“—I need a china cup?”
El put her hands on her hips and gave him a baleful look. “You know I hate it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Finish my sentences like we some kind of boring married couple.”
Dash forced a smile. “I’d make a good wife.”
“Uh huh, and I’d make a lousy husband.”
Dash chuckled a little. “So who’s my china cup?”
“Flo Russell. She’s a dancer at Connie’s Inn. I’ve known her for years. She’ll do right by you. Of course, I’ve got to convince her first.”
“Didn’t you say you always get what you want?”
“From men! They’re too easy to convince.” She blew out a breath. “But women? That’s a whole other story.”
“I never did figure them out myself.”
El gave a sardonic smile. “Yeah, well. Tomorrow night. Half a chime past midnight. Meet me here. We’ll go to her apartment. Flo and I usually have a cocktail and a ciggy there between our sets. If I can’t convince her, maybe you can.”
“What makes you think so?”
“You convinced me, didn’t you?”
The cab driver leaned towards his opened passenger window. “Hey, are you goin’ somewhere’s or not?”
El said, “Hold your damn horses, son!” She then crossed her arms and looked at Dash. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“Find this Tyler Smith,” Dash said, “and hope like hell he gives me all the answers.”
11
The following morning, Tuesday, August 17, the rising sun behind the Shelton Hotel flared like an explosion against the top right corner of the thirty-one-story skyscraper. Glittering golden sunspots rained down against the walls, with a few careless ambers floating towards the neighboring buildings. The sight took Dash’s breath away, and he marveled at how other worldly this city was—like nowhere else on earth.
When his vision cleared, the wonder didn’t cease. The Shelton Hotel was a four-million-dollar spectacle practically taking up the entire block of 49th Street and Lexington Avenue. He and Joe stood across the street from its westward entrance, staring up as each bricked story climbed higher and higher until it reached a barely visible central tower at the top. Dash knew from reading the Times during its proposal and construction how the architects designed three setbacks which not only got around the zoning laws, but also created this stunning vertical effect.
The crick in their necks finally caused Dash and Joe to look down and at each other.
“You don’t see that every day in the Village,” Dash remarked.
Joe’s response was more pertinent to their situation. “This Tyler lad most have a lot of sugar to afford this. Ya think Walter wants some of it?”
“El certainly thinks so. Finn says there’s a year-long waiting list for an apartment.”
“What’s so special about it?”
“Right now, it’s the site of Houdini’s latest demonstration. Didn’t you read about it? He was placed in a coffin and submerged in the hotel’s swimming pool for an ungodly amount of time. Trying to disprove the spiritual trance the Hindi Rahman Bey claimed he went into to accomplish the same thing.”
Joe arched a fiery eyebrow. “One of these days, Houdini is gonna do himself in trying to prove half the world wrong.” His forehead wrinkled. “Lassie, why didn’t Karl just come here? Why did he say he had nowhere to go?”
Dash sighed. “I don’t know. I asked about a lover, and he said he no longer had one. Perhaps that’s what Tyler Smith is. Or was.”
“Still, desperate times and all.”
“Depends on how badly they ended things.” Dash gestured towards the limestone entrance. “Let’s see what we can find out.”
They may have been doing what Walter demanded of them, but it wasn’t the only thing they were up to. Dash wasn’t about to sit by and let some hypocritical bluenose take away everything he’d worked for. He certainly wasn’t going to let his friends suffer neither.
Last night, when Dash returned to Pinstripes, he learned the mysterious man, the “baby grand” who tried to meet with him twice now, had disappeared. Joe had said the man would find another time.
“But he wasn’t the least bit happy about it, lassie,” Joe warned.
Given the news of Karl’s death, Dash didn’t care one way or the other if this baby grand was irritated with him. He had far bigger concerns.
For the rest of the evening, he sat at Pinstripe’s bar, sipping gin, wondering how he was going to tell his friends they were being blackmailed to become accessories to murder. Perhaps multiple murders.
