The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,8

the light from the huge, sparkling chandeliers overhead, every polished surface in the Plaza Hotel’s lavish Grand Ballroom gleamed, and so did all the beautiful women. In amongst men in tuxedos, the women of New York’s wealthiest and most elite families glowed in colorful evening gowns, furs, and jewelry that rivaled buildings for value.

At the edge of the room, with a view of everyone and everything, Carmine Battaglia lounged in a horseshoe-shaped red velvet booth, sipping smooth brandy from a crystal highball.

A few of his competitors sat and drank nearby, and there’d been some icy looks exchanged between men, but Carmine’s boys knew better than to start anything. So did Cola Schiro’s, Joe Morello’s, and Agosto il Sacchi’s. A public altercation at a high society event wouldn’t be good for anyone; they were, after all, here as guests. Starting trouble at someone else’s party was hardly the gentlemanly thing to do, and every gangster worth his salt was a gentleman first, criminal second. Anything else was bad for business,

So they all drank and socialized and were visible. Some high society aristocrats gave them sour looks, and one particularly elegant couple had words with Inspector Coolidge, one of Commissioner Enright’s top men in the police department, sitting just a few tables away from Carmine. The woman clearly wanted Carmine and all the other thugs and lowlifes escorted from the premises, but Inspector Coolidge just smiled and apparently reassured them that the situation was under control. The pair glared at Carmine and at Agosto il Sacchi, then stalked away. Coolidge gave Carmine an amused look and a subtle nod. Carmine returned it.

He wasn’t worried about being thrown out. Not so long as everyone on his payroll was on their best behavior, which they were. After all, it was in Coolidge’s best interest not to cross the men who ran most of Lower Manhattan, and who’d greased enough palms to know who was bribing whom at Tammany Hall. Or who supplied the illegal brandy he was happily sipping.

A couple of campy entertainers made their way through the room, one standing out from all the demure high society wives only because of his height and his wild, animated mannerisms. Nearer to Carmine’s table was a somewhat slighter man who wore a tuxedo along with copious rouge and loud, red lipstick, and the way he batted his long, painted eyelashes at various men had guests howling with laughter. At one point, he dropped into the lap of Inspector Coolidge, an arm sliding around the man’s wide shoulders and a coquettish expression on his face as he flirted shamelessly. The inspector and his guests all played along and laughed, especially after the entertainer left a bright red lip print on Coolidge’s cheek.

With a gasp of mock horror, the entertainer grabbed a napkin off the table and wiped at the mark, succeeding only in smearing it. “Can’t leave any prints,” he said in a loud whisper. “Too many cops around.” More uproarious laughter followed.

The man finished his pansy performance, and he got up with a flourish, bowing theatrically to the applause of everyone around him. Before he moved on, he briefly met Carmine’s eyes. Though few in the room probably expected subtlety to be a part of the entertainer’s flamboyant repertoire, the wink he sent Carmine’s way was definitely subtle.

Carmine grinned behind his glass before taking a sip of brandy. In other times and places, Carmine and this particular entertainer—Rosie was his stage name—had spent a handful of enjoyable evenings together. Dressed as he was tonight, Rosie was surely ready and willing, and the way he’d looked at Carmine left little to the imagination, but Carmine wasn’t here for pleasure and leisure.

Another night, maybe. He watched Rosie’s backside as the man sashayed toward another table. Yes. Definitely another night.

Sal, his bodyguard, nudged his arm, pulling Carmine’s mind away from those pleasant memories. “Wonder what’s going on over there.” He gestured surreptitiously toward the il Sacchi table.

Equally surreptitiously, Carmine slid his gaze in the same direction. Someone was leaning over and saying something to Agosto il Sacchi, and the expression on the boss’s face was grim. A moment later, he was on his feet and striding out of the ballroom. He didn’t run out, but he walked with the kind of purpose that said he just might break into a sprint the moment no one was looking.

“Interesting,” Carmine mused into his glass. He supposed it was nothing. Men of his profession often had urgent matters to attend to