The big wooden doors finally succumbed to the axe attack by the government agents, and the dozens of men pushed through into the warehouse, wielding picks and sledgehammers. Thousands of dollars worth of beer and liquor was smashed and sent flowing across the floor and down drains into the city's sewers.

A police Black Mariah carted the few unfortunate men found on site off to jail without fuss - small fish in a giant pond.

Karl Hagen glowered down the length of the conference table at the gathering of minor bosses and soldiers. The topic was the raid on his warehouse and who was going to accept the blame. Untold dollars in profits went in bribes to politicians, police and even the federal agents to see this kind of thing didn't happen.

"It's that new mug in the DOJ, Hoover. He's working his way up the ladder and weeding out anyone even suspected of taking our dough." Several others muttered agreement with the speaker, watching for Karl's reaction.

"And why am I paying you lot?" His fist hit the table making glasses and ashtrays jump.

"He's surrounded by a ton of loyal agents, Karl. There's no gettin' near the guy . . . and even if we do it'll mean blood in the streets."

Silence settled on the room as feet shuffled and throats cleared. Eye contact was avoided by everyone. Karl left the table and went to the window, opening the blind and stood, hands clasped behind his back. Dennis Creighton, his right hand man signalled for the others to leave; the meeting was over.

A more intimate but no less intense meeting took place shortly after in Karl's private office with Dennis and Karl's mistress, Kitty O'Halloran.

"They're right, Karl. Going head to head with the Feds is a poor percentage move. We're still way ahead of the game when you consider state-wide income."

Karl leaned on his desk, frowning. "Principle, Dennis. Principle. If the idea gets out anyone can knock over one of Karl Hagen's operations it'll be open season."

"It isn't just anyone, Karl, it's the federal government and it isn't just you - it's nation-wide. Bosses all over the country are scrambling to hide and protect their assets."

"How?"

"A leaf out of Capone's book - money laundering."

"Explain."

Dennis glanced at Kitty then described a possible solution for moving large sums of 'dirty' cash in a relatively short period in exchange for clean money in the form of a legitimate cheque."

"And Kitty suggested this?" Karl stared at her while Dennis answered.

"Not the scheme, that was mine, but the ideal choice of business."

"And just how would you know this, Kitty?" His tone brought a low growl from the Wolfhound under his desk. "Quiet, Sanford."

"I have a friend who manages a gallery. I'm not suggesting approaching her, but there could be someone else there more uh, reachable."

Karl shifted his chair and Sanford snarled softly. "Speak to someone, Dennis and report back . . . soon." His eyes half closed as he considered the woman who rose to leave with Dennis.

The approach was casual and congenial.

One of the classier speakeasies, and one comfortably managed to elude or appease the federal revenue agents, 21 Club was one of the places for patrons of all stripes. Familiar faces from the political and entertainment sections of the papers, as well as the more celebrated figures from the police files.

Alcohol flowed freely and generously as nods and nudges among the mix of celebrities, acknowledged the shared transgression of prohibition.

Roland Royce glanced at the man that took the stool beside him at the bar in the 21 Club, getting and returning a friendly nod. He lifted his glass and the bartender swiftly refilled it, wiping the surface and supplying a fresh coaster.

"They understand class here." The man said, glancing at Roland.

"It's why I come. Not the usual frantic noise and ah, no fear of interruptions . . ." He held up his drink and winked.

"Right. Cheers." They both drank then Roland introduced himself, heavily laying on his position as managing director of Trevor Auctions.

"Dennis Creighton, pleasure, Roland. Isn't that part of the Trevor Gallery?"

Roland frowned. "Trevor Gallery is actually a subsidiary of the Auction house."

"Sorry, I didn't mean-"

"It's fine. I'm quite secure."

Dennis concealed a smile; so easy to get next to, he thought and began talking with a sincere interest about auction procedures, of which Roland happily flaunted his expertise. Several drinks later, seated in the conversation section of the Club's lounge with strains of, When My baby Smiles at Me by Ted Lewis and orchestra seeping through from the adjacent dance hall, Dennis broached the topic of bidding.

Roland listened with fascination to the man seated across from him, and his proposal that sounded so basically simple, elegant and personally profitable, he was almost breathless. The idea that items coming up for auction could be reserved with a cash deposit, then released and the money returned, less a tidy commission for the house at rates well above the street numbers, made him giddy.