When Pinstripes closed for the night and Dash finally told them what Walter wanted, they reacted in their usual ways. Joe cursed all bluenoses. Finn lamented how first, he was going to lose his precious Valentino, and now he was going to lose his precious freedom. And Atty said Dash should’ve let him blow the German’s brains out when he had the chance.
Once tempers finally crested, they set about creating a plan. Atty would be extra vigilant, making sure there weren’t federal uncover agents watching them. Finn would put his flair for the theatrical to good use by disguising himself and, with the address Walter gave Dash, would watch and follow the German during the day. He could borrow some of the makeup and props from the Playhouse. It turned out there was a benefit to living above a theatre after all.
“We need to get something on him,” Dash said to his friends. “I don’t believe for a moment he’s earning enough money from the Committee to afford his expensive suits. Or Karl’s, for that matter.”
“That divine wristwatch,” Finn purred.
“Exactly.”
“Maybe he’s collecting bribes like the rest of them,” Joe replied. “Just ’cause they say they’re moral don’t mean they are.”
“He was drunk as a skunk tonight,” Atty added.
Dash sipped more gin. “And he may have killed Karl himself and is looking to pin it on someone else."
Finn shuddered. “Killing your own brother. That would make me want to get zozzled. Keep in mind, I don’t even like my brother, but still, why be a Cain and risk being cursed for all eternity?”
Joe crossed his arms over his chest. “I bet his defense is the pansy made me do it. Ya know how these moralists like to blame their own actions on others.”
Atty scowled. “These bluenoses get me so sore, so sore, I tell ya!”
“Either way,” Dash said, “extortion or murder, if we can prove criminal actions, then we can get Walter put away.”
Joe’s face was serious as stone. “We need to be careful, lads. Those in charge of morality need to keep up appearances, and they may do anything to protect themselves.”
“Good point.” Dash looked at his friends. “We don’t trust anyone involved with the Müllers. Understood? Not until we know what the devil is going on.”
All three men nodded.
“Alright, gents. Let’s get some answers.”
It felt good to have a plan, to take action.
Now he and Joe walked towards the Shelton’s limestone entrance, which was two stories tall, with five archways upheld by five columns. Intimidating stone griffins perched overhead, their talons gripping the busts, their beaks sharp, their sightless eyes staring at all who entered. From the front, they looked like militant eagles, reminiscent of the war propaganda posters from a few years back—when the newshawks wrote of earth-shattering shells and the massacred fields of “no man’s land.” An involuntary shiver danced up Dash’s spine to his shoulders.
Past the columns and their griffins were intricate brass sconces hanging above the three main doorways. Joe said, “After you, lassie,” and Dash, with his friend behind him, entered the Shelton.
The lobby murmured with usual hotel energy. The excitement of new guests seeing the metropolis of New York for the first time. The nervousness of exiting guests worried they’d miss their trains. The hustle and bustle of bell hops as they wheel
ed brass-pole carts stacked with luggage to and from elevators. Rolling, clicking, and shuffling sounds echoed off the shiny tiled floor, itself a pattern of gold and sienna blue. The corners of the ceiling as well as the room itself were curved, making the entire room an oblong oval. In the center of the room stood a brass clock on a square-shaped granite base. The clock’s face indicated it was 11:15.
Dash and Joe looked around and saw the front desk was tucked off to the side in an adjacent hallway. They waited in line as two other men, one short and thin, the other tall and stocky, checked in. Once they concluded their business, the concierge gestured for them to step forward.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” The concierge had a slight flash in the eyes. “Do you have a reservation?” his voice taking on notes of suspicion.
At first, Dash didn’t understand the man’s haughtiness. Both he and Joe wore freshly spot-cleaned and pressed suits, a light tan with a blue-striped tie for Dash and a checked brown with a green-striped tie for Joe. They had even paused for a shoeshine, despite Joe saying it was a waste of time and money.
It’s the bruise on my face.
