~ 1 ~
The Veterans Memorial Auditorium was aglow and festooned with light and glitter. All the prettiest people of Providence and its environs were in attendance for a command performance of the Rhode Island Philharmonic in honor of one of the city’s most cherished citizens, James Auberon—philanthropic lover of the arts, of animals, of the sick, the poor, the downtrodden by night, high-powered developer and cutthroat businessman by day.
Carlo Pagano stood outside in the humid late-May night. The air was still warm; it had been a warm spring, promising a hot summer. That would be good for Quiet Cove, Carlo’s hometown. But right now, during the intermission, he yanked at the stiff collar of his tuxedo shirt and silently lamented his presence at this ridiculous event. It was like a masquerade ball without the feathered masks. Every person he saw was encased in some obscenely uncomfortable getup—the men, like him, bound up in black ‘summer’ wool and a fucking black silk noose; the women all sparkly and laden with makeup and hairspray, all walking like they were in shackles, nothing natural, everybody sort of toddling around.
This was not his scene. Not remotely. But Peter had demanded that they show. He’d been right, of course. Auberon was an important developer, an important person, and Pagano-Cabot would never get established if they didn’t network. That was Peter’s strength, though—the schmoozing. He was great at bullshit and flirting and what the fuck ever people did to get other people to like them.
Carlo was better on his own, at his drafting table, in jeans and a chambray shirt. Flannel in the winter. Timberland boots. Not dressed like Bruce Wayne. With one last look at the glittering building full of glittering people, he sighed and slouched back inside. Better get to schmoozing.
Once inside, swallowed up by the crush of formalwear and the truly oppressive miasma from mingled scents of different five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfumes, Carlo turned toward the bar, thinking he’d wedge himself in and get a couple of quick, free scotches in his belly before he had to smile at any of these people. Peter was at the bar, his grin wide and blinding-bright. In his element. He was talking to…Anderson Temple. God, Carlo hated that old, fat bastard. Deciding he wasn’t ready to deal, he hooked a quick right and serpentined through the crowd and into the men’s room.
He’d been to the symphony many times—his mother and his father had both been big classical music and opera buffs. His father was still, though he didn’t go as often since Carlo’s mother died. Never in all the times Carlo had been in this building had there been an attendant in the men’s room. Yet there was one tonight, tricked out in livery and holding a stack of crisp, white towels.
He didn’t have any actual business to conduct in here; he was just looking for a quiet place to be, and other than someone in one of the stalls, and the attendant in his red jacket, Carlo was alone. He washed his hands and checked the mirror. His hair had a mind of its own. He’d tried to make it lie down smoothly—actually, Natalie had tried to make it lie down smoothly, right after she’d tied his stupid bow tie—but it stuck up at weird angles. Normally, he barely noticed, but Nat had fussed and said he looked like a mad scientist had sewn the head of a psycho survivalist onto James Bond’s body, and then she’d stuck some weird shit in his hair. Now it was crunchy, and it still stuck up.
He washed his face and smoothed his beard—that always lay nicely, at least—then turned to the attendant and took the towel he’d offered. “Thanks, man.” The attendant nodded but did not speak. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to.
When his hands and face were dry, he dropped the towel into the hamper next to his silent buddy, laid a couple of bills onto a gold tray on the counter, and went back out into the fray.
He ran headlong into a woman charging—to the extent anyone trussed up in a getup like that could charge—down the hall. Toward the ladies’, Carlo assumed.
“Oh! Excuse me.” A soft, accented voice.
Carlo had braced his hands on her bare shoulders when they collided; now he took a step back. “No, I’m sorry. I should’ve looked before I came out.”
She smiled vaguely and then, with a terse nod, stepped around him and continued on her way.
By the time he managed to get himself to the bar, he figured intermission was down to its last few minutes. Already the crowd was thinning out, as people began to head back to their seats even before the blinking of the lights that would alert the attendees that the second half of the evening’s program would commence five minutes hence. Auberon would be getting a plaque or something—no, something more impressive than a plaque, probably some crystal doodad—before the orchestra picked up its second act.