The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

by Chris Holcombe

  Dash flinched at the sudden surge in intensity.

  He knows about us bribing Cullen McElroy, just like he knew about the delivery truck we use. How long has he been watching us?

  Sleeve inspection complete, Fife then adjusted his collar. “I am a fair and reasonable man, Mr. Parker. I do business; I don’t do anarchy. Some of the others in this city?” He shrugged. “They have bullets and liquor and no idea what to do with either. You can be under their control; in which case you will find yourself in the middle of endless turf wars. You’ve read the papers. You’ve seen the damage they cause on a regular basis. God forbid an innocent bystander be hurt by that. You. Your customers. Your doorman. The Irish bartender who loves you so thoroughly.”

  Dash’s face turned red.

  The gangster smiled. “Oh yes, my associate has been following you for quite some time. You really should get better shades in your window. But then, I don’t think my associate would’ve enjoyed the view half as much.”

  Dash tried to speak. “Mr. Fife—“

  Fife raised his hand to cut him off. “I don’t care what you do with your cock. Or what the Irishman does with his, for that matter. We all have our appetites to satisfy. Unfortunately, my competitors are not so understanding. They’ll want to own your club, but they’ll have disdain for the clientele to which you cater. Which begs the question, how much will they protect you from the police? From the Feds? From their own rivals? They may even sell you out to the highest bidder. Law enforcement, tabloids, or both.”

  Dash replied, “I can re-read your contract again, if you’d like. I still want to see the goods you would be providing my business.” He refused to be completely intimidated, dammit, even if it was foolish to hold onto any crumbs of pride.

  The gangster paused for so long, Dash thought he had crossed the line. Again.

  And this time, I won’t survive it.

  Fife’s expression changed to one of admiration. “I can respect that. It will be arranged. Just remember this. Whomever you make the deal with, always consider if that agreement will keep you on your knees”—he lowered his hand, causing Dash to flinch. The hand grasped Dash’s own and pulled him up from the floor—“or let you stand. I let people be on their feet.”

  Dash now stood face-to-face with this man, practically toe-to-toe. That smirk again. That damnable smirk.

  Then, without warning, the gangster cupped Dash’s face with both hands and gave him a long, gentle, wet kiss. The lips were surprisingly tender and deft, inspiring Dash’s own mouth to naturally respond.

  When Fife pulled back, he whispered, “I know you’ve wanted to do that for quite some time now.”

  He winked before turning away to collect his coat, hat, and cane. Once he was put back together, he strolled to the shop door and opened it, letting in the hellfire of the August heat.

  Full voiced, he said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  Joe roared, “He just came to the shop?! In broad daylight! The nerve of that man!”

  It was close to sunset and they were standing out front of the Cherry Lane Playhouse, watching folks line up for the box office for tonight’s show, the second night of previews. They smoked cigarettes off to the side near their apartment entrance. The sky was a brilliant pink overhead.

  Dash took another nervous drag and said, “That’s generally how these men operate.”

  Joe gave him a pointed look. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about him sooner.” He meant Lowell Henley.

  “I’m sorry, Joe. I didn’t want to worry you and Finn and Atty until there was something to worry about.” Dash looked down at his feet. “I suppose now there is.”

  Joe reluctantly nodded, his form of accepting Dash’s apology.

  A “normal” couple, radiating energy, came up to them. “Is this the line for the box office?” the man asked. His cheeks were cherub red, as were hers.

  Dash shook his head and pointed to their right. “It’s over there.”

  The woman lightly bumped her elbow to his arm, her manner good-natured. “I told you so.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The man tipped his hat to Dash and Joe. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Joe replied.

  The couple left them to get in the correct line.

  Joe snubbed out his cigarette in the teacup they used as an ashtray, placed it on the ground, then seized Dash by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, lad. I should’ve been there.”

  Dash looked into Joe’s emerald eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Ya could’ve been hurt. Or worse.”

  Don’t remind me.