So overwhelmed with the idea, Roland never thought to question the why of it, with the potential for such easy money it never occurred to him to even care. What he didn't realize was that the man suggesting the proposal was a proxy for one of the more notorious figures linked to elements a discerning auction and art business would avoid like poison.

The other point, which hadn't been realized, was that the deposit money was from criminal activities that needed laundering and he was being wooed as a facilitator.

The band began playing, What'll I do?

Organized crime flourished during prohibition. Production and provision of illegal booze was worth millions and competition between gangs for control of the supply led to open warfare. Beatings and killings over territory was common news.

Speakeasies and Gin mills became the go-to places for partying, drinking and the new wave of jazz. And new customers as well. Women, now having the right to vote, and many with money of their own from taking over men's jobs during the war, rebelled against the Victorian mores, emerging as liberated Flappers with their own behaviour, style and slang.

Revellers frequenting the influx of speakeasies were making the most of them. While politicians railed against the sudden flood of illegal alcohol, they and corrupt police, through swift and loud enforcement, kept the unwelcome start-ups from gaining a foothold if they didn't pay.

Still, like mushrooms, the speakeasies kept popping up and were never without eager customers.

The dance floor of the latest club in the basement of the florist shop, heaved with a bouncing rhythm as the combo on the corner platform played the lively Black Bottom. Versatile waiters dodged waiving arms and flashing legs, delivering the various gin and rum cocktails to the client spectators.

At the bar young men stood, posturing. Fitted vests and watch chains showing, as they drank and perused the single women, laughing over confidently among themselves. The Black Bottom morphed into the Charleston and the floor became a more dangerous place to be with legs and feet flying even higher.

Florence Hyatt leaned across the table with her cigarette holder and accepted a light from Calvin, her date, holding his hand steady and blowing a cloud into the already smoky room.

"I think your jelly bean, there has had too much jag juice, darling; he almost lit up your nose." Portia DeLysle had to almost shout over the din.

"Calvin is a good boy, Dee, you should be so lucky . . . oh, I forgot, you have Rodney." Florence leaned back in her chair and smirked at her friend.

"You should be so lucky," Portia sighed and let her eyes drift over the dancers. "Rodney is a good brother."

"I think you need something more than a brother, Dee. I don't know why you don't do something about David. You certainly see enough of him."

Portia looked out over the dance floor and thought about her relationship with David Ashby. It wasn't even a relationship as such; they were just comfortable friends without the encumbrance of commitment. She sipped her cocktail and looked at her friend.

"David and I are quite content with our relationship, Flo. We both know that it has reached a stage of stasis we both recognize."

"You aren't short of admirers anyway, darling. There are a couple at the bar that have been drooling over you all evening."

Portia resettled her feather boa and gave Florence a bored look. "Please, Flo, have some taste."

As she spoke, out of the corner of her eye she caught one of young men handing money to one of his friends then moving her way. His smile was overdone as he stood tilted to one side, hands in his pockets. "It's a shame to see such a lovely lady sitting unattended; may I suggest trip around the floor?"

"And will I share in your wager if I do? How much was it anyway?

"I'd be happy- it was- uh . . ."

Portia picked up her drink and turned her attention to a giggling Florence.

"That was awful, Dee," she snickered. "He lit up like a tomato!"

"Wonder how much he lost. Has he gone?"

Florence nodded and was about to say something else when there was a loud ruckus and a scream from the floor, and when they looked up a mob of police were pouring down the stairs and through the club entrance, shouting and herding people toward the door.

The band disappeared, instruments and all, behind a curtain on the platform with a pair of policemen in pursuit. Couples were bumping into one another as they tried to reach various exits and the owner of the club was raging at the Captain leading the raid. Somehow the warning system had failed and customers were shocked and worried as they filed out past the police lining the exit stairs.

Waiters disappeared with samples from the bar, making for the previously chosen exits in case of just such an event. Certain celebrity types were trying to huddle with members of the squad, proffering a handful of bills to gain favourable exception.

"Let's go ladies and get your friend up too." The large policeman pointed the way with his truncheon as Florence and Portia struggled with a dazed Calvin across the floor to the exit. Paddy wagons were lined up outside and the once gay party-goers were hustled inside, some crying, some arguing, some swearing.

Musical Media from the lindyhoppers collection