Dash looked back at the concierge and replied in an even tone, “We don’t have one, I’m afraid.”
The concierge frowned, delighted to deliver his bad news to a pair of men he didn’t believe belonged in his lobby. “I’m terribly sorry, sirs, but we are completely full—”
“That’s all right, my good man, we are actually meeting a friend of ours. Mr. Tyler Smith.”
Suspicion was replaced by skepticism. “I’ll have to check my records.”
Joe replied, “Ya do that.”
The concierge gave him a withering look, then went through the logbook. He must’ve found the listing, for he frowned and said, “And what names shall I give?”
Dash gave the one name he thought would most convince Mr. Smith to let them up to his room. “Karl Müller.”
The concierge looked to Joe. “And you?”
“Mr. Johnson,” Dash answered for him. Instinct told him not to give their real names.
More skepticism from the concierge. “I’ll just go in the back and—”
“Oh for bloody sakes,” cursed Joe. “Ya got a telephone right there. Call him up now and let’s get on with it.”
For once, Dash didn’t mind Joe’s bluntness. The concierge was making a show out of something so simple, and all because they didn’t have the appearance of the right class.
Did I do that when I was younger?
Most assuredly. It was how he was raised. Those with dirt under their nails and bags under their eyes were just spokes in the wheel that turned the rich’s fortunes. A flash of shame blushed Dash’s cheeks.
May I never think that way again.
“Alright,” slowly replied the concierge.
He picked up the receiver of the telephone and flipped a switch on the switchboard. He kept his eyes on Dash and Joe while he waited for Tyler Smith to answer.
“Mr. Smith? There are two gentlemen here to see you. Yes, two. Their names? One is a Mr. Karl Müller and the other one is—” A look of surprise painted his face. “I understand. I will . . . send them up right away.”
The concierge’s earlier haughtiness had been replaced by a puzzled defeat. “Gentlemen, his room is 2119. The elevators are through the lobby and across the corridor.”
Joe leaned forward. “We thank you, ya condescending ass.”
Dash tugged at his arm. “Let’s go, Joe.”
They followed the concierge’s instructions and soon they were in a small box climbing high above Manhattan. Stepping off into the quiet corridor of the 21st floor, they walked until they found Tyler Smith’s room number. It was a corner suite.
Joe said, “What do we do now?”
“Simple,” replied Dash. “We knock.”
Once he did, a masculine voice said from the other side of the door, “Come in. It’s unlocked.”
Joe’s brow creased. “That’s odd.”
Dash shrugged and turned the knob. The two men entered a short hallway before coming upon as ornate a room as they’d ever seen, all done up in the modern style taking over the city. Glass coffee table with a plumage of white feathers stuck in a cream-colored vase. A beckoning velvety blue sofa with gold and champagne-colored pillows. Two rounded chairs done up with ivory-colored fabric. Three-piece nesting accent tables, their gold legs able to fit inside one other like a Russian doll. And a silver bar cart glittering with bottles and glasses.
Two sets of corner windows overlooked the city, one set facing northward towards Central Park and the other westward towards New Jersey. The sky was clear, blue, and vast, making an already stunning room even more so.
Except it was missing Tyler Smith. The two men exchanged another look.
Joe said, “We did just hear him say to come in, didn’t we?”
Dash nodded. This was very odd.
They ventured further into the room. A closed door was to their left, which Dash supposed led to the bedroom. Was the mysterious Mr. Smith dressing for his guests? It was late morning, but perhaps he was a night owl.
As Dash walked forward, he heard a slight crunch. He looked down. Beneath him on the intricate ruby red, gold, and sienna blue rug were shards from a broken glass, scattered ashes from past cigarettes—or perhaps from a dropped ashtray, given the multitude of them—and a large red wine stain. Dash doubted Mr. Smith would be getting his cleaning deposit back.
“Lassie,” Joe said softly. “Where is Mr. Smith?”
He is taking a rather long time to show himself, Dash thought.