  The moment Nicholas Fife left the shop, Dash practically fainted into his desk chair. All of the tension which had built up like steam in a boiler burst through. The rush of relief at having still been alive was quickly followed by the mounting dread of what would happen next.

  Fife is always watching. Is he watching us now?

  Dash looked up and down the street, saying to Joe, “How could you have known he’d pay us a visit? I had advance warning, what with Lowell offering me the contract and all, and even I didn’t anticipate this.”

  Joe released Dash’s shoulders and sighed. “We’ll have to do it, won’t we? Sign the agreement?”

  Dash’s eyes stopped patrolling the street and settled back on Joe’s face. The freckled forehead was wrinkled with worry, and the corners of his eyes held lines of regret. An old feeling rose up in Dash’s chest and he quickly swallowed it down.

  Shaking his head, he replied to Joe’s question, “I don’t see how we have a choice.”

  They didn’t have many choices these days, what with men like Fife, Müller—hell, even McElroy—in their lives.

  Did you really believe freedom was possible?

  Another couple, this one older, their hair completely gray with faces lined like crumpled paper bags, walked up to them.

  “Excuse me, sirs,” the older gent said. “Is this the line for the box office?”

  Joe turned his head to the side and blew out a line of cigarette smoke.

  Dash pointed to their right. “The box office line is over there.”

  Joe muttered, “Where the bloody box office is.”

  The old man registered Joe’s sarcasm with a slight pause and a flash of the eyes.

  The woman on his arm, Dash supposed his wife, said, “I told you, Harold.”

  The man cleared his throat and a forced smile. “Thank you very much.”

  The couple moved off.

  Joe said to Dash, “We can make it work, lassie. With Fife. If his booze is as good as he claims, it might not be so bad.”

  “I’m supposed to try it sometime.”

  “When?”

  Dash shrugged. “Whenever is most convenient for Fife, I imagine.”

  Another couple, this one in their thirties, came up to them. Before the man could speak, Dash pointed to his right. “Box office line is over there.”

  “See?” the woman said, as they moved away. “I told you it wasn’t possible the line was that short.”

  Dash didn’t hear the man’s reply. He said to Joe, “As if we don’t have enough to do with this Walter mess, I’ve now got to find a suit for Mr. Fife.”

  Joe shook his head. “He was just using that as an excuse to get into your shop.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  The sidewalk was increasingly busy with those going to dinner or to a show. A derelict man was stumbling among them, bumping into a man in a brown suit and offering a pantomimed apology. The man in the brown suit glared at him, using a handkerchief to wipe off any street grime that may have transferred from the derelict’s dirty rags to his jacket and shirt.

  As the derelict got closer, Dash could see scraggly whiskers hiding his face. Dirty gray hair in need of a trim cascaded over his ears and down to his shoulders. The suit he wore was covered in patches on the knees and elbows, the fabric a different color. Surprisingly, the man didn’t smell, though Dash had expec
ted him to.

  The derelict stopped right in front of them.

  Joe gave the man a wary look. “No spare change and no spare booze, partner.”

  The derelict replied in a familiar voice, “Well I never! Is that what you call Catholic charity, you brute? May the goddesses never see such selfishness.”

  Dash squinted his eyes. “Finn?”

  The derelict reached up and pulled off the long, gray hair. It was a wig. Underneath was the dark-haired Finn, his grin unmistakable behind the fake whiskers.

  “I told you it would be a marvelous disguise.”

  Finn tossed the wig to Joe, who jerked away as if Finn had tossed him a tarantula. The wig floated to the ground.

  “Finney!” Joe bellowed. “Why ya playing the fool?”

  A hand went to his breast. “I didn’t play the fool, but I daresay our Mr. Müller did.”

  Dash said, “He didn’t recognize you?”

  Finn crossed his arms, clearly pleased with himself. “He never gave me a second look.”

  Dash smiled. It was about time they had some good news. “Where did he go?”

  Yet another couple came up to them.

