he understands that I’m serious. I want that clause nixed. We got a good thing going out here and we don’t need the apple cart tipped over by a bunch of know-nothing pinheads trying to wind the clock back. It’d be very bad for business.”