The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

by Chris Holcombe

  McElroy flashed him look. “These young ones don’t respect authority. I’ve had to teach one or two how to be respectful and believe me”—he turned back to Dash—“you don’t want to be a student of mine.” He scanned the rest of the room. “None of you do.”

  Dash nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  McElroy’s grin exposed gray and yellow teeth. “That’s more like it. Yes, sir indeed.” He returned the timepiece to his trouser pockets and gave Dash his full attention. “How goes business at Hartford & Sons?”

  “Terrible. I’m barely making a dime.”

  “That’s not what I hear. I hear if you want to have a good time, you visit good old Dashiell Parker on West Fourth. He’ll set you up fine.”

  “Nasty rumors.”

  McElroy went on as if Dash hadn’t responded. “Yes, you hear all kinds of things when you’re on this beat. It would be a shame if I had to report half of what I hear. Do you have your weekly donation to the New York Police Department? Remember, it’s selfless contributions from citizens such as yourself that help the NYPD keep this city safe.”

  There was a grumble from the bohemians behind them. Emmett shot them a warning look.

  “Do not worry, I’ve got your payment,” Dash said, thankful he actually did.

  “Donation,” Cullen corrected.

  Dash forced a smile. “Coming right up.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold. He counted out the bribe—five dollars, almost as much as his rent!—and returned the billfold to his pocket. He reached out to McElroy to shake his hand, the money in his palm. He tried not to squirm as the officer’s slimy fingers gripped his own.

  “We’re grateful for your generosity,” McElroy said.

  “We’re grateful for your blind eye.”

  McElroy finally released his hand, the dollar bills now in his palm, which was being transferred to his trouser pocket. Dash wondered how many bills he had in there at one time. A fair amount of sugar, given how many businesses were on this block alone.

  McElroy touched the brim of his cap. “Until next week, Mr. Parker.” He looked at Emmett. “I’ll see you next in a few days. And I better receive more respect from you, grandpa.”

  He exited the Inn and strolled down West Fourth towards Seventh Avenue—and, no doubt, towards his other victims—whistling along the way. As soon as he left, the tension level in the Inn dropped by half. A collective sigh of relief murmured throughout the room.

  Dash turned to see the bohemians still watching him. “Look at that,” he said, gesturing to the front door. “There goes one of New York’s finest.”

  Someone scoffed, “Finest, my ass. He’s the worst thing about this city!”

  Another voice said, “Yeah, get rid of the police!”

  More voices joined in. “No more police! No more police!”

  Dash looked at Emmett with a wry smile and raised his coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

  It was time to open Hartford & Sons for the day. Granted, Dash wasn’t a tailor, not by any means, despite Victor trying desperately to teach him. (And heaven help him, Victor tried his best.) But a storefront couldn’t stay closed all day without inviting the attention of some cop or federal agent—someone who wasn’t accepting his bribes, that is.

  Dash had the wherewithal to at least do measurements, which he would take during business hours, and have Atty, who surprisingly was quite adept with a needle and thread, do the alterations at night. Atty sat at the sewing machine in the right-side window of the tailor shop, the shine of his sewing table lamp the signal to those in the know that Pinstripes was open. Together, he and Dash gave the illusion of Hartford & Sons being a legitimate business. And the nocturnal alterations kept Atty from being bored senseless while standing guard.

  Very clever, if Dash could be so bold to admit.

  And yet, it wasn’t too clever for Walter Müller.

  Dash sincerely hoped the bluenose’s presence wasn’t a harbinger of things to come.

  He spent an uneventful day taking measurements from those who didn’t know about the club and answering questions about “pinstripe suits” from those who did. No one named Lowell Henley stopped by, which eased some of Dash’s anxiety. Maybe this Mr. Henley would forget all about him and bypass his club entirely.

  Long shot odds for that one.

  At 5:00, he closed up shop and went to a public bath, letting the steam and the water wash away the grit and dirt of the day. He returned to the Cherry Lane Playhouse apartment, where he napped, despite an incessant stage manager from below yelling “Theodore! Places! Anyone seen Theo? He’s missed his entrance three times! God help me . . .”