  Before Dash could give his usual response, Joe barked, “This is not the bloody box office line. Yer late. The line is already halfway down the street and it’s back that way.” He gestured to their right.

  The couple flinched at the harsh brogue and moved along, casting furtive glances over their shoulders.

  “I see your usual graciousness extends to strangers as well,” Finn said.

  He began to take off his disguise one layer at a time. First went the whiskers.

  “These blasted things are just itching my face. Honestly, the things I do for you people.”

  “Finney,” Joe said, “tell us what happened.”

  Once the whiskers were off, Finn examined them. “He’s an odd one, that Walter. First, his darling mother walked him all the way to the front door.”

  Dash asked, “Of the apartment?”

  The coat was next. Finn slid it off his shoulders and folded it over his forearm. “Of the building. She stood there and waved him goodbye. She watched him leave, almost like she was making sure he left. I didn’t dare move from my spot until after she went back inside.”

  “Well played, Finn.”

  Finn grinned as he picked up the wig from the ground. “I’m going to pretend I don’t hear a note of surprise in your voice. It would be shameful if the two of you doubted my abilities.”

  He shook out the wig and added it to the garments draped over his forearm.

  “I was half a block behind him the whole time. Needless to say, he did not go to the Committee of Fourteen.”

  A man in his twenties came up to Finn. “Excuse me, are you an actor in this playhouse?”

  Finn gave him a most thorough once over. “Hello, stranger. Why do you ask?”

  The man pointed to Finn’s disguise. “You’re coming from another performance, aren’t you?”

  Finn was amused. “In a manner of speaking.”

  The man leaned in and lowered his voice. “Can you help a gentleman out with a ticket? All the preview performances are sold out and I’m dying to see this show before the ticket prices go up.”

  Joe intervened. “Look, lad, we’re having a conversation here.”

  The man held up his hands. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to offend.” He tipped the brim of his fedora. “Have a good night, sirs.” He turned and walked towards the box office line.

  Finn whirled around to Joe. “How dare you interrupt what was an obvious flirtation. Goddess knows, I need a distraction as my poor, sweet Valentino is still laid up after his surgeries.”

  Dash asked, “Any news on that front?”

  Finn sadly shook his head. “Still waiting and seeing.”

  Joe’s fiery brow wrinkled again. “Who cares about that Valentino bloke. Finney, where did Walter go?”

  Finn rolled his eyes. “All over. I must say, I am just exhausted after today.” He reached into his front trouser pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, unfolding it. “I wrote down all the places he visited. Maybe you can tell me what they mean, because darlings, I have no earthly nor heavenly idea what that man was doing.”

  He squinted as he read from the paper.

  “First, he went to a café on 86th and Madison for breakfast. Then down to some of the Times Square cinemas and caught a couple of motion pictures. The Big Parade and Ben Hur, if anyone’s interested. Then he went to the German motion picture theatre back up on 86th. Last stop was the bank. Then he went home.”

  Dash couldn’t conceal his puzzlement.

  Finn returned the piece of paper to his pocket. “I trust you’re as confused as I.”

  Dash said, “He’s acting like a man of leisure.”

  Joe added, “A man without a care in the world.”

  “Do you think he knew he was being followed?”

  Finn shook his head with disgust. “Again, with the doubt! Boys, he never once looked back nor over his shoulder. Didn’t stop in front of shop windows to catch someone in a reflection. I crisscrossed the street several times, so I was never directly behind him or across from him at any time. Trust me, there’s no way he spotted me.”

  Dash laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Good work, Finn. I apologize.”

  “I’ll accept that apology over a drink and a sailor.”

  A foursome of women walked up to them. Without missing a beat, Finn pointed to their right. “Box office line is that way, dearies,” he said before they could ask.

  As the foursome moved away, Joe said, “What does this mean, lads?”

