The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

by Chris Holcombe

  “The Committee of Fourteen. Walter helps manage the money. He’s always been good with numbers. Meticulous. Keeps perfect records and diaries. Says it’s important to know what came from whom, for you never know when that information will be useful again. He bragged that the Committee never saw a more thorough, detailed report than his.”

  “I see.” Moral views aside, Dash thought Walter sounded insufferable. “And what do you do?”

  “What do I do? I . . . offer him support. Help him with the books.”

  Dash took another sip of his cocktail. The kid was a terrible liar. “And your friends? The people you came with to my club. How do you know them?”

  A cautious look. “What do you mean? How do you know about my friends?”

  Dash shrugged. “I saw them at your table. A female impersonator and a woman in men’s clothing, now that’s some interesting company. Especially given your mother’s and your brother’s personal views on cabaret nightlife.”

  Karl rubbed nervous fingertips up and down the sides of his glass, the surface already beaded with condensation. “One cannot change one’s nature. On either side. As for my friends, I met them in other places—places like this.” He shook his head. “But we are not very good friends.”

  “Casual acquaintances?”

  “I suppose.” Karl’s face darkened again.

  Dash gave what he hoped was a friendly smile. “Not every person in this city needs to be a confidante. Sometimes you just need superficial company. Do you go out with them often?”

  Karl shook his head. “Tonight was special.”

  “Wonderful! I feel honored you chose my club for a celebration.”

  “It wasn’t a celebration.” He left it at that.

  “Well, whatever it was,” Dash said, “I’m still honored.” He paused, thinking of how to ask his next question without scaring off the kid. “Did you choose my club? Or was it someone else?”

  Karl stopped rubbing the slