The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

by Chris Holcombe

  This was no idle threat. This was a promise.

  Dash replied, “Understood.”

  Walter gave Dash until next Tuesday, August 24. It wasn’t much time—only five days—but it was more than what he’d given them previous. Back at the Greenwich Village Inn for dinner, much to his dismay, Dash discovered an argument was underway.

  “This is America, and we should only support Americans,” a male voice said among jeers of protest. “Why give money that’s just gonna go to the Vatican in those collection plates? No offense to you Catholics, but where do you think your money goes? It ain’t to your parish, that’s for sure. And thank God Harding knew that, and Coolidge ain’t futzing it up. You radicals would have us corrupted from the inside out.”

  A deep, female voice said, “Sir, this is a nation of immigrants.”

  “And look how well that’s turnin’ out for us. Violence in the streets. Neighborhoods being taken over. Jobs gettin’ harder to find. I swear, I walk down these streets, in New York, one of the first cities of America, and I hear everything but English. Enough, is what I say. We did our part in the war, thank you very much, now Europe can keep their scum and deal with their own problems.”

  A cacophony of voices raised in protest followed while Dash searched for a seat in the crowd.

  When the voices quieted down, the dissenter said, “Hey! Nothing wrong with asking people in our country to behave like they should.”

  A male voice with a thick Irish brogue said, “And how, exactly, should they behave?”

  “Speak English. Cut their hair. Have protestant names. And renounce their Pope.”

  “Ya bloody super patriot!”

  Dash expected a brawl to break out. Instead, everyone just yelled, which was equally pointless. He continued his search for an open seat. His eyes spied the Wall Street Ex-Pats in the darkened corners. True to form, they didn’t speak a word.

  Do they ever go home? Dash wondered.

  A man paid his tab and left the bar. Dash rushed over and claimed the seat as Emmett was pocketing the change the man left behind.

  Emmett looked up when Dash sat down. “Can you believe this shit?”

  “These are political times, Emmett.”

  “If he don’t quit it, I’ll have to toss him. He’ll start a goddamn riot in here.”

  As if on cue, the Super Patriot raised his voice. “As much fun as it is to debate with you fine gentlemen and ladies, I best be going.”

  Encouragement followed.

  “Get outta here, ya ignorant arse!”

  “Why don’t ya go and continue licking Coolidge’s boots, ya mindless fuck!”

  “Ya was an immigrant too once upon a time, you hypocrite!”

  A man of about forty, grinning from ear to ear, dressed in a fine tuxedo and donning a black fedora passed by the bar.

  Money, thought Dash. It was amazing how the surplus of dollars—or lack thereof—drove the majority of political opinion these days.

  Emmett shook his head in disgust. “You need a drink? ’Cause I sure as hell do.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Dash watched as Emmett set about making two Gin Rickeys. He poured them into teacups and passed one to Dash, keeping the other for himself. They both raised their cups in a toast and sipped.

  The front door groaned open, causing both of them to turn warily towards it. A matronly woman in a shapeless pale pink dress and purple cloche cap tottered in, her shoes clunking against the floorboards. Her gait was unsteady and uncertain. Was she drunk?

  She stumbled towards the bar.

  “Evening, miss,” Emmett called to her. “What can I get you?”

  The woman replied, “A night of Rudy Valentino with a side of sailor.”

  Emmett seemed perplexed by the response.

  Dash recognized it. And the voice. “Hello, Finn.”

  His friend removed the cloche hat and the gray wig. “Tah-dah!”

  Emmett jumped, spilling some of his Rickey on his hand. “Jesus Christ!” His snowy brow jumped halfway up his forehead.

  Dash said, “Emmett, meet my roommate, Finn Francis.”

  Emmett’s mouth stayed gaped open, a reaction which caused Finn to laugh merrily. He tossed the gray wig onto the bar and looked down at himself.

  “What do you think?”

  The pink and purple worked wonders with the circles of rouge on his cheeks, one of which sported the black dot of a mole, and the dark, blood-red paint on his lips. Thin black lines traced his eyes and green and gold brush strokes rose upwards from his eyelids to his eyebrows. The dress, while shapeless, was very modern, as was the matching bag that hung from his right shoulder.

  Dash remembered the missing costume from this afternoon and pointed to it. “That wouldn’t be Florence’s dress, would it?”

  “Who?”

  Dash shook his head. “You want dinner?”

  “Yes, please. I’m absolutely starved.”

  Dash held up two fingers. “Same order, Emmett?”

  The older gentleman kept his eyes on Finn, nodding absentmindedly. “Coming right up.” One more moment staring at Finn, then he turned towards the kitchen.

  Finn pulled out a barstool and collapsed onto it. “Dear goddesses, this costume, though clever, is a total terror to wear.” He reached down and undid the straps on the shoes. “My poor ankles are just about through.”

  “Where did he go this time?”

  “Slight variations on the same theme.” He began to take off his fake eyelashes one by one. “Just like yesterday, he saw The Big Parade at the Astor Theatre on Broadway at 45th, followed by an encore showing of Ben Hur on Broadway at 47th. I went inside with him this time. The galley fight and the chariot race were most thrilling, and the New Testament scenes were in color.”

  Finn looked over at Dash.

  “I expect to be reimbursed for it.”

  He placed the eyelashes onto the bar and set about wiping his brow, which was beaded with sweat from the heat of the wig.

  “A quick lunch at another café, then another movie at the German theatre, then the bank, and then home. As far as I can tell, the man does nothing for money.”

  “And he never went to the Committee of Fourteen?”

  “Not unless it’s hidden in Times Square.”

  “It’s not,” Emmett said, setting a Gin Rickey in a teacup down in front of Finn. “Their headquarters is on East 22nd.”

  Finn arched his brow. “There you go.”

  Emmett flicked another look to Finn and retreated back to the kitchen.

  Dash tapped his chin. “Do we think Walter ever worked there? Or just claimed he did?”

  “How in the world would we find that out? I doubt the Committee would tell us. Moralists like their secrets, I find. And before you ask, under no circumstances are we walking in there ourselves. They are the lions, dearie, and neither one of us is David.”

  “It’s almost beside the point anyway. He’s not presently working for the Committee, so now we have a different question to answer.”

  “Which is?”

  Dash looked at Finn. “How is he making his money?”

  Dash left the Inn and returned to the Cherry Lane Playhouse to change for another night at Pinstripes. The box office was closed up, the doors shut, not a soul waiting outside. Another performance was in progress. As Dash walked towards the side door to get to his apartment, he heard his name called.

  “Dash Parker?” The voice was monotone, completely void of humanity.

  His heart stopped. He turned to see a nondescript man in a suit holding a gun. Instinctively his hands went up. In his peripheral vision, he noticed a car driving up to the curb. Black. Also nondescript.

  The man asked, “Are you Dashiell Parker?”

  “W-w-who wants to know?” Dash stammered.

  The man waved the gun towards the black car. “Get in the car.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m not asking again.”

  He heard a door ope
n. The darkness inside the black Ford gave no indication of who waited inside.

  Is this how it ends? he thought.

  Who had sent them? Walter? Zora?

  Fear momentarily froze Dash to the sidewalk until the man with the gun started walking towards him. Dash instinctively backed up, then turned around again to face the car. Hands trembling, knees buckling, he ducked his head and entered the backseat. There, in all his corpulent glory, sat Lowell Henley, Nicholas Fife’s henchman.

  “Hello, Mr. Parker,” he wheezed. “I told ya I don’t like high hats like you.”

  22

  Dash couldn’t follow where the speeding car was going. All he knew was that they took a right, then a left, another right, another left, the crooked streets of the Village blurring together in streaks of streetlights and lit windowpanes.

  The gunman sat in the front seat with the driver, both of them nonchalantly facing forward as they drove through the city. They didn’t seem to worry what Dash was doing in the backseat. And why should they? There were three of them and one of him. And Dash was pretty sure all of them had a weapon of some kind.

  Dash kept his eyes on Lowell, who stared ahead with the same passive expression he had when he visited the Greenwich Village Inn a few days ago. Was he operating on Nicholas Fife’s orders? Or his own?

  Foolish boy, his father’s voice said. Always engaging in such foolishness.

  The silence inside the car was unbearable and he wanted to fill it. He tried to speak but his mouth was completely dry, his tongue too thick and heavy with fear. Besides, what would he say? If they were going to kill him, there was no reasoning with them. Killing was their job, just like pouring drinks was his. They might even take great pleasure in it.

  Would they make it quick? Or would they make him suffer? And what would happen once he was released from this mortal coil? He never did much thinking about so-called spiritual matters. People said there was a heaven up there somewhere, but Dash didn’t figure it. He couldn’t see invisible souls rising up into the sky like lost balloons. Then again, maybe he should, for he was about to be released from the ground.

  A bump jolted the car. He looked out the window and saw they were on a bridge. He looked back at the city. The shadowy buildings sprinkled with electric lights glowed in the night. So benign, so peaceful, so safe. They looked too far uptown for this to be the Brooklyn, which wouldn’t have made any sense anyway. The Brooklyn Bridge didn’t allow cars. One had to use the trolley to cross. Which meant this bridge was the Queensboro. They were taking him to Queens.

  Born on the East Side, banished to Bohemia, only to die in Queens.

  He felt giddy, like he did as a child when his best friends were coming over to play. That tingling, tickling feeling in his chest which begged to be scratched but couldn’t be reached. He even had to suppress a laugh when the car jolted again as they landed in the borough.

  I’m going to be buried in a borough.

  Was this what being hysterical meant?

  They made a few sharp curves and pulled up in front of a massive brick warehouse, which stood at least two, three stories up. Long rectangular windows overlooked the East River, the lighting behind the dirty glass muted, like Lowell’s eyes. There was very little light on the street in front where the car jerked to a stop.

  Dash was told to get out. He thought about running for it. If they were going to shoot him, what difference did it make where and when? Yet fear—or was it hope?—kept him from bolting.

  The driver stayed in the car while the still unnamed gunman and Lowell went with Dash. They made a three-man procession to one of the warehouse doors, the gunman in front, Dash in the middle, Lowell in the rear. Parked on either side of them were dozens of dark green trucks with queens furniture emblazoned in gold paint on the sides. Underneath were the italics pieces fit for royalty! Dash felt another giggle bubble up.

  One of the warehouse doors opened with a piercing shriek. The gunman stepped to the side and gestured for Dash to go in ahead of him. The giddiness now gave way to pure leaden dread. His body did not want to move, but he knew he had no choice. He swallowed bile. A deep breath followed, taking in the smell of grease, dirt, and slight decay from the River, then he stepped into the poorly lit warehouse.

  The room was large. Impossibly large. Only a few lights overhead created the absurd effect of stage spotlights. Instead of singers and dancers, they illuminated large wooden crates stacked from the floor almost to the ceiling. Was all of this furniture? It couldn’t be. It had to be, what? Liquor? If so, there was enough to drown all of Manhattan ten times over.

  Dash heard a throat clearing. He faced forward and saw Nicholas Fife. The gangster stood at the very end of the warehouse floor, hands clasped in front, a smile on his face.

  “Mr. Parker,” he said in his maddeningly pleasing baritone. “I’m so glad you could join us.”

  I had a choice?

  The night was getting more and more absurd. Kidnapped at gunpoint, yet here is a gangster who was persistently polite. Dash half expected him to offer a drink. Which he would’ve taken. He for damn sure would.

  Fife gestured to the space around them. “What do you think?” he asked, pride filling his frame.

  Dash stood dumbfounded. When the gangster looked him in the eyes, it was clear he wanted an answer. “It’s . . . it’s impressive, sir.”

  “And it’s just one of many. I would tell you where they are but”—Fife grinned—“then I’d have to kill you.” He beckoned with an outstretched hand. “Don’t be so shy, Mr. Parker. Come here.”

  Dash looked to Lowell and the gunman, who flanked him on either side. They stood at attention, spines rigid, like bell bottoms and soldiers. Dash forced himself forward, his legs ever so slightly shaking. Fife waited patiently with that damnable smile on his face. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, the vest, shirt, and bow tie blindingly white against the dark jacket and pants.

  When Dash was standing directly in front of Fife, the gangster opened his tuxedo coat wider.

  “Do you see?” he asked, pointing to the tightness of the shirt around his midsection. “My rowing hasn’t kept my middle from expanding.” He let the jacket fall back to its resting position. “We never did discuss when my new suit would be ready.”

  “When would it need to be?”

  Fife laughed. “See? That is the absolute correct answer. When would it need to be? I love that.”

  He pulled Dash to his side and spun him around, his arm around Dash’s shoulders, as if they were friends. Buddies. Chaps. The spice of his cologne once again filled the air. So pleasing, one would never think it was the aroma of violence and death.

  His breath was hot against Dash’s cheek as he leaned in and answered, “I’d like the suit next Friday, if possible. That’s when I must look excellent for this white tie dinner. Dreadfully boring affair but one must entertain boring people sometimes.”

  He looked at Dash expectantly.

  Dash nodded vigorously, causing another chuckle from the gangster.

  Fife squeezed Dash’s shoulder then patted his back. “Good! Now that that’s settled, let’s get to the real reason why you’re here.”

  The gangster started walking.

  Dash hesitated, then followed, staying a few steps behind. “The real reason why I’m here?” he repeated.

  “You had concerns about the quality and—I’m assuming—safety of my product,” Fife replied over his shoulder.

  He led Dash to a side door, which opened with another piercing squeal. The gangster winced. “I apologize for that. The hinges need oil. Some even need new hinges. But I find I like knowing when doors are being opened and shut. It keeps me from being surprised by someone sneaking in . . . or out.”

  Together they walked through the doorway, Dash noticing that Lowell and the gunman stayed behind in the main room with the stacks of liquor.

  They entered a narrow hallway with jaundiced lighting, the pale yellow sickly against the exposed brick walls. Une
xplained puddles of water dotted the floor, and the smell of damp was ever present. Fife led Dash to the very end of the hallway where he made a sharp right.

  There was another room much smaller than the one they had just left. Chemical smells assaulted Dash’s nose, pungent, metallic, and acidic. Oppressive heat tugged at his clothes. The lighting, though still muted, was of better quality here. Dash saw shelves of glass beakers, containers, and strangely designed funnels; clear and colored liquids filled some, others remained empty.

  It’s a chemistry lab.

  Fife turned around just as Dash had the realization. “This is where we manage and maintain quality control.” He gestured to a spot behind him. “And this is who is in charge of it.”

  Dash stepped to the side to see around the gangster. A long wooden table held beakers, burners, and more of those elaborate glass funnels. Standing behind the table with rapt attention on a beaker filled with a mud-colored liquid was a short Italian man.

  “Mr. Parker, may I present to you Angelo Avogadro.”

  The chemist had a long, oval face, which remained still, showing no reaction to the two visitors who had entered his lab. Without looking away from the subject of his intense scrutiny, the chemist said, “Yes, Mr. Fife?”

  “Angelo, I’d like you to meet a guest of ours. He’s expressed great interest in the quality and safety of our libations.”

  “Is that so?” Angelo’s eyes were still fixed on the brown liquid.

  Dash stepped forward. “What is it you’re doing?”

  “I am testing for methyl alcohol. It will make you very sick if you drink it.”

  Dash turned to Fife. “You’ve hired a chemist?”

  The gangster was pleased with how quick Dash understood the situation. “I’m sure you’ve no doubt heard the stories of men and women having a drink that later on killed them. Some are rumor but others are quite true. This damnable law has people making their own liquor but without the necessary ingredients to do it properly. Not only does it taste like absolute horse piss, but it’s made up of chemicals one should never drink: gasoline, grain alcohol, and rubbing alcohol being the most common. I’ve even seen a barber use the disinfectant he keeps his combs in.”