The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

by Chris Holcombe

  “Excellent,” said Dash. “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Karl.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  Walter reached for his inside jacket pocket.

  Joe stiffened. “Easy, there. I wouldn’t try nothing.”

  Walter gave him an annoyed look and slowly pulled out a small square of paper with bent edges. He handed it to Dash.

  A photograph.

  Dash supposed the image to be of Karl Müller. He was slight, the very opposite of his intimidating brother. A soft face with delicate features. His hair appeared ghostly white, as did the color of his skin. Gentle hands clasped in front of him in the stiff pose, the fingers looking like they trembled a bit before the flash bulb went off. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old.

  “Alright,” Dash said, “I’ll go see if he’s here.”

  Atty gestured towards Walter with his pistol. “We’ll make sure he behaves.”

  Dash leaned towards Joe and whispered, “Make sure Atty doesn’t accidentally shoot him.”

  “Hmph. Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

  “Then you can get down on your hands and knees to scrub the German’s brains off the floor.”

  Joe begrudgingly nodded.

  Dash prayed all three men would keep their tempers in check. Last thing his birthday needed was a shoot-out on top of a fight. He walked towards the mirror in the back wall and pushed the left-hand side. The mirror silently swung open on its hidden hinges.

  He no sooner entered the main room of Pinstripes than Finn glided up to him and shoved a cloth filled with ice into his hands.

  “For your poor, battered face.”

  Dash gingerly placed the makeshift ice pack against his cheek. The cold sent a searing, sharp pain to the back of his eye. He sucked in air between his teeth.

  “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  “Not yet, but soon it’ll be a spectacular black and purple. Did you find out why that man hates you so?”

  Dash told him the situation.

  “Oh dear,” Finn replied. “And he wants to drag his brother out by his hair? How caveman! Why would you turn this boy over to a brute like that?”

  Dash shook his head. “I’m not. I’m simply giving the boy the choice. If he doesn’t want to leave, he won’t. Simple as that.”

  Finn peered over Dash’s shoulder. “Where is this Walter, by the way? He’s not coming in here again?”

  “Atty has our angry German under guard.”

  “I hope the gun doesn’t go off.”

  “Has anyone ever told you what a comfort you are? His brother may not even be here. He’s adamant about that but he could be mistaken.” Dash handed Finn the photograph Walter gave him. “Look like anyone you’ve waited on tonight?”

  Finn studied the photograph, purring, “He is a choice bit of calico, isn’t he?” He returned it to Dash. “Have you ever had one, a German? They are quite the specimen. Tall, muscled. And what’s hanging between their legs is simply—”

  “Have you seen him, Finn?”

  Finn pouted but then answered the question. “I seem to recall one blondie tonight. It could be that fellow’s brother.” He pointed to the photograph in Dash’s hand. “This looks an awful lot like him, now that I think about it.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Young. Blushing. Nervous. I’d say it’s his first time in a club like this, or very nearly his first time. When I asked him what he’d like to drink, I thought he’d faint. I wanted to hold him to my breast and say, there, there, it will be alright.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He seemed to be waiting for someone. Always checking his wristwatch, which I’m just dying to have if someone will give me a raise.”

  “You’re trying my patience, Finn.”

  “I didn’t realize you were one for virtues. Anyhow, he was always looking at his wrist and checking the door. Like he was watching Helen Wills on the court. Back and forth, back and forth.”

  “Did anyone arrive for him?”

  “I don’t believe so. His table was already full. Not sure how they could’ve fit one more person, unless he sat on someone’s lap.”

  Dash nodded, making a guess. “Right, the woman in the blue and gold dress and the man in the tuxedo.”

  Finn’s eyes widened. “How on earth did you know that?”

  Dash tapped the side of his forehead. “I’ve got spiritualist powers.”

  “Hmm, they’re only working at half-speed, I’m afraid. You got one wrong.”

  “Oh?”

  “It wasn’t a man in the tuxedo. It was a woman.”

  “Ah.”

  Dash peered over Finn’s shoulder to see the table in the back-right corner. It was empty.

  Finn turned around. “My, my. Everyone must’ve run off. Where do you suppose the pretty boy went?”

  Either Karl was the tuxedo-ed figure Dash saw running out of here, or . . .

  “If he’s still here, he’s hiding. And I know where.” Dash patted Finn’s shoulder and returned to him the ice pack. “Thank you, Finn. Back to work you go.”

  Finn faked offense. “All I am to you is a hot number to parade around for tips.”

  “And no one does it better.”

  “I see. Well, dearie, while I’m out here degrading myself, something else you should consider.”

  “What is that?”

  “How did this Walter fellow even know about this club?”

  “Simple. He followed Karl here.”

  “Yes, but how did he know the secret knock?”

  And with that, Finn glided off.

  Dash nodded to himself, recognizing the question was a damned good one. The secret knock to get into Pinstripes was a series of syncopated hits not unlike the jazz that was roaring across Manhattan like a thunderclap. Patrons had to give it on the tailor shop’s front door. If the knock didn’t match the code, Atty, who was sitting at the sewing machine in the right-side window, would press a button on the side of his table. The button was wired to a red bulb inside Pinstripes. The red light would glare, causing everyone to stop the music and quiet themselves. Joe would lock the club’s secret door while Atty dealt with whomever out front. Only Dash gave out the secret knock, and he certainly wouldn’t have given it to a bluenose by accident. Perhaps one of his patrons parted with it by mistake? He’d have to sit down with Atty to figure out what went wrong. In the meantime, he had to contend with the Müller brothers.

  Damn. This was not how his birthday was supposed to go.

  He placed the photograph of Karl in his inside jacket pocket and made his way toward the back of the club, maneuvering around clusters of couples and trios. A few reached out and shook his hand, some wishing him a happy birthday, others saying what a glorious club this was. Crossing the dance floor, Dash walked through a cloud of nicotine mingling with the juniper of gin, the yeast of beer, and the sweet musk of sweat. Joy, freedom, and desire all in one fragrance.

  At the back of the room and to the right of the band was the water closet. Dash knocked on the door. “Karl? Are you in here?”

  A pause.

  A nervous voice stammered, “Who is it?”

  “My name is Dash Parker. I am the owner of the place. May I please come in?”

  A longer pause this time.

  “I promise I won’t make you leave with your brother.”

  Silence still.

  Then the lock clicked, and Dash went inside.

  3

  A young man stood nervously in front of the toilet. Unlike most of the patrons tonight, he wore the appropriate formal wear for a night out: tuxedo jacket, white shirt and waistcoat, white tie.

  Money, Dash thought. I see I was right about the family being rich.

  Like in the photograph in Dash’s pocket, Karl’s hands were clasped in front of him. Unlike in the photograph, in which his smile was forced, here the smile was gone, replaced by a panicked thin line.

  “Is he
gone?” Karl asked.

  Dash shut the door behind him. “Not yet.”

  Karl looked to the side wall, as if he could peer through it and see his brother. “I can’t go back there. Not after tonight.”

  “Go back where?”

  “Home.”

  “Is home that unwelcome for you?”

  Karl swallowed a cry, trying to keep the tears down. He looked even younger in the flesh than in the photograph in Dash’s pocket. A nymph’s nose, a child’s eyelashes, an aristocrat’s slicked-down hair. His smooth palms didn’t speak to long days of hard work, and his unblemished knuckles didn’t tell a story of fight and flight. Either he lived high above the streets or he was extremely careful walking them. He had to be with that wristwatch of his. Not many Village men owned one, and some would think it was theirs by virtue of seeing it on someone else.

  Karl’s head was still shaking from side to side. “I can’t go back there. He knows.”

  “I can tell him you’re not here.”

  “He won’t believe you.”

  “My men will keep him from searching the place, I promise you.”

  The kid stopped shaking his head. “Why are you helping me?”

  “Because I’m like you. Because . . . I had a very unwelcome home too.”

  Especially towards the end.

  Karl scrunched up his face, but this time, he couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down his pink-suffused cheeks. “Not like this.”

  Dash reached out and laid a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. Karl recoiled from the touch, almost falling against the toilet.

  Dash held up his hands in apology. “I don’t want to hurt you. I can help, if you’d let me.”

  “No one can help me. They tried to help, they all tried to, but it didn’t work and now, now I have nowhere else to go—”

  “Who tried? Your friends?”

  Karl’s response was made unintelligible by his sobs.

  Dash tried another tact. “Were you going to move out? Was someone going to take you in?”

  A low moan like a barge horn hummed from Karl’s chest. “You don’t understand.”

  “But I do.”

  “No! You don’t!”

  Dash wasn’t getting anywhere. He needed Karl to calm down so he could get Walter out of his club.

  “I will go back out there and tell your brother you are not here. You can stay in the club for as long as you like. My doorman, Atty? He can go outside and make sure your brother isn’t waiting for you on the street. And then you can leave and safely rejoin your friends. For now, just stay here. Can you do that?”

  It took effort, but the tears managed to subside enough for Karl to nod.

  Dash nodded in return. “I will return shortly.”

  He left the water closet, closing the door behind him. A strange emotion filled his chest, a mix of sadness and regret. I can’t go back there! Dash had uttered those same words as well when he was near that age.

  The band members weren’t at their instruments. Probably using the fight as an excuse to grab a drink. Dash didn’t blame them. He wanted one as well. Instead of accepting various drink offers from granite men or returning the fanciful gazes of porcelain boys, he entered the tailor shop’s changing area again, preparing himself for the lies he had to tell a man who most likely wouldn’t believe them.

  Joe gave him a harsh look. “Took ya long enough.”

  Atty had returned the pistol to his front trouser pocket. Now he stood with his arms folded across his chest. “Yeah, this fellow here is no good for conversation.”

  “Apologies, gentlemen,” Dash replied. “I wanted my search to be thorough.” He looked at Walter. “Your brother isn’t here.”

  “Liar!”

  Dash held up a hand. “I asked my waiter, who saw him leave. He must’ve seen you enter the place and while you were getting your face pounded by the boy you shouldn’t have hit, even if it was by accident, young Karl walked behind everyone and snuck out.”

  Joe said, “The bloke in the tuxedo. I saw him leave as well.”

  God bless you, Joe, Dash thought.

  Walter pointed at Atty. “How come he hasn’t said anything about a young boy leaving?”

  “Because people come and go all the time in a place like this. Right, Atty?”

  Atty gave him a curious look, then cleared his throat as well as his expression. “Right, right. It’s a never-ending parade.”

  Walter wasn’t buying it. “You’re all lying to me. You’re lying!”

  Dash had an idea. “If you’re done accusing us of deceit, I can show Atty here the photograph you gave me. He hasn’t seen what the boy looks like.”

  He took the picture out of his pocket and handed it to Atty.

  “Does this look like the fellow in the tuxedo?” Dash kept his face benign, but he hoped Atty caught the hint in his eyes.

  Atty turned his head to the side in a display of thought. He handed the photograph to Dash, who returned it to his inside coat pocket.

  “Yessir, that’s him in the tux, alright. He was pretty nervous too. I didn’t put it together, his leaving, your fight, but uh . . . this boy definitely came out here and left through that door. Went to the right, I think, towards Seventh.”

  God bless you too, Atty, Dash thought with relief.

  Walter kept his burning eyes on the doorman. “I want to search the club for myself.”

  Joe scoffed. “And start trouble again? I don’t think so, lad. If Mr. Parker says the boy is gone, then the boy is gone.”

  Dash added, “I’d go home and see if he’s there. If not, I’d search the cafeterias. At this late hour, they tend to cater to boys like him.”

  Walter grimaced at that last statement and turned his glare towards Dash. A tense silence followed.

  Don’t let the fear show on your face, Dash’s older brother Maximilian always said. That’s how you get away with lies.

  Walter stood up. Joe’s fist clenched, and Atty reached for his pistol. Walter held up his hands and forced a grotesque smile, his lips and tongue bloody from the two missing teeth in the upper right corner of his mouth.

  “Alright, gentlemen. If you say my brother is not here, then I shall look for him elsewhere.” He pointed a threatening finger at Dash. “But he is not to come back. Understood? You see him, you turn him away. I do not want to return to this despicable place.”

  Atty started, “You can’t tell us—”

  Dash placed a calming hand on Atty’s shoulder. “We will advise young Karl to go elsewhere. Though I doubt he’ll come back after seeing you here.”

  Walter said, “He better not.”

  Atty opened the changing area curtain and grabbed the German by the arm, leading him to the tailor shop’s front door.

  Dash remembered what Finn had said earlier and stopped Atty. “Mr. Müller, one question before you go. How did you know the knock to get into this club?”

  Walter kept his back to Dash. “What was that?”

  “The knock. On the front door of the tailor shop. How did you know it?”

  Walter turned towards Dash, his expression bemused, his tone condescending. “I heard him practicing it last night. Many of these secret clubs use such knocks. When I saw him go into your shop, I knew why he was practicing something so childish.”

  Joe demanded, “What kind of brother spies on his own?”

  Walter gave him a fiery look. “One who protects his family. He is my responsibility. I taught him everything from when he was a boy. To read, to write, to know right from wrong. He has been corrupted by the likes of you—”

  Dash interrupted the tirade. “And the mirror. How did you know about that?”

  Walter’s lips curved into another jack-o-lantern’s smile. “This is not the first club I’ve seen my brother enter. Many of you degenerates use the same tricks.”

  Damn it all.

  Atty, still holding on to Walter’s arm, said, “We done with him, boss?”

  Dash reluctantly no
dded.

  Atty opened the front door and pushed Walter across the threshold, saying “Go chase yourself!”

  Walter kept his blazing blue eyes on Dash as he stepped into the street, bloody grin still in place. “Good night, Mr. Parker. You should hope we never meet again.”

  Dash swallowed the lump in his throat.

  Atty slammed the front door shut and locked it. “Good riddance!” he said, returning to his post at the sewing table in the right-side window.

  Joe shared the sentiment. “What a bloody fool. Coming in here trying to place blame for his brother’s actions. Not yer responsibility.”

  “Yeah, not your responsibility.”

  Except the scared kid hiding in my club is my responsibility.

  Dash stood in front of the left-side window, watching as Walter sauntered down the street heading west towards Seventh Avenue, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Did he say anything of interest while I was gone?”

  “A bunch of ramblings,” replied Joe.

  Atty nodded. “He supports the Temperance Committee and the Anti-Saloon League. And he is a member of the Committee of Fourteen. Proud of the fact he works for the nannies.”

  Dash cursed under his breath. The Committee of Fourteen was an independent organization designed to “discipline” the broader culture. Nannies, indeed. They hired undercover investigators to spy on New York’s dance halls, saloons, theaters, and other, what they called, “commercialized amusements.” A man working for a place like that was the last person they needed to know about Pinstripes.

  Atty kept on. “Bet his Mother does all his thinking for him. Did you hear him, Joe? ‘Mother’ this and ‘Mother’ that.”

  Joe’s eyes were afire. “Ha! I bet he don’t take a piss without dear old Mum telling him so.”

  Atty raised his voice to mimic an elderly woman’s. “Remember to shake proper, Walter boy!”

  Dash said, “Did he say he’d report us to anyone? Make any threats like that?”

  Walter hadn’t. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t though.

  Dash turned away from watching the street and glanced around the tailor shop, trying to get a handle on their situation. The parlor-green walls felt like they were closing in on a space already too small. The modest furnishings he’d found left on the city streets were crammed together: the sewing table by Atty and Joe, a small writing desk at Dash’s hip, and, next to the curtained-off changing area, a wardrobe standing against the back wall, which functioned as a display case for jackets and ties and was topped with various hats. In this mix of light and shadow, those hats looked like vultures staring down at the doomed.