Designated Targets

Only cops banged away like that, like they had a perfect right to go hassling guys in their jammies with half a woody on. He spat out a few curses, wrapped himself in a thick white robe—which he had actually bought from the Ritz, just for the effect—and stalked out of his bedroom, snatching up his flexipad from a low marble coffee table that was littered with cold food. He powered up, dropped the volume, and triggered the apartment’s security system without even having to watch what he was doing. Slim Jim spent hours practicing with his flexipad. He loved it more than he loved any human being he’d ever known.

The hammering sounded again, and he yelled that he was coming.

His head had cleared remarkably quickly, considering all the champagne he and Norma had enjoyed last night. He swung open the door and barked at the two cops who stood there to get the hell inside, and stop disturbing his neighbors. He needn’t have bothered, though, since they were inside before he even finished. A cursory glance told him right away they were feds.

Bureau men.

Ah shit.

He didn’t piss his pants the way he might have ten years earlier. He had too many miles on the clock for that, but he could feel a shit-eating grin freezing in place on his dial. He turned away a touch too quickly, hoping they didn’t catch it, and praying that his voice didn’t waver too much.

“Sorry, boys,” he called out as he headed into the kitchen to make himself a coffee. “My girlfriend don’t sleep over, and she keeps all her best frocks at her place. I’m afraid Mr. Hoover will just have to call her himself if he wants to borrow a little something for the—”

Without warning, a blinding pain exploded inside his head. He was distantly, stupidly aware of it being on the left side as he toppled to the hardwood floor and down into darkness. Somehow it seemed important, that he’d been whacked from the left.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Garth Brooks was singing a cover.

When a man loves a woman.

Slim Jim was still in darkness. Then he was in . . . a sort of red fog. Like he was looking at the world from the inside of a bottle of wine. Then a jagged spike of fire shot through his head—the left side—and he needed to vomit.

He was lying facedown in a broken plate of cold linguine, and his beautiful bathrobe from the Ritz Hotel was all gathered up in the small of his back, leaving his butt exposed to the breeze. He thought about rolling over, but gagged on a mouthful of bile, then groaned as somebody grabbed his robe, yanked him up, and threw him into a lounge chair. The robe came open. His nuts were slapping around. It was all very undignified, and a million miles removed from his new life as a respected businessman and registered Democrat.

“Jesus Christ,” he coughed. “I was only joking, fellas. He can have the dresses. She left ’em in the other room.”

“Shut up, you cocksucker.”

“Ha! That’s good, coming from one of J. Edgar’s boys,” he said, even though he knew he was risking another whack upside the head. When none came, he blinked away some of the blurred vision that turned his attackers into dark blobs of attitude and body odor. They came into focus. Two feds, just as he recalled. Dark suits, white shirts, red ties. Everything buttoned down to within an inch of its life. Just as Mr. Hoover liked it.

“Okay, so I’ll be shutting up now. But you are gonna want me to talk, aren’t you? Ain’t that the way it works? You beat the crap outta me, so I’ll tell you what you want to hear?”

“Not really.”

That surprised him, so he decided to shut up for real.

The room was quiet for a moment, save for Garth Brooks. As his stomach settled, Slim Jim decided that he really wanted that coffee now, perhaps with a shot of bourbon. But he decided it wasn’t the brightest idea, giving these fuckin’ apes another chance to beat on him, so he just kept quiet.

They both stared at him a little while longer, at least one of them with eyes that looked like hard little pellets of hatred. He spoke first. “Think you’re pretty fucking smart, don’t you, Davidson?”

“Dunno about that, man. Never finished high school.” He shrugged.

Then the other one spoke up in a much friendlier, even cheerier tone. “Take a smart guy to end up here, wouldn’t it, Jimbo? You couldn’t buy most of this stuff on a special agent’s salary. Definitely not on a seaman’s wage.”

Jesus Christ, they were gonna tag-team him. Good cop, bad cop. He would have laughed, if his head weren’t pounding so much. “I do what I can,” he croaked.

Bad Cop was back. “If you keep smart-mouthing us like that, asshole, the only thing you’ll be doing is playing pick up the soap at Leavenworth. You got a house full of contraband here.”