  At 9:00, he changed into his tuxedo jacket, white silk shirt, vest, and tie, and returned to West Fourth for dinner.

  Walking the careless zigzag of the Village streets, Dash felt himself come alive. True, he worked during the daylight hours, but he was a night animal by nature, always had been. When he was sixteen, he would sneak out of the family home and explore all the neighborhoods his parents told him to avoid—especially the ones Thomas and Mary Parker disdained. Just the act of being where he wasn’t supposed to filled him with euphoria. And with it came sharpened senses and a quickness and deftness he didn’t have during “normal” hours.

  Even now, years later, he thrived off the shadowy sounds of the darkened city. The purr of unseen motor cars. The squeal of the elevated trains navigating the curves from West Third to Sixth Avenue. The rapid click of shoes on pavement and the loose laughter of friends. In between the bursts of sound was the sensual swivel of a cap being removed from a bottle. Dash tingled with excitement and anticipation. Who knew what wonders the night would bring?

  When Dash turned onto his portion of West Fourth between Barrow and Jones, he stopped. This section of street looked different tonight. He scanned the narrow area, looking for something out of place. What was it?

  The windows in the apartments above him were lit, the sounds of clattering dishes from their occupants spilling out into the night. Nothing unusual there.

  The gentle rush of the wind interrupted by the harsh metallic echo of trash being thrown carelessly into bins. A mouthwatering aroma of sautéing onions and garlic from nearby restaurants was interrupted by a toe-curling whiff of urine and vomit from rotting places unseen.

  So far, a typical summer night in New York.

  Dash scanned the street again.

  Ah. It was his tailor shop.

  The light in the front right window was out. Strange. Pinstripes wasn’t closed this evening, so why did Atty have the light off? Were they late opening?

  Trouble, he thought.

  And his eyes found it. A darkened figure was weaving back and forth in front of Hartford & Sons. The figure looked familiar, but the distance and the shadows hid his face. He stumbled, caught himself, then stumbled again. The plate-glass window of Dash’s shop was a backdrop curtain for this sloppy performance, the name of the shop the marquee. Intuition whispered a warning.

  Run. He hasn’t seen you yet.

  But if the man was here now, then he would return again. And if Dash could point in the opposite direction, he might be able to keep the kid safe for longer.

  Dash took a breath, then slowly walked east on West Fourth towards his shop. The dark figure was now cursing to himself. Dash was ten feet away when stray pieces of gravel crunched beneath his feet.

  The figure turned around and looked straight at him.

  “You!” the German voice shouted.

  “Oh hell,” Dash muttered.

  He had guessed right. The figure was Walter Müller.

  8

  Unlike last night, tonight Walter’s state of dress was a state of anarchy. Jacket crooked, tie askew, elbows and knees smudged with dirt and grime, no doubt picked up from crawling across whatever surface he had fallen upon. And he had definitely fallen. The man couldn’t maintain his balance. Was he drunk? Dash couldn’t believe it. A bluenose? Dash would’ve dou
bted his observation, but enough time spent in speakeasies had made him an expert in determining who was half-seas over. And Walter had gone overboard.

  “Mr. Müller,” Dash said, keeping his voice steady and neutral.

  “You bastard. You fairy bastard!”

  Dash flicked a look around. Several passersby gave them wide berth, staring at the drunkard with equal parts humor and disdain. At the announcement of “fairy,” some eyed Dash.

  “Too much giggle water,” he replied to the questioning stares.

  One of the men said, “Get him out of here before he hurts somebody, will ya?”

  “It’s more likely he’ll hurt himself,” Dash replied. He closed the distance between him and the German. “Walter, let’s get you some joe.”

  Walter swatted at the air. “I don’t need coffee.”

  Dash tried to grab Walter’s arm, but the man yelled “No!” before he stumbled backward, hitting the sidewalk with an awkward thump. Some of the spectators laughed.

  Dash reached down and said, “Take my hand, Walter. Before you further embarrass yourself.”

  The German gave him a look of utter contempt. He tried to stand on his own, but he couldn’t manage it. Reluctant, he let Dash help him up.

  “This way.”

  Dash steered him to his storefront. He then placed Walter against the doorframe while he caught Atty’s eye. The man must’ve watched the whole scene from his perch in the shop window. At first, Atty seemed confused. He rightly didn’t want Walter coming in, but Dash needed to get Walter off the street before he said something even more inflammatory.

  “You bastard,” the German kept saying, his alcohol-stained breath offending Dash’s nose.

  The bruise on Walter’s face was double that of Dash’s. Red and purple circles surrounded both eyes; broken capillaries fanned out over his brow and down his cheeks. And, of course, the missing upper two teeth. He looked like a man with nothing left to lose. A dangerous man.

  Dash nodded to Atty, who finally got up and walked towards the front door.

  As Atty undid the locks, Dash said, “Mr. Müller, you are disrupting my place of business.”

  “What are you going to do? Call the cops? Ha!” Spittle landed on Dash’s face. “Let’s call them. Let’s call them right now!”

  He was leaning on the tailor shop door when Atty jerked it open. Walter almost fell onto the floor but Atty caught him, saying “Whoa, there!” Atty’s eyes flicked over to Dash. “I need some help here, Boss.”

  Dash grabbed Walter’s torso and helped Atty stand the German more upright. “Let’s get him into the changing area.”

  “Youse sure?”

  Dash said as he pushed Walter inside, “It’s better than on the street when he can say all kinds of things. He’s so bleary-eyed, God knows what will come flying out.”

  “And he a teetotaler? I knew it! Those bluenoses are nothing but a bunch of hypocrites.”

  Dash thought of his older brother Max sneaking out of their parent’s house to visit one of four women who each thought she was his only girl. That was if he wasn’t visiting one of the whorehouses down in Times Square. Yet Dash was the degenerate.

  He replied, “You’re not wrong, Atty.”

  He closed the door behind them and the three of them stumbled towards the curtained-off changing area. Atty pulled back the green curtain and Dash set Walter into the wooden chair, the legs scraping the floor with a groan from the backward motion of his weight. Satisfied Walter wouldn’t slump off and hit the floor, Dash and Atty stepped back, their voices low so Walter couldn’t overhear them.

  “What happened tonight?” murmured Dash.

  “He tried to force his way in here, but he didn’t know the new code. Smart thinking changing it last night. I wouldn’t let him in, even though he was hollering. I was hoping he’d eventually ankle, but no such luck.”

  Dash shook his head and stared at the angry drunk, who kept muttering profanities and slurs over and over.

  I got rid of you one time. How the hell will I manage a second?

  “Atty, can you go across the street to the Inn and grab some coffee from Emmett? We need to sober him up.”

  “Yeah, sure. Need anything else?”

  “A sandwich for me. Whatever Emmett’s got. And Atty? Let’s keep the lamp light off. We don’t want anyone else coming in right now.”

  “Youse got it.”

  Dash heard the clicks of the front door closing and locking. Now only the yellow from streetlights provided any kind of illumination in the darkened shop, their beams creating stripes on the wood floor. Prison bars. Where Dash would soon be if he couldn’t figure out what this bluenose from the Committee of Fourteen wanted.

  Dash went and grabbed a chair from the writing desk and dragged it over towards Walter. He pulled the curtain around them, cutting out the lights from the street, and sat across from the belligerent drunk. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Even in shadow, he saw Walter couldn’t hold his head upright.

  “Walter,” Dash said, his voice sharp and clear.

  The man jerked as if electrocuted. He slurred something incomprehensible.

  “Walter,” Dash repeated. “What did you drink?”

  “I don’t know,” Walter mumbled.

  “Clear or brown?”

  “What?”

  “What you drank. Was it clear or brown?”

  “Clear.”

  Thank the Lord for small favors. Most of the poisonous liquors were yellow or brown in color. A clear liquid didn’t necessarily mean Walter hadn’t consumed something lethal, but it made his odds a lot better.