  Dash replied, “I’m not sure, but I think it’s telling he lied about being employed by the Committee. Oh! Remember, Joe? Walter wanted information by Thursday, and I asked if we needed to bring it to the office? He was quick to say to bring it to his apartment.” Dash smiled in triumph. “That’s because he doesn’t work at the Committee at all.”

  “Well, lassie, hold up. What if he took off a few days to let the bruising heal?”

  “Yes,” Finn said, “he really took a beating that night, much deserved. Perhaps he didn’t want his colleagues to know he’d been in a fight. I imagine anti-vicers look down on brawling.”

  Dash nodded. “You’re right.”

  Joe added, “And don’t forget, the Committee spies on entertainment places regularly. Maybe that’s what this lad was doing.”

  “But Karl said he worked in the finance department, not in the field.”

  Finn said, “Maybe Karl was lying.”

  “It’s possible.” Dash looked up at the purpling sky. Night was coming. “Let’s see if he goes to work tomorrow. If not, then he’s lying to all of us as well as his mother.”

  Joe grunted. “Makes ya wonder why.”

  Finn held up a pointer finger. “Excuse me, but let’s go back a bit. Did you say we owe him information by this Thursday? As in tomorrow? We don’t have anything to tell him!”

  Dash replied, “We might, gents. We just might.”

  He filled them in on his conversation with Prudence Meyers.

  “A legal case?” Joe said.

  “Criminal by the sounds of it. If Pru is building a case against Walter, then we might see some interesting behavior in his daily activities.”

  “How do ya know Pru’s building a case against him?”

  “Educated guess. I can’t see this woman working for the likes of him, but I absolutely can see her working against him.”

  “Never underestimate the power of money,” Finn warned. “Most people’s principles go out the door when a bunch of sugar is poured out on their desks.”

  “He’s right, lassie,” Joe said. “It’s a buy-and-sell world now. As proved by this Fife fella.”

  Finn cupped a hand behind his ear. “Say who again?”

  Joe shook his head. “I’ll tell ya later.”

  Finn placed a hand against his chest. “Oh, I do not l
ike the sound of that.”

  17

  At midnight on the dot, the cab dropped Dash off in front of Flo’s building. She stood there in an emerald-green dress with sparkling fringe. A yellow sunflower had been clipped to the side of her hair.

  “Miss Russell,” Dash said as he walked up. “You look ravishing.”

  Flo rolled her eyes. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  They walked to 135th and Seventh in silence, earning a few curious glances. A white downtowner and a black woman wasn’t an entirely unusual sight, but could, in some neighborhoods, get one or both of them physically assaulted. Luckily for them, this part of Harlem saw its fair share of downtowners.

  The Harlem streets were teaming with people, all done up in dresses and hats and suits and ties. Laughter ricocheted off the sides of the brick buildings. Windows on the upper floors were wide open, and the sensuous sounds of jazz and blues floated down to the pavement, following them as they walked. The moaning vocals, the piercing cornets, the low boom of the bass blended in with the purr of motor cars and the brass of their horns. The marquee of the Cotton Club flashed its bright neon, making it almost as bright as day. To Dash, it felt like being in the center of a Christmas tree, all that glitter and tinsel and lighting surrounding them.

  The foot traffic flowed as fast as the Hudson, an aggressive current of black citizens and a few white downtowners quickly moving across the blocks. Flo and Dash headed east at a clip.

  While the Hot Cha was a new club to Dash, he knew of several in this neighborhood, thanks to some of his band members. There was Small’s Paradise, which featured café au lait girls and dancing waiters. Across the street was the Yeah Man!, a downstairs bar that always answered the question “Is there anything going on tonight?” (“Yeah, man!”). Nearby was the Log Cabin, a small, intimate space perfect for romance or its facsimile; Tillies, which his drummer Calvin claimed had some of the best fried chicken in Harlem; and the Theatrical Grill, which gave you Broadway performances without the inconvenience of having to go to Broadway. Dash had to admit that while the Village was a hopping spot, it couldn’t compare to the red-hot sizzle of Harlem.