She refocused again, bringing them to a height of fifty meters virtual above the deck of the ship. "They look like guards to me. They're carrying rifles with bayonets fixed. They never take their eyes off the men exercising on deck, so they can't be lookouts. Take a look at the prisoners, if that's what they are. They look Chinese to you?"

She didn't insult the men by making the obvious joke about them thinking all Asians looked alike. Brennan and Taylor had both spent years working in the Far East before the war, and in the time that she'd worked with them, they'd never once given her reason to think of them as anything other than the most broad-minded of souls. It made her sort of ashamed of her own assumptions. She'd wrongly figured that everyone she met here would be dumb-arse bigots. It turned out her biggest problem with Brennan was her not sharing his encyclopedic knowledge of the puppet emperors of French Indochina. It had been his specialty as a visiting fellow at Poitiers University before the war.

The two male officers leaned forward and gave the scene their undivided attention. Taylor seemed just about to speak when something strange happened. One of the men exercising on the boat broke away from the others and made a run at the gunnels. He leapt over the side and dropped out of sight. Everyone on the deck froze for a second, but then two armed soldiers suddenly ran to the same side and raised their rifles.

Nguyen quickly refocused directly on them, pulling in to twenty meters virtual. "They're shooting at him," she said. "That's it. I'd bet my much-reduced pay packet that he's Chinese, not Japanese."

There was no sound, but they could all see the puffs of smoke and the impact of recoil.

"I think so," Taylor agreed.

The American major tapped at the screen with his index finger. "You know, these things are just marvelous, but I think we're going to need to grab some of these characters for a little-what do you guys call it-face time?"

Nguyen nodded. Almost to herself. "That's a bit beyond my reach, sir. But if you're willing to take it up the line, I'll cut you together a briefing stick from the take."

Brennan agreed as they watched the shooters on the deck of the ship slap each other on the back.

"I guess that one didn't get away," said Lieutenant Commander Nguyen.

She wasn't Rita Hayworth, and it wasn't the Ritz, but Slim Jim wasn't about to write to his congressman, either. He'd never had his dick sucked so often or so well by a movie star. In fact, he'd never had his dick sucked by a movie star. Or by anyone he hadn't paid, really.

Not that Norma was a movie star just yet, but she would be. He'd already seen most of her films, and she was gonna turn into a seriously hot piece of ass.

And if his apartment wasn't the Ritz, it was nearly as classy. So classy, in fact, that all his dough nearly hadn't been enough to get him in. Ms. O'Brien had been forced to twist a few arms before the board had consented. And old Walt Winchell had helped out some, too.

He was a good fuckin' egg, old Walt was.

In fact, lying in his big bed overlooking Central Park, recalling every detail of the previous night, Slim Jim Davidson figured himself to be just about the happiest guy in the world. He wondered whether he ought to call Norma at the little studio apartment he'd bought for her, just to get her to come over and give his pipes a really good cleaning before he got up and seized the day. After all, it never hurt to remind a girl like that who held the purse strings.

But in the end, he didn't reach for the phone. His hand was stayed by something he'd never once experienced in his short and-up until now-reasonably shitty life. He was overcome by a small, warm feeling he vaguely recognized as a sense of…

Generosity.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and a great rich, rolling laugh burst forth. Yeah, that was it, all right. He felt like just about the most generous motherfucker in the whole wide world. His mother would have been shocked, even appalled, since she was one of the worst fucking grifters he'd ever met. At least she had been, until she was beaten to death by that bum she'd hooked up with down in Tallahasee way back in-what, '35 or '36? Still, she'd a been proud that at least one of her boys had amounted to something. Then she woulda cheated him of at least half of what he was worth.

And he was worth plenty.

"Top o' the mornin', Ma!" he crowed to his empty bedroom. "Top o' the fuckin' morning!"

He reached around under the covers, enjoying the slippery feel of the silk sheets, taking his time to find what he wanted. His remote for the sound system had got itself kicked down near the foot of the bed. He snagged it up with his foot and thumbed the button to fill the apartment with music. The neighbors had complained about him playing AC/DC before breakfast, and he didn't want to get kicked out. So he'd dialed it back a little, programmed some Elvis, some Benny Goodman, a little Herb Alpert and Garth Brooks, to mix in with his favorite bits of Metallica, Sacre Coeur, and the Beach Boys. He had what Ms. O'Brien called "eclectic" tastes, but then, he had eighty years to catch up on, so she could just go fuck herself-a thought that brought on a slow smile.

So he was about to reach for the phone to call Norma after all, when his good humor was ruined by a hammering at the door.

Shit.

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.