Curiosity gratified at last, Angela eyed Delia affectionately. Tonight she was a vision in what looked like Sanderson roses, save that these blooms were hurtfully vivid blue admixed with bilious yellow foliage and magenta buds, and that the fabric of her dress had been gathered into huge puffs; search for a simile though she did, Angela could find none. The Silvestri clan was unique.
The Commissioner himself was deep in conversation with the Mayor, who paled to insignificance alongside him; his Medal of Honor was on a pale blue ribbon around his neck, and when Gloria joined him, the New York reporters deemed them the handsomest couple in the room.
Eddies and swirls, swirls and eddies, thought Carmine, doing his best to enjoy the kind of affair he privately detested. His wife, wearing three-inch heels, had the advantage of gazing over the top of almost every head, and looked superb in ice-blue lace. To Carmine, even Gloria couldn’t hold a candle to Desdemona.
She forged through the crowd like a ship of the line, one of his favorite metaphors for her, and fetched up beside him.
“Have you noticed Jim Hunter’s evening wear?” she asked.
“Uh — no.”
“He’s not wearing a cummerbund, he’s wearing a brocade waistcoat with a matching bow tie!” she said excitedly. “I know how you hate your cummerbund because it rolls up on you, so have a look at Jim. Please!”
Jim was moving their way: Carmine stared. Yes, he was in a waistcoat of black brocade with tiny gold fleur de lys, and he looked enviably comfortable.
“It’s great,” Carmine said to Desdemona. “Not even faggy — uh — I mean, effeminate.”
“In future I’m making your waitcoats and bow ties.”
Jim reached them, black skin beaded with sweat, green eyes glowing like beryls. “Isn’t this fantastic?” he asked.
“Fabulous!” cried Desdemona, beaming.
“Did you ever see anyone as beautiful as Millie?”
“No,” said Carmine sincerely. “That color suits her.”
“That’s what I said when she had second thoughts.” He sucked in a huge breath. “I can’t believe this is really happening.”
“Believe, Jim, believe,” said Desdemona.
M.M. appeared at their elbows. “Desdemona, Carmine, Jim,” he said, genial and proud. “If you think this is an event, wait until you see the party we give Jim when he wins the Nobel Prize for Chemistry.”
“I can imagine,” said Carmine gravely.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to steal Jim.” Jim Hunter in tow, M.M. wandered off.
“Darling heart, I would give a lot for a chair,” Desdemona said wistfully. “Heels look spiffy, but my back is growling.”
“Come with me,” Carmine said, leading her to a hidden flight of open marble steps.
The two chairs were on a higher tier, and had a splendid view of the area where the launch itself was going to take place, judging from the number of microphones set up there.
“How do you know where to find these places, Carmine? This chair might have been tailored for me.”
“I scout the terrain before the action commences. Then I found a couple of decent chairs, flashed my gold badge at the guy in charge, and had them put here. We may as well stay here, I think they’re getting ready for the speeches.”
“How strange,” said Desdemona as soon as her back pain had subsided, “that we can barter small talk with a multiple murderer, just as if he isn’t one.”
“Until he’s proven guilty in a court of law, lovely lady, we are obliged to. Don’t forget that forewarned is forearmed. Knowledge tells you never to get on the wrong side of him. But seriously, Jim Hunter is as safe to mix with as your average Joe. He’s a self-interest killer, not a psychopath.”
“There has to be an element of psychopathia in anyone who kills cold-bloodedly, Carmine. And he’ll kill again,” she said. “Someone will endanger his survival — he’s such a prominent sort of bloke, the sort some people lust to tear down.”
“Sssh! Action stations,” said Carmine.
Head Scholar Millstone and President MacIntosh moved together to the microphones, accompanied by the Mayor and Dean Hugo Werther of Chemistry. People began to mill, finding good spots from which to watch; Channel 6, another network channel and one New York independent jockeyed for position, and a ripple of excitement ran through the gathering. Millie and Jim were thrust through the crowd, people smiling and touching Jim as if physical contact with his person would rub some of his luck off on them. They too were stationed near the microphones, but off to M.M.’s right; the other dignitaries were clustered on his left side.