He turned around and nodded towards the closed bedroom door. “Dressing,” he mouthed before calling out “Mr. Smith?”
A muffled voice behind the bedroom door replied, “One moment!”
“Something’s wrong,” murmured Joe.
A sudden tingling sensation tickled Dash’s throat and chest. “I think you’re—”
Dash didn’t get to finish the sentence for just then the bedroom door opened, and a tall man dressed in a light gray suit stepped into the front room, brandishing a shiny black pistol.
“Alright, gents,” he said. “Just who the hell are you?”
12
Standing across the room from each other, both Dash and Joe raised their hands upwards.
The man was closest to Joe, who dwarfed him in size. He jerked his head towards Dash, saying, “Get over there with him.”
Joe nodded and sidestepped his way across the room, never once taking his eyes off the pistol.
Dash tried to keep his voice steady. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”
The man pointed his pistol at Dash. “You bet there has. I’m not gonna ask you a second time. Who are you? ’Cause neither one of you is Karl Müller.”
Joe tried to intervene as he stood beside Dash. “Look, lad, we just want to—”
The man quickly aimed the pistol back at Joe. “I said who, you goddamned Mick!”
“All right, all right,” said Dash, trying to make his voice steady. “Keep it jake, fellas.” He pointed to his chest. “Mr. Smith, my name is Dash Parker, I’m a tailor down in Greenwich. This is my business partner Joe O’Shaughnessy.”
Tyler Smith was confused. He frowned. “Bohemia? What are you doing in midtown?”
Joe replied, “We just want to talk to ya about Karl, Mr. Smith.”
“What about him?”
Dash didn’t see a way to soften the blow. “He’s dead.”
“Dead!”
“Murdered, in fact.”
Tyler looked to Joe, who nodded in affirmation. “Oh. I see.” The pistol sagged, the weight of the metal too heavy for his depleting resolve. His voice quieted. “That’s why he hasn’t been around.”
“You were waiting for him?” Dash asked.
Tyler hesitated. “No, but he usually swings by.” He cleared his throat, his voice strengthening. “He’s like an alley cat that way. Seems to disappear and then one nig
ht, you hear a little pawing at the door and a pathetic little mew, practically begging to be let in.”
Joe said, “Mr. Smith, we are in a bit of a situation. We need your help finding someone.”
The gun came back up. “You coppers?”
Joe scoffed, “Christ bleedin’ on the cross, do we look like coppers?”
Tyler waved the gun in an irritated fashion, causing Dash and Joe to tense at the metal nozzle aiming this way, then that. “How the hell should I know? They got coppers now dressed in everyday clothes instead of the usual blues. And, uh, not to point out the obvious”—he nodded to Dash’s face—“but it looks like you got yourself into a fight with someone. Someone you were arresting, maybe?”
“I did get into a fight,” Dash replied, “but not while arresting someone. A misunderstanding in a speak. A speak I own.” He decided to take a chance. “A special speak for certain types of men who fancy, shall we say, different types of company . . .”
Wariness followed by understanding flickered across Tyler’s face. He lowered the gun to his side. “You better not be chewing gum, mister.”
“You have my word as a gentleman.”
Tyler smirked. “Not much worth in that, these days.”
Despite the confrontational words, the gun stayed at his side.
With the weapon not taking all of Dash’s attention, other features of Tyler Smith came into view. He was thin, with short brown hair and delicate eyes and lashes. The smooth skin of his cheeks had not yet been touched by stress or age. The suit he wore was nondescript, a light summer gray, the bright blue tie the only splash of color on him.
Dash said, “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I understand you and Karl used to be close.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Oh?” Dash followed his instincts. “I thought you two were . . .”
“No. Well yes, but it wasn’t what you think.” Tyler was agitated, his eyes darting around like he was looking for an escape. He found one in the bar cart. “Would you two like a drink? My nerves are a bit overcome by the news.”
“Aye,” Joe replied. “Whiskey if ya got it.”
The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel Page 10