  “Good,” Dash said. “Where did you get it? The drink? Was it a speak?”

  Walter’s reply was incomprehensible.

  “Walter. Talk to me. Where did you get the booze?”

  Walter seemed to cry at the mention of the word. Dash felt a small pang of sympathy for the man. Walter had fallen from grace, from that pious podium on which he preached abstinence, sobriety, and purity of spirit.

  Welcome to terra firma with the rest of us.

  “Walter—”

  The tailor shop door opening interrupted them. Atty with the coffee.

  The curtain swung open. Dash reached over and took the hot mug from the short man. He thanked him and gingerly placed Walter’s hands around the steaming mug. Dash hoped the heat from the porcelain would stimulate a few of his senses that had been dulled by the alcohol. With both hands overlaid on top of Walter’s, together they lifted the mug to the cracked, dried lips. Walter took a few sips. After a moment, Walter could hold onto the cup of coffee on his own.

  Dash released the mug and stood, beckoning Atty to step back a few feet from Walter.

  Atty said, his voice quiet, “Your sandwich is on the desk.”

  “Thank you, Atty.” Dash nodded towards Walter. “He wasn’t with anyone tonight?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did he get here by walking or by cab?”

  “By hack. Don’t think he lives close by.”

  Dash ran a hand over his mouth. “What are we going to do with him?”

  Atty shrugged. “We can just put him six feet under. That way, he don’t bother us no more.”

  Dash shook his head. “Offing a man doesn’t solve all problems.”

  “Yes, it does! This guy on my family’s old street, some Sicilian fuck—’cuse my language, Mr. Parker—kept coming around and trying to mess with my sister. She’s not more than fifteen and no one’s gonna take her honor, least of all this scraggly do-nothing with no job, no shave, and no clean shirt. Finally, Papa confronted him one day and said, ‘youse try that one more time, I’m gonna turn you from a devil to an angel with one shot.’”

  “Let me guess,” Dash said, “the ‘Sicilian fuck’ came back.”

  Atty grinned. “And now he has his wings.”

  “I doubt he’s in heaven given what he tried to pull.”

  “The point is, Papa solved the problem. Might wan
t to think about that with this fella.”

  Dash ran his tongue over his teeth and shook his head again. “We’re not killers, Atty.”

  Walter must’ve overheard them, for he scoffed, “The hell you’re not.”

  Dash walked towards the slumping, slurring man. “What was that?”

  “I said, the hell you’re not. You kill. You may not know it, but you deal in death.”

  Dash put his hands on his hips. “Oh yeah? Then whose untimely demise did we cause?”

  The reply came out wet and mean, like a sudden ocean wave catching a bather by surprise and slapping him across the face.

  “My brother’s.”

  Dash couldn’t breathe. Karl? Dead? When? How?

  Walter’s eyes blazed with anger. “You fairy bastards. You corrupted him. And now he’s dead.”

  Atty stepped forward. “You Dumb Dora, Mr. Parker didn’t kill your brother! Why, he tried to help—”

  “That’s enough, Atty,” Dash said. He looked at Walter. “We didn’t cause anybody to get hurt, and we have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Goddamn perverts!”

  “And you are entirely too blotto to be reasoned with.”

  Walter must be wrong. Or playing a cruel joke. Karl was safe and sound up in Harlem, counting inventory in the Oyster House basement. He could not be dead. He just couldn’t.

  Walter was getting wound up. “You fucking hand-hippers. You caused him to die!”

  “Why should we believe you?” Dash said.

  Atty jumped in. “Yeah, how do we know youse telling the truth?”

  A look of disdain flashed across Walter’s face. “Why would I lie?”

  “I don’t know,” Dash replied. “To trick us into doing something we don’t want to do.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Dash leaned forward, his face inches away from Walter’s. “Why else are you here? You could’ve called the cops to shut us down. You could’ve alerted the Feds. You didn’t. Why? Because you want something, that’s why.”

  Walter smiled that jack-o-lantern grin. “You are a very clever man, for a degenerate. This will come in handy.”