Designated Targets

“No comment,” O’Brien replied, her own smile just as wide. “But if you were betting on a done deal, sure, it’s easy money. But where’s the challenge? And of course, once people know the future, they immediately start fucking with it. So that’s where the challenge comes in. That’s why I love it.”

“I thought you loved it for the money,” Dan said, letting his offended sensibilities get the better of him. But neither of the women obliged him by taking offense.

“Sure,” agreed O’Brien. “And there’s the money, too.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the money, Dan,” Julia chimed in. “Money’s what makes the world go round.”

Slim Jim loved this place. Of all the things O’Brien had hooked him into, the Bayswater was the best. He would never have thought he could get so jazzed about a club that not only let in your niggers and your Jews—but actually invited them to come.

He never would’ve thought you could make money on something like this, either, especially not with the top-shelf wages he was paying. But the money rolled in like a flash flood that never ended. And anyone who was anyone in this town was beating on the doors, trying to get in and throw their money around. It was one of the seven fucking wonders, was what it was.

And two or three of the other wonders were right in here with him, too.

That Sinatra kid, up on stage singing “Slow Boat to China” with Joybelle—you had to admit, that kid’s voice was a wonder. And this piece of ass Slim Jim had here on his arm, the fabulous Norma—or Marilyn, as she was calling herself now that Ms. O’Brien had sorted out the business with the movie guys—this fantastic piece of ass was such a natural wonder of the world that he was sure every guy in the room would crawl a mile over cut glass just to jerk off in her shadow.

But the biggest wonder had to be that table of wise guys over there, mooning over Joybelle and Frankie’s duet. Just six months ago, those guys wouldn’t have crossed the road to piss on his heart if it’d caught fire. Crazy fucking mobsters. And now they were ringing him up, asking him if they could come to his club. And the hell of it was, they were really asking.

Oh, sure, they’d rolled in here like kings of the fucking hill that first time. He didn’t know what O’Brien had done or said to them, but after that you couldn’t have asked for a quieter, more well-behaved pack of wops. He’d been terrified, expecting them to muscle in on his action. But no, they came for the show and the food. They couldn’t get enough of the fucking food.

They’d also liked staying behind after the place had closed, to watch The Sopranos and all of his Mafia movies on the big flatscreen. But Ms. O’Brien had put a stop to that pretty quickly. She said it was “inappropriate.”

Well, a lot of people would look around this place, with its mixed races and nightly parties, and they’d swear on the Bible that the Bayswater redefined inappropriate. But Slim Jim Davidson called that “bull talk from a one-eyed fat man.” That was his new favorite phrase, ever since he’d seen John Wayne in True Grit.

“Hey, darlin’!” he shouted to Marilyn over the noise of the band and the bar crowd. “You think John Wayne worries about turning into such an ugly, fat old prick?”

“Well,” she said, sipping at a cocktail he didn’t recognize, “at least he got to grow old.”

Slim Jim rolled his eyes and gave her a squeeze. “Now you know we ain’t lettin’ that happen to you, sweetheart. You ain’t marrying that drunken ball player. You ain’t fucking those Kennedy boys. And you—”

A painful grip on his bicep tore his hand off Marilyn’s ass. “Out in the back. You’re with us, Romeo.”

He recognized the voice, and his heart skipped a beat. It was the two bozos. The feebs who’d rousted him in his crib.

The unfriendly one—at least they’d kept their roles straight—had made some sort of Chinese burn on his elbow. It hurt like hell. Before he knew it, he was up on his tiptoes and being hustled away from Marilyn as fast as they could handle the move without attracting attention. Even so, there were plenty of patrons beginning to point and stare.

The Bureau men shoved him through a set of doors and into the first office on the left.

A push sent him into the desk, and he corked his thigh painfully. “Ow! You didn’t have to—”

“Shut up, shit head. What the fuck are you doing here?”

Rubbing at his leg, his mind racing, Slim Jim played dumb. “I got an interest here. It’s strictly legit. If you guys were as smart as—”

“You know what we mean. You’re supposed to be in California. You’re supposed to be working for us now. You were supposed to have ditched that bitch, and—”

“Why, gentlemen, I do believe my ears are burning.”

The two bruisers spun to find Maria O’Brien standing in the doorway, flanked by Marilyn and some couple Slim Jim didn’t know. They must have been the friends O’Brien said she was meeting for a late supper, he guessed.