The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

by Chris Holcombe

  Once Dash and Flo hit their cross street, they left the river of excitable, loud-talking young people.

  Soon they descended the steps on the corner of 134th and Seventh towards the basement. The door of the Hot Cha had no sign, no marquee, no indication of what lay behind these walls. Flo rang the buzzer and they waited for the eye slot to open. It did with a bang. Brown eyes—and nothing else—stared back at them.

  Flo said the code words: “I’m here to walk Clarence’s dog.”

  “Step to the side,” said the voice, male and deep.

  She did as instructed.

  The eyes narrowed. “He with you?” the voice asked.

  Flo replied, “Don’t mind him, he just the dog walker.”

  The secret code for white downtowners.

  The eye slot slammed closed. Then there was the sound of a series of locks being undone. The door opened slightly, and Dash and Flo stepped into the darkened corridor.

  The doorman was a tall black man, fittingly dressed in a tuxedo, all long arms and long legs. Dark hair cropped close to his skull shimmered with some kind of oil. His hands and feet were incredibly large, almost a caricature, like when a child draws a full-grown man. There was a wooden stool behind him and what might’ve been a jug of liquor resting behind it.

  The man closed and relocked the door, not saying a word. Then again, he wasn’t paid to socialize, just to keep watch and make sure no men in blue barged in here.

  Regardless of his silent state, Flo thanked him and walked down the darkened hallway. Dash followed. The music was muffled at first, but slowly intensified the closer they got to the entryway. They turned a corner and stepped through the archway into another world.

  Men—gorgeous black men—were everywhere. On the dance floor, sitting at the round tables, or serving drinks. All dressed to impress. Tuxedos and pinstripe suits, checkered and houndstooth jackets, bow ties and long ties, shoes as shiny as freshly polished motorcars. Women were dotted about like daisies in a field. Most were dressed in white, shimmering in silk chiffon and sleeveless cotton blouses or dresses. Above them all—besides the cigarette smoke—was the sweet voice of Jimmie Daniels and the rhythmic pounding of Garland Wilson on his upright piano. Dash had heard of them through the grapevine but had never seen them perform. A chill went up his spine as his ears were tickled by the music. Jimmie and Garland were that good.

  A thin man in black pants and a white jacket appeared in front of them. “How many, sugars?” he asked, his voice high and smooth.

  “Just two,” replied Flo.

  “You together?”

  “No, just acquaintances.”

  “Two fine dinners like you?” The maître d’ looked at Flo, then Dash. “What’s the holdup?”

  Dash smiled. “Different tastes.”

  The man nodded, understanding the situation. “I’ll seat you two at the bar. With luck, someone will strike your fancy. Let’s see.” He pointed at Dash. “A buddy ghee for you.” He then pointed at Flo. “And a barbecutie for you?”

  Flo nodded.

  The man smiled, ivory glittering between his lips. “Right this way.”

  They followed him as they meandered around the haphazard seating arrangement, tables and chairs seemingly plopped down at random. Glasses clinked as waiters whizzed by with cocktails spilling over the brim. Laughter, light and breezy like a chandelier tinkling, filled the air. The bar hugged one of the far walls and was about three-fourths full with a mix of suits and dresses, their backs to the action. Dash was the only white person here.

  True to his word, the maître d’ sat them next to a stunning man in a slick black tuxedo and a lovely woman dressed in purple with white sashes. Painted lashes fluttered Flo’s way. Flo smiled politely but didn’t exude too much warmth. The man in the black tux sent an interested look to Dash, who replied with a smile.

  Flo slapped his shoulder. “We’re not here to make friends tonight, Mr. Parker.”

  “No reason not to be polite.”

  “Uh huh. Keep it in check. I need all the blood to be going to your brain, not elsewhere.”

  She got the attention of the bartender, a short and stout man in a checked brown suit jacket with a flat cap on his square head. He came her way. A slow, smoldering smile followed.

  Flo murmured to Dash, “Pretend you’re not with me.”

  Dash nodded. She was going to use her feminine wiles to find out where Zora Mae was in this sea of men and women. Dash backed away, standing closer to the man in the tux giving him eyes, and pretended to watch the band while eavesdropping on Flo’s conversation.

  The bartender said, “Now how can I make you happy this evening, baby?”

  “You can get me a Gin Rickey and don’t be stingy with the gin. I’m not asking for sugar water.”

  He laughed at that. “A woman who knows what she wants and ain’t gonna settle for less. Coming right up.”

  He set about making her drink, stealing glances back at her whenever he could.

  Poor man, Dash thought. He’s going to waste his hype.

  When the bartender returned with her cocktail, he said, “It’s a tragedy when a beautiful woman is all by herself.”

  She held up her glass. “Nothing a good drink can’t cure.” She tasted it and smiled. “Good to know you can follow directions.”

  The bartender leaned in close. “I follow directions very well.”

  Dash suppressed a smile.

  “Uh huh,” Flo said, making her voice low and husky. “That so?”

  The bartender started drawing tiny circles on the bar with his fingertip. “Oh yeah. You tell me what to do and I’ll do exactly what you say.”

  “Exactly what I say, huh?”

  “And I won’t stop until you tell me to.”

  She licked the gin and stray crumbs of sugar lining the glass from her lips. “I need you—”

  “Woo! Music to my ears!”

  “—to get me the Baroness.”

  It took a few seconds for her request to register, then for disappointment to show. “Say again?”

  She took another healthy sip of her drink. “Do I really need to ask you twice?”

  His finger stopped swirling on the hardwood of the bar, and he stood up straight. “I get drinks, not people.”

  She slowly wagged a pointer finger at him. “You said you follow directions. You said you’d do exactly what I say.”

  “I did but—”

  “But nothing. I gave you my instructions. Unless you want to disappoint me.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “A shame, really. I don’t entertain men who let me down.”

  One of the men at the other end of the bar called for him. The bartender kept his eyes on Flo. “Who should I tell the Baroness is wanting her?”

  “A friend of an employee of hers.”

  “Who’s the friend?”

  Flo snapped her fingers, getting Dash’s attention.

  He turned and said, “Dash Parker. Tell her I have, sadly, some bad news about Karl Müller.”

  Flo jerked her head towards the bartender. “Give him the card.”

  She meant the blue card Karl had.

  Dash reached into his inside jacket pocket and handed it to the bartender.

  The bartender flashed a look at him. “I see she got you trained like a dog.” He returned his eyes to Flo, anger slowly widening the pupils. “This dog doesn’t do tricks without a treat.”

  Oh my, Dash thought. Normal men get so angry when they are denied female attention.

  Flo slapped a quarter on the bar with a hard thwack! “You’ll get another one if you give us the answer we want.” She didn’t blink as she stared at the bartender’s face.

  The bartender smirked, then slid the quarter into his palm, glaring once more at Flo. He went down the bar, whispered to one of the waiters collecting drinks, and then set off to get his next order, only paying half attention to his new customer, as he kept glancing back at her.

  The man in the tux sitting next to Dash said,
“The Baroness sure knows how to throw a party.”

  Dash turned and regarded the man with an interested gaze. “Does she now?”

  The man nodded. “Best time I ever had. Got to see some things I never thought I’d see.” He turned and set his warm, brown eyes on Dash. His voice became a little softer. “Got to do some things I never thought I’d do, too.”

  Dash felt a tingle at the base of his neck. “And did you like it?”

  The man laughed. “Oh yes! Yes, sir, I did. Whenever she throws a party, I make sure I’m there. Have you ever been to one?”

  Dash shook his head.

  “Well, if you want to go to her next one with somebody—”

  A female voice called out, interrupting them, “Whatchu want with Miss Mae?”

  Both Dash and Flo turned their heads. The woman in the purple and white dress glared at them from her barstool.

  Is this Zora Mae’s moll? Dash thought. The crazy one?

  Realization dawned on Flo too. Trying to keep it casual, she shrugged, making her voice nonchalant. “A conversation.”

  “Uh huh. We both know that’s bushwa.” The look hardened. “Zora belongs to me. I’m her Sheba, got it? So, whatever you say, it better be quick. And then you and your ofay pet here better get gone.”

  Dash tried to intervene. “Miss, you have nothing to worry about. Our interest in Miss Mae is strictly professional.”

  Those jealous eyes bored into Dash’s. “It better be, mister. It. Better. Be.”

  The bartender came back, decidedly less flirtatious this time around. He had the sulky look of a child being asked to do chores. “The Baroness would like you to join her table.”

  Flo asked, “Where is she seated?”

  He pointed across the room to the far-left corner.

  “Thank you, sir.” She reached into her purse and slapped another coin onto the bar, only this time it was a nickel.

  The bartender picked it up with disgust. “I thought I was gonna get another quarter.”

  “You shouldn’t have pouted. I don’t reward pouty boys.”

  The bartender cursed under his breath.

  Flo stood up from her barstool, giving one quick glance at Zora’s moll, and then said, “Alright, downtowner, you on your own.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “This conversation has nothing to do with me, and the less I know about it, the better.” She pointed a finger at him. “And remember what I said, now. Whatever trouble you bring upon yourself, it does not come back to El and me. Understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Good.” Another glance back at Miss Purple and White. “Be careful with Crazy Eyes over there.”

  And with that, she left the bar.

  As Dash turned to go to Zora, the man in the tux reached out and grabbed his hand. “You think about my offer now.”

  The bartender cut in. “Tully, find some other white meat to chew on. He apparently is Miss Mae’s boy now.” His eyes slid over to Dash’s. “And God help him.”

  Dash forced a smile at the man in the tux and left to go meet the Baroness.

  18

  She appeared to Dash in flashes in between the dancers on the floor. The white cloche hat on top of her head. The glow of her pearl earrings. The high black fur of her collar. The sparkle of her diamond necklace laying against bare skin. And finally, the intricate pattern of the white dress.

  Then there was the woman herself. A caramel dream with eyes so warm and inviting, they practically whispered an invitation. A small, upturned nose leading to a richly painted mouth. Skin smooth as the silk draping over it. Her frame was thin but formidable. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was powerful.

  Zora’s fingers tapped the tabletop idly to the music, keeping time with the piano player as her eyes kept watch of the dance floor. A faint smile appeared from time to time, as if she was delighted by something—or someone—she saw. She sat alone with a martini. Dash got the sense she didn’t entertain company unless she requested it and she could also dismiss it as fast as she got it.

  When she noticed Dash standing to the side of her table, she gestured to an open chair. She waited until the song ended, then gave a rousing round of applause. The twosome announced they were taking a break. The dancers left the floor and the noise diminished by half.

  “That Jimmie,” she said. “Voice like a sweet angel. I never get tired of hearing him.”

  “He is a fine singer, Baroness. Or do you prefer Miss Mae?”

  Zora turned to Dash and measured him up, taking in every inch of his frame. “A downtowner at my table,” she finally said. “And a bruised and battered one as well. Will wonders never cease? Miss Mae will do. What’s your name again? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it already.”

  “Dash Parker. I’m here about—”

  “Karl Müller, yes, Mr. Johnson said. Bad news, if I remember correctly.”

  She held up the blue card Dash had given the bartender, then slid it over to him. Dash left it on the table for the time being.

  “You should know, Mr. Parker, I have many folks handing out my cards.”

  “Yet bad news about Mr. Müller granted me permission to sit at your table.”

  Her thin brows arched over intelligent eyes. “You’re very astute.” She took a sip of her martini. “The name is familiar. I can’t quite picture the figure who goes along with it.”

  “Young German kid, about my height.” Dash reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph Walter had forgotten to take with him when he left Pinstripes. He handed it to Zora.

  She studied the picture. “Ah, yes. I remember him now. Such an innocent. Such purity. I’m sure whoever seduces him will find him as tender as veal.” She glanced up at Dash. “My, my, you’re quite taken with him. Have you bed him yet?”

  Dash felt his cheeks burn. “We didn’t have that kind of relationship.” Something told him to hold back the news about Karl’s murder. “He came to me for help but then he went missing Sunday night. The last time I knew where he was, he was at the Oyster House.”

  “Ah. Guilt. Another delicious emotion. Almost as aching and wonderful as lust.”

  “Before he left the Oyster House, he made a telephone call. He couldn’t reach someone and then disappeared. I’m wondering if he was trying to reach you.”

  Zora seemed amused with his question. “And you came all the way up here to Harlem to find out. Not many white men would’ve braved such a meeting.”

  “Why be afraid of a Baroness?”

  She laughed low in her throat. The tip of her finger began to trace the circle of her martini glass.

  “I’m a single woman from a poor family, and yet, I’m one of the most powerful women in Harlem. Do you know how I did that?”

  Dash shook his head.

  “I learned long ago that human nature always, always wins out. Doesn’t matter how well you’re raised or how devout you are. When the sun goes down and the rooms get dark, we’re all just animals.”

  Her finger stopped tracing the glass. She licked the gin off the tip and then swept her arm across their view of the dance floor.

  “Look at ’em. They love the music. They love the liquor. They desire the company more. Dancing is, after all, just the prelude to other things. An overture to the main act. Pansy clubs. Bulldagger joints. We all go because we can’t get it anywhere else.”

  “You own clubs?” Dash asked.

  “I own clubs. I own houses and apartments that host special kinds of salons—some with stories and acting; others that specialize in pleasure. And people pay for the privilege. That’s what boys like Karl were helping me with handing out those cards. Karl tempted you with it, didn’t he? Despite his innocent nature, he was quite the temptress. Or perhaps he was the temptress because of his innocent nature. An interesting thought to ponder, don’t you think?”

  She grinned flirtatiously.

  “I’m not only in the business of animalistic tendencies, Mr. Parker, lest you think I’m completely debauch
erous. Like I said before, I learned about human nature. It’s true, we all give in to desire. We also have a want—no, a need— to be forgiven. To be made pure. To start anew.”

  “Salvation,” Dash said. “How do you sell that? You own churches?”

  Zora laughed. “Not quite, though I do have a preacher or two in my pocket. I have shares in certain facilities, which specialize in rehabilitation. From booze. From sex. From inversion.”

  Dash looked at her with horror. “You’re an invert yourself! How can you—”

  “Because it’s damn good sugar.” Her eyes were no longer warm and seductive, but cold, black coals. “Listen, my pretty, there’s only one thing that matters in this life, and that’s money. Not because of the things it can buy, but because of the freedom it can get you. Money is freedom. Make no mistake about that.”

  “Money is the root of all evil,” Dash replied.

  “Quoting Timothy, are we? And it’s for the love of money. Money itself is neither good nor bad.”

  Zora leaned forward, her manner intense.

  “I’m a single black woman, Mr. Parker. You think if I didn’t have piles of sugar, I’d be free to walk around and do what I want? Say what I want? Have whoever I want?” She shook her head. “I’d be married to some man who may, or may not, hit me across the mouth if I say something smart. Popping out babies and scrubbing floorboards. No allowance ’cause my man don’t want me outta the house. Let’s not forget that south of Harlem, I’d be somebody’s maid. Trapped in a life of yes, missus and no, missus and I’ll get right to it, missus. Well, no sir. I refuse to be caged and I refuse to be tamed.”

  She leaned back in her chair, pausing to pull out a cigarette from her bag and light it, one of those long ones that required a special holder. The activity of preparing her smoke as well as the nicotine itself dissipated the tension that was mounting at her table.