The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

by Chris Holcombe

  Joe rubbed Dash’s shoulder. “Ya alright, lassie?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Finn asked, “What do you think it was that Tyler stole from Walter?”

  “Not sure, but my money is on evidence of some kind.”

  Joe said, “Can it be used in court if it’s stolen?”

  Finn rolled his eyes again. “You haven’t seen a trial in a while. Nobody’s asking where the evidence comes from, especially if it confirms the popular verdict.”

  Joe smacked the bar. “Well, how is he gettin’ the bloody money? You’ve been following Walter for days and all he’s been doin’ is spending money, not collecting it. Goin’ to shows, the cinema, and the like.”

  Finn shrugged. “Maybe his victims mail the money?”

  Dash shook his head. “Too easy for a mail carrier to swipe.” He scratched his head while he thought. “Finn, he always went to the bank afterwards?”

  “Everyday.”

  Dash smiled. “Ah ha! I know how he’s doing it. Or, I should say, where he’s doing it.”

  “How?!”

  “He’s meeting his blackmail victims. In the darkness of the cinema and the theater—maybe in the WC—but that’s where the transactions are taking place. It’s why he’s seeing the same films every day.”

  Dash looked at Joe.

  “He’s not spending money there; he’s collecting it there.” He then looked at Finn. “And then he goes to the bank to deposit his earnings.”

  Joe shook his head and poured them all drinks. “Slimy bastard. What do we do now, lads?”

  Dash rubbed his face and said, “I think we need to return to Harlem and have another chat with Zora Mae. Let’s not forget, gents, Karl was closest to her in location than any of our other suspects.”

  Joe set the three glasses in front of them. “How did she even know he was there?”

  “He called somebody from Leslie’s office. Maybe it was her.”

  Finn piped up. “Karl said she didn’t take in strays. He said it right in our water closet. Why would he change his mind?”

  “Desperate?” Even to Dash’s own ears, it sounded weak and circumstantial. “I’ll concede the point.” He thought some more. “What if the person he was trying to reach would’ve gone to Zora? And he went there to intercept them somehow?”

  Joe scratched behind his ears. “Who would tha’ have been?”

  Dash shrugged. “Any one of them. We know Pru, Tyler, and Paula went to the Hot Cha.”

  Joe looked over at Dash. “Ya think Zora would admit anything to ya?”

  “Worth a shot. Her heaven and hell party is this coming Sunday night, and we do have Karl’s entry card.”

  “I’m going with ya.”

  “No, you’re not,” Finn said. “If anyone is going to that party, it is moi.”

  “She’s not some society lady, Finney. She’s a mobster, sure as I’m sittin’ here.”

  “Once again, I have to prove myself to you. I am not some frilly little yearling who doesn’t know the ways of the world, O’Shaughnessy.”

  “Enough!” Dash said. He looked at Joe. “I understand your concern, but we’ll be fine. Zora is not going to ‘off us’ at a party. Besides, I’ve already promised him the night off.”

  “Exactly, you brute,” Finn replied.

  Joe ran a frustrated hand through his thick, tangled hair. “I can’t win this argument, so I’m not gonna try. Just be careful, the both of ya’s.”

  Finn raised his glass. “Yes sir, missus sir, yes sir.”

  25

  Sunday, August 22, couldn’t come fast enough. Before Dash left Pinstripes that Friday night, he enlisted the aid of Atty in trying to find a suit for Fife. He handed his doorman Fife’s measurements and said, “Don’t steal it, Atty. We’re already breaking enough laws as it is.”

  Saturday just crawled by. The only event of note was Saturday afternoon when Atty stopped by Hartford & Sons to tell Dash he had found a suit to alter for Nicholas Fife.

  “It’s a beauty,” Atty said. “The finest materials. I never seen a sharper suit. And the best part is, it didn’t cost too much sugar.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “Man the suit was made for died suddenly.”

  “A lot of that going around.”

  “One man’s bad fortune is another man’s blessing. I’m working on it tonight.”

  Dash smiled. “Thank you, Atty.”

  “Anytime, Boss. You, uh, still having problems with that Walter fella?”

  Dash sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Atty reached into his pocket and pulled out his Smith & Wesson, inadvertently aiming the barrel straight at Dash’s stomach. “Youse want to borrow my gun?”

  Dash put his hand up to lightly push way the barrel away from him. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “You sure? It’s a nice piece. The sights are a little off, so I just aim to the far right.”

  “That . . . explains a lot, Atty. Thank you, but I’ll do just fine on my own.”

  “Whatever you say, Boss.”

  Eventually Sunday night descended upon them, and Dash found himself dressed to the nines with Finn in a cab heading uptown to the address on Karl’s blue card, to the corner of 150th Street and St. Nicholas. To Sugar Hill.

  When they exited their cab, Finn whistled at the sight. “We are definitely not in the Village anymore.”

  Dash, equally impressed by the sight before them, replied, “You got that right, Finn.”

  Even though Dash knew what kind of grandeur they’d find up here, it still shocked him. Many whites, especially in Dash’s former circles, assumed the black part of Harlem was nothing but dirty speakeasies and overcrowded slums. But many didn’t know about Sugar Hill. Sugar Hill was where Harlem’s rich and famous lived, where castle-like mansions and stately townhouses and rowhouses lined the streets like in New York’s gilded age, when the Vanderbilts and the Rockefellers lived on Fifth Avenue before they retreated from the city. El told him once that Duke Ellington and Cab Calloway lived up this way, and Dash wondered—or rather, hoped—they might see them at Zora Mae’s party. Harlem Royalty, indeed.

  The mansion, which took their breath away, was a wood and stone wonder done up in the Queen Anne style. The first story was awash in gray stone and granite, the second story covered in crimson red–painted shingles matching the roof, the attic done up in white. The left-hand side of the house was box-y, utilizing a typical A-frame at the top. But the right-hand side was rounded, climbing upwards towards a gumdrop turret. Windows were everywhere, all opened—those that weren’t stained glass, that is—and music and laughter spilled out onto the street below. Inside the window frames were the shadows of patrons, some standing, others dancing, all radiating joy. The porch below was decorated with electric lights on a string, like those at Coney Island. Potted plants with large, elephant-like leaves stood on either side of the door, as big and elaborate as the headdresses on Broadway dancers.

  Dash and Finn were the only whites in line and, just as Zora Mae had warned, they got more than a few wary glances their way.

  “Isn’t this just grand,” Finn purred, oblivious to the stares. “I’m going to have a hard time picking just one man tonight.”

  “Finn, stay focused. We’re not here to have a good time.”

  “You know, if you stay this serious, you’re going to die a young death.”

  We all very well may if I can’t figure a way out of this mess.

  They got to the porch stairs and walked up to the stoop. Above the front door was a long, rectangular piece of stained glass. Underneath it stood a tall man in a black tuxedo and white gloves. He gave them a baleful look. “Gentlemen?”

  They placed Karl’s blue cards onto the blinding white of his outstretched palm.

  The doorman looked down and saw the color of the card that, as Zora Mae claimed, was the all-clear for whites to enter.

  The doorman looked up and said, “Welcome to Dante’s Inf
erno. Upstairs is Heaven, where angels and their singing will great you. The ground floor is Purgatory, where you may pause to consider the state of your soul. And the basement is Hell, where sinners are greeted with open arms. Enjoy.”

  As they walked into the foyer, Finn muttered, “I love the drama of this party! So theatrical.”

  Dash looked at Finn. “We shall we start?”

  “Can we just stop and marvel at this hall? Dear goddess, no wonder they call this place Sugar Hill. Look at how much sugar is on display!”

  Dash, having grown up in wealth, looked around to see the hall through Finn’s eyes. Mahogany wood archways carved into intricate patterns led to rooms to their left and right. Glass panels embedded in the opened doors portrayed Victorian men and women in a variety of poses, stories that must’ve meant something to the owners. A silver chandelier with six bulbs encased in crystal hung above their heads, as did the carved wood ceiling. This was Old Money through and through.

  It reminded Dash so much of his former family home, he felt slightly ill. “It’s grand, alright,” he managed to say.

  “It’s more than grand! It’s capital!”

  Dash was puzzled. “Capital?”

  “A British sailor I entertained last night said it often. I think I’m going to adopt it from now on.”

  Recovered, Dash asked again, “Where shall we start? Or do you want to stand and stare some more?”

  “No reason to be a bearcat.” Finn considered their options. “Let’s go up to Heaven and begin our descent down. Just like Dante.”

  Dash nodded. “The lady hath spoken.”

  They found a wooden staircase and ascended to a landing filled with angels in white sheets and robes, their wings sewn to their backs and sparkling behind them. The walls were also covered in white sheets, and miniature Roman-Greco columns lined the floor in even lines. Heaven was apparently the Parthenon.

  Dash and Finn were directed to a doorway to their left, where they were greeted by Gabriel, a massive black man wearing a royal blue robe that flowed around his muscular frame. Unlike the other angels, his wings were golden, fanning out to the sides and arching above his head. Heavy eyeliner made Gabriel’s eyes appear even more striking and a slight dusting of makeup emphasized the sharp angle of his cheeks and jawline.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice booming with granite, “welcome to Heaven. The Good Lord has been expecting you.”

  He opened the door and the free form, bent notes of jazz washed over them. The room they entered was essentially a ballroom with a vaulted ceiling high above their heads and chairs pushed against the walls, leaving the floor in the center wide open. People filled the space, doing dances Dash had never seen before. Complicated moves that had shoulders rolling, hips rocking, hands up in the air with fingers waving, legs bowing out and coming back in. Twirls, turns, kicks, and slides. One couple even performed a flip.

  Makes my club look absolutely tame.

  Like in Pinstripes, some of the men danced with other men. Same went for the women. No one seemed surprised or offended by what they saw, which meant this party was a safe place. A few whites stood at the perimeter, clearly intimated by the sheer physicality of the other dancers.

  A six-piece band played at the other end of the room, its members dressed in white. All the instruments—drums, bass, piano, cornet—were painted white. A singer, a beautiful black woman with short hair and smooth curves, wailed about lost love in a voice that was so spirited, it sounded as if she were celebrating rather than mourning.

  Finn said his ear, “What are we looking for, Bossman?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  They traced the edge of the room, careful not to step on the feet of the spectators watching the floor flushers. The singer finished her lyric and turned the song over to the cornet player, who blew with abandon. The dancers suddenly parted, as if on cue, and a trio of women dancers donned in white silk and fringe took to the floor. One of them was Flo Russell, El’s friend who had introduced Dash to Zora Mae. She was in the lead position, and Dash could see why. Her movements were so agile, so natural, it didn’t look like a planned dance at all. Rather it was a story, an extension of the singer’s melody, conveying heartbreak, anger, sadness, and triumph through movement. It was exhilarating to watch.

  Halfway through the dance break, Dash saw Flo looking at him. Though the smile stayed on her face, her eyes darkened. She was not pleased to see Dash.

  The singer came back in with the vocals, and the whole floor swarmed with people again, Dash losing sight of Flo in the throng.

  When the song was finished, the dancers took a break and Flo came straight over to Dash.

  “What are you doing here?” she said without preamble.

  Her abruptness took Finn by surprise.

  Dash too. He said, “Zora Mae invited us.” Which was mostly true.

  “Uh huh. You can’t stay away from trouble, can you? I told you nothing better find El or me.”

  Panic filled Dash’s chest. “What happened, Miss Russell?”

  “What happened is now I gotta work this party on account of introducing you to Miss Mae. That goddamned bartender gave me up and somehow, she tracked me down. I had to give up my spot tonight at Connie’s to an understudy who is just itchin’ to take my spot. Every night I’m not there, she’s weaseling her way into the director’s good graces. Now, downtowner, I didn’t dance my soles off to be replaced by some young thing with two left feet and two pennies for sense.”

  “I apologize, Miss Russell, I—”

  “Don’t apologize, just leave.”

  Finn spoke up. “But we just got here, dearie, and I don’t know about you, but I am just in love with the whole aura of this place. Classic decadence in classic décor. I mean, what more could a girl ask for? It’s all so capital!”

  Flo stared at Finn, not sure how to react.

  Dash replied, “We will, as soon as we find Miss Mae.”

  Flo jammed her pointer finger into Dash’s chest. “I mean it, downtowner, do not cause any more trouble. Or you’re gonna find my dancing shoe in a place shoes don’t belong.”

  She turned on her heel and stormed off.

  Finn said, “My, my, making friends wherever you go.”

  Dash shook his head and turned towards Finn. “I don’t see Miss Mae up here. Let’s see if we have better luck in Purgatory.”

  Finn snorted. “Now that’s a sentence you don’t hear often.”

  When the first doorman had mentioned “pausing” in Purgatory, he wasn’t lying. The room must’ve been a salon, but it was hard to tell, given that all the furniture had been removed. On the floor were piles upon piles of pillows, all upholstered with plum and burgundy fabric. On top of the pillows, stretched out in a hazy bliss, were men and women, still in their glad rags, eyes blank, slight smiles on their faces. Lying beside them were long bamboo pipes.

  Opium.

  Finn made a move to go further inside the room. Dash put a hand up, stopping him. Finn gave him a puzzled look, and Dash shook his head, saying softly, “We need to keep our wits about us tonight.”

  Finn, for once, agreed. “Shall we go to Hell then?”

  Dash smiled. “I thought Walter Müller already sent us there.”

  “Good one, Bossman.”

  They found a steep staircase heading down to the basement. The lighting here was much darker. The lightbulbs had been painted red, casting a crimson tint over everything and everyone. Unlike on the other two floors, in here there were shadows. A face or two was visible, but the darkness cloaked their actions. Given the urgent whispers and the sudden gasps, Dash had an idea of what the shadows were hiding. The chalky brick walls and the dusty floors led to a bar at the other end of the room, where two men were mixing and pouring drinks.

  Finn said, “You can deprive me of men, but you will not deprive me of a drink.”

  He strolled over to the bar, leaning forward to whisper into the bartender’s ear.

  Dash stoo
d where he was and looked around. He expected the Hell portion of the party to be the loudest yet. The gnashing of teeth, as the Bible had promised. Instead, Hell was quiet, seductive. Like the Devil himself.

  Like Nicholas Fife.

  And Walter Müller.

  A husky voice began to sing over a piano. In the corner next to the bar was a shiny, black upright piano. And behind it sat El Train in her black tuxedo. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see her. If Flo was here for introducing him to Zora, then why wouldn’t Zora also get Flo’s best friend to accompany her? A woman as powerful as Zora Mae would want to have a woman as famous as El Train at her grand party.

  El sang the intro, slow and smoldering:

  I just saw a maniac

  Wild, and tearing his hair

  Jumpin’ like a jumpin’ jack

  Child, you should’ve been there

  Laughed so loud I thought I’d cave in

  When I heard that silly, daffy dilly ravin’

  El noticed Dash standing there for the first time. She gave him a flat look, arched an amused brow, and continued to sing, turning a fox trot number into a minor key simmer.

  Five foot two, eyes of blue

  But oh, what those five feet could do

  Has anybody seen my girl?

  Turned up nose, turned down hose

  Flapper, yes sir! one of those

  Has anybody seen my girl?

  A female voice said behind Dash, “Hello, there.”

  Dash turned around. The Baroness of Business Zora Mae had appeared from the shadows. He took in the sight of her. Bobbed hair shiny and black. Lips the color of crushed cherries. Lashes long and thick. She wore a dazzling scarlet red dress that, even in the crimson dimness of the room, still managed to sparkle and shine.

  She recognized him. “Mr. . . . Parker, is it?”

  He turned on his most charming smile. The practiced flashing of teeth he once used daily when he lived among the upper crust. Where manners—or the appearance of manners—was more important than the morality they supposedly upheld.