The Double Vice
The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel
Chris Holcombe
Copyright © 2021 by Chris Holcombe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Books Like Us, LLC
90 State Street, Suite 700, Office 40, Albany, NY 12207
“Alice Blue Gown” by Harry Tierney and Joseph McCarthy © 1919 by Leo. Feist, Inc. Public Domain.
“Gambler’s Blues” by Carl Moore and Phil Baxter © 1925 by Phil Baxter. Public Domain.
“Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue” by Ray Henderson, Lewis and Young © 1925 by Leo. Feist, Inc. Public Domain.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-7364458-9-1
Contents
Acknowledgments
A Note from the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
The 2nd Hidden Gotham Novel
Excerpt from The Blind Tiger
Afterword
About the Author
For David, whose love changed my life.
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following people:
David Bishop, for being the personification of hope and joy; Erica Obey and Leanna Renee Hieber, for encouragement and guidance; Wendy Alexander, Kristen Cothron, Alberta Hardison, Tony Holcombe, Sonoko Jacobson, Rob Karwic, Leigh Pettus, and Justin Rudy for being early readers and becoming the very first supporters of these characters; Trista Emmer, for killer (pun intended) editorial edits; Mary Louise Mooney, for her razor sharp eye in helping me finalize the manuscript, and Robin Vuchnich, for the evocative cover.
A Note from the Author
LGBTQ+ terminology has certainly evolved over the years. In doing the research needed for this novel, I discovered that evolution and wish to clarify a few items to avoid confusion.
The terms “heterosexual,” “homosexual,” and “bisexual” as we define them today—which are based in the main on the sex/gender of one’s sexual partners—were adopted in the middle of the 20th century, specifically by the 1940s and 1950s.
But in the 1920s, much of LGBTQ+ terminology was based on an individual’s gendered appearance and mannerisms. Therefore, those men who were more feminine, or dressed in women’s clothing, called themselves “fairies” and “pansies”; and those women who were more masculine, or dressed in men’s clothing, called themselves “bulls” or “bulldaggers.” The terms “drag king” and “drag queen” were not used until later in the century, though “drag” was used (as in, men’s gowns would drag across the floor). Instead drag kings and queens were often referred to as “male/female impersonators.”
Those men who did not adopt a more feminine appearance but still desired other men referred to themselves as “queer.” These men would identify as “gay” later in the century. Women who desired other women were called, as they are today, “lesbians.”
Straight people were referred to as “normal” (please note, this does not reflect the views of the author) and those masculine men, such as sailors, construction workers, etc., who welcomed the advances of “queers” and “pansies” were called “trade.”
Outsiders referred to the LGBTQ+ community in a variety of terms: invert (as in, her internal nature is masculine because she pursues other women, but she is anatomically a woman, thus she is “inverted”), pervert (always used derogatorily), and degenerate (a legal term referring to “degenerate disorderly conduct,” which was often punishable by a prison sentence in the work yards).
I have tried to use the derogatory terms as sparingly as possible, unless it is to demonstrate a character’s prejudice for the purposes of narrative tension. And although drag queens were more casually called “fairies” over the more formal “impersonators” during the early-to-mid-20s, I switched the term with the less jarring “pansy,” which would become more adopted by the late 20s/early 30s (i.e., the “Pansy Craze”).
And now, I hope you enjoy this fictional crime story set in the real queer world of the Roaring Twenties.
—Chris Holcombe
1
He is not one of us.
Dash Parker tried to shut out all the noise around him and pinpoint exactly what it was the man had said—on his birthday, of all days—to cause this hurried thought. Not an easy feat given both the house band and the tiny dance floor of his club, Pinstripes, were hitting on all sixes.
Still facing the dancing men, Dash tilted his head towards the outsider. “I’m sorry?”
The outsider stood just at the edge of his peripheral vision. A darkened shoulder. A faintly outlined jaw. And, of course, the voice.
“A pansy is here. And you will take me to him.”
Ah, it was the “him.”
Every female impersonator Dash knew referred to themselves and others as “she” and “her,” and required everyone else to do likewise. They were “Duchess,” “Doll,” and “Flossie,” not “James,” “Robert,” or “Allen.”
Then there was the belligerent tone, the brusque manner, the clipped accent, the demands—especially the demands. Wanting Dash to take him to a “pansy,” then bristling when Dash had replied he was in the wrong place and ought to try Mother Childs near 59th Street where, at this hour, they’d be showing off their latest drag.
And now, the “him” drenched in contempt.
This was a man who disapproved of the recent changes in the world. A bluenose. Dash pitied those who couldn’t keep up, though he had to admit the world was flying through this decade. Just as fast as the drummer’s sticks across his snare and the dancers’ feet across the floor. Why, here it was, the middle of August 1926, and already so much was different. Women were voting. Telephones were ringing. Radio waves and motor cars crisscrossed the country. The farms shrank, the cities grew. Jazz was quickly becoming America’s music, and secret clubs popped up to celebrate the nature of Dash and many others.
And yet, so much had not changed. Hate, for one. Fear, for another.
This outsider represented both.
How did he get in here?
It was Sunday, August 15, approaching midnight, and they were standing in a room hidden behind a men’s tailor shop called Hartford & Sons on West Fourth Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. A secret knock was needed to enter the shop itself. Then once inside, one had to find the secret door in the back wall of the curtained-off changing area. An elaborate system. Pinstripes, like many clubs of its kind, was designed to be the very height of discretion. It had to be to avoid the raids. Now how did this outsider figure it all out?
More importantly, who was this outsider? A cop? A f
ederal agent? A newshawk for a low-rent tabloid writing an expose of the “invert underworld”?
Unnerved, Dash turned to face the man. “My good sir, you are free to walk around to see if she is here. Many fine gentlemen such as yourself do the same when they come to a club.”
A scowl rippled across the outsider’s face as he straightened the lapels of his blue-gray suit. He did not want to venture any farther into this narrow, darkened room.
He is not one of us.
Dash brushed his misbehaving brown hair behind his ears while his hazel eyes measured this threat. They mirrored each other in some ways, he and the outsider. Their slim figures totaled up to the same height, roughly six feet, and they were about the same age; newly twenty-six on Dash’s part and the other appearing to be just past there. But whereas Dash’s features were warm and inviting, this outsider was all hard angles and warning signs. Clenched jaw and razor-blade cheekbones. Blazing blue eyes unwavering in their stare. Blond brow creased in anger.
Such incongruity, what with the joyous dancing on one side of them and the lively bar on the other.
“Very well,” Dash said to the lack of response, speaking in what his younger sister Sarah used to call his “Father Voice,” which was amusingly (at least to her) formal and old-fashioned. It often came out when a situation was going wrong . . . or about to. “May I ask who you are?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“Why are you here?”
“Also, not your concern.”
“Listen, my good man, if you’re here to start trouble, then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“You don’t have the authority.”
“Oh, but I do,” Dash said. “I’m the owner, and I’d very much like it if you left the premises.”
The moment the words were out of Dash’s mouth, he realized his mistake.
You dope. He’s not going to leave now until you tell him everything.
The outsider gave him a curious look. “You own this place? I should’ve realized sooner. You don’t look like the other men here.”
Dash gestured to his own black tuxedo and white silk shirt. “Because of this?”
“Yes. You have money.” A curt raise of his chin. “These men do not.”
The outsider wasn’t wrong. Most of the patrons here tonight couldn’t afford the finery Dash wore, not having been born into the privileged upper class like he was. Instead, they gathered what mismatched glad rags they could find to celebrate his birthday. In the case of the bell bottom standing next to them, he still wore his navy whites, albeit freshly laundered. Dash’s former uptown friends would’ve taken offense, but Dash was charmed by their efforts.
And now, now he must protect them.
“Be that as it may, my loyalty is to my patrons, something I should think a gentleman such as yourself would appreciate. And it is you, good sir, who clearly doesn’t belong.” Dash grabbed the man’s elbow. “Off you go.”
In response, the outsider quickly grasped Dash’s hand, the grip hot steel. “I am not leaving until I find this . . . this thing.”
The clipped accent became clearer and harsher, the consonants landing like bombs.
German.
Dash stifled a grimace. He didn’t dare show the pain he felt in his crushed hand. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”
The outsider’s eyes blazed blue like hot flames. His lips twisted into a cold smile. “You do not want to make an enemy of me.”
Dash’s jaw tightened, his pulse pounding. “You are outnumbered in here.”
“I will find this pansy.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there isn’t one. Look around you!”
The outsider kept his eyes on Dash’s face for a few more seconds before relaxing his stare as well as his grip on Dash’s hand. The release in pressure sent a dizzying rush to Dash’s head. He took a few deep breaths, hoping he wouldn’t faint. He also hoped that what he said was true. He watched as the outsider took in the sights surrounding them.
At one end of the club was the band, a trio of drums, bass, and cornet played by two black men and one white. Scandalous and highly illegal. In the center was the busy dance floor, filled to the brim like a martini, men and their male partners threatening to slosh over the sides. Those men who weren’t dancing with one another leaned against the surrounding blue-painted walls or sat at wobbly wooden tables, smoking, drinking, laughing.
On the other end of the club was the bar, jammed so full you couldn’t even see the bartender. Dash watched as the outsider’s eyes took in the hunched shoulders, bent heads, and shirt backs with damp circles just above the trousers. No matter where the outsider looked, it was a sea of suit jackets, waistcoats, and suspenders. Not a dress in sight.
The two eventually faced each other again.
“There,” Dash said, his dry throat causing him to clear it. “She appears not to be here.”
The bell bottom standing next to them put his arm around a young man on a barstool, who was dressed in a sharp green suit. Loudly bragged tales of sexual conquests followed, as his dimpled cheeks spread into a grin. His young quarry looked up at him with lips parted in breathless anticipation. Their colognes, citrus and sawdust, intertwined with one another like their bodies would soon be.
The outsider flashed them a look of disgust, then said, “He is here.”
“What makes you certain?”
“I followed a companion of his.”
Cold sweat licked Dash’s palms. Only law enforcement and private detectives followed people, didn’t they? “Tailing,” the pulps called it. Now who was this female impersonator? And why the urgency over her? If the cops or the Feds wanted to raid Dash’s club, this outsider had all the evidence they needed to shut Pinstripes down: men drinking liquor, men dancing with men. Who would care about just one girl gallivanting around the Village in her latest drag?
Unless . . . unless she was rich, and her wealthy family was trying to stop a scandal.
Just like mine did.
Dash cleared his dry throat again. “Perhaps she gave you the slip. This city at night can trick many a man’s eye. I’d look elsewhere, if I were you.”
The outsider sighed, as if Dash were a misbehaving child. “You are being difficult.”
Dash projected a cockiness he didn’t feel. “‘Stubborn’ is the word most men use to describe me.”
“Give me your name.”
Dash was about to reply none of your concern when his name was called by a familiar voice to his left.
The man arched his brow. “Dash?”
Hell.
First, he said he was the club’s owner, now someone else said his name. The only information left to volunteer was his home address!
He forced a smile. “Short for Dashiell. Excuse me.”
He turned and pushed his way to an open space at the crowded bar. Once he laid his hands on the polished wood surface, he called out, “Evening, Joe!”
His bartender, business partner, and roommate Joe O’Shaughnessy stood behind the wooden bar, grinning one of his mischievous smiles. “Happy birthday, me lad!”
Joe placed his hands on hips tightly clad in brown trousers. Broad, wide shoulders strained against the matching suspenders, and the wrinkled white shirt worn with no tie (no matter how much Dash begged him) featured rolled-up shirtsleeves exposing thick forearms covered in fiery hair.
He bent forward at the waist. “Or is it me lass?” he added with a wink.
Dash wanted to reply to Joe’s usual flirtation in his usual way, you’ve seen my bed from time to time, you tell me. Instead, he lit a cigarette and flicked a wary look to the outsider behind him.
“We have a problem.”
“Ya tellin’ me.” Joe reached down underneath the bar and brought up a bottle of clear liquid. He poured the elixir into a snifter glass and passed it to Dash. “Taste this.”
“Joe, I—”
> “Taste it, lassie.”
Dash acquiesced. He didn’t want to alert his patrons about a wolf in their midst—not yet, at least. Better to avoid a brawl and go along with Joe’s banter. Which was disarmingly easy. Not only was Joe forceful, he was right irresistible. A big six of a man with eyes the most vivid green, made even more luminous by the flaming red of his hair and the paleness of his freckled skin. A woman on the street once described those eyes as emeralds on the neck of the Queen. Joe replied they were the only things royal about him. Everything else was purely second class.
Well, thought Dash, not quite everything.
He picked up the snifter. “Gin?”
Joe nodded.
Dash flipped the liquid back. It burned his throat like coal smoke.
“Dammit, Joe.” He dropped the snifter onto the bar and brought up the cigarette to wash the taste out of his mouth. “The past two weeks, it’s gotten worse and worse.”
Joe nodded. “I know, I know. It’s just that by the time the truck gets here—”
“—the good bottles are all taken.”
“I’ve been mixing ’em with fruit juices and seltzer like usual. Only now I’m startin’ to hear complaints.”
Dash exhaled a thick cloud of blue-gray smoke. Not all of the changes in this decade had been good. Ever since the ridiculous Volstead Act, beer and wine had been replaced with “cocktails,” concoctions to hide the vile taste of the bootlegged alcohol. Glasses were now loaded with lemon juice, honey, sugar, and mint leaves. Like drinking candy. Appropriate since the federal government and its nannies continued to treat its citizens like children. But if the childish disguises weren’t working anymore, then how could they compete with the thousands of other speaks in town?
The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel Page 1