“Show me the cigarette case.”
She fingered the latch on her purse and whispered, “I have two ten-dollar bills here. One is yours now. The other, when I get over to Mr. Gallo’s VIP table.”
“Humph.” He reached for the open purse.
She stepped back, snapping it shut, but not before removing a ten-spot. “We got a deal?”
* * *
The maître d’ earned another ten when he escorted Honoree to Tony Gallo’s table.
Ten people sat at the round, mostly men. The women languished in laps or hung on to a man’s shoulders, with their bosoms and buttocks within reach. At least no one else wore red. The only colored girl with any flair, other than Honoree, was the blonde sitting in Gallo’s lap.
Well, ain’t that the cat’s pajamas!
The blonde on Gallo’s lap was Trudy Lewis. What was she doing at a club owned by Capone? Hymie Weiss and the North Side gang were her cups of tea.
Trudy hadn’t spotted her yet, but this didn’t change Honoree’s loosely devised plan.
“Craziest story I ever heard.” Trudy blithely adjusted her body in the man’s lap, snaring Gallo’s attention and that of every other man and woman at the table. “I bet that’s true.”
Standing behind a group of women, Honoree didn’t listen to Trudy’s story. She observed Gallo. He had the build of a hunting dog, and the features she’d never forget: the large beak nose, small cold eyes, and white man’s skin.
“Capone loves jazz so.” Trudy jiggled on his lap. “Isn’t that true, Tony?”
Gallo laughed, then pushed Trudy from his lap, not gently. “He also loves a sexy colored showgirl.” He wiped his nose. “Where’s my goddamned drink? Nigga waiter was supposed to bring me a drink an hour ago.”
Trudy swept blond curls from her face. “I’ll get that drink, sugar.”
He pinched her on the rump. “You’re a doll.”
Trudy flashed a grin, but a shadow crept into her eyes as she walked by Honoree. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
“None of your beeswax.”
Trudy’s lips drew back. “We’ll see about that.” She strolled off, going after the waiter and Gallo’s drink, Honoree presumed. She hoped she wouldn’t return too soon.
Honoree slid into the spotlight; the plunging neckline of her shift, exposing the glistening mounds of her bubs.
“The beauty from the Dreamland Cafe,” Mr. Gallo said, a drink in one hand, the other reaching toward her ass. “What’s your name again, sugar?”
“Honoree, Mr. Gallo.”
“The colored girl with the French name.”
Patrons scooted chairs and leaned torsos, opening a path. “You invited me to dance at Mr. Capone’s party.”
“When did I do that?” His gaze traveled from her hips to her breastbone to the hollow of her throat. The smile on his face spread into a broad, ugly grin. “Perhaps I did invite you.”
Christ. Had he changed his mind? Or he was soused to the eyeballs and couldn’t remember anything about that night.
He waved at one of the other girls at the table. “Get her some champagne, and I’ll have another bourbon.”
Gallo angled his chair, trapping her knees between his short, sturdy legs and sandwiching her between his thighs. He inched forward, and his broad face blocked her view, the thick odor of whiskey rolling off him like smoke. “What you playing at, girl?”
“I ain’t playing at nothin’. I saw you over here and wanted to thank you. A colored girl like me isn’t invited to dance for Mr. Capone every day.”
“You ain’t as good a liar as you think, but I am. I saw you. That night, thinking I couldn’t see you. Now, pick your kisser up off the floor. I ain’t gonna hurt you. If I’d wanted to hurt you, you’d been hurt two months ago. Them boys of yours, Archie and Ezekiel, are my business partners, and they wouldn’t let you double-cross me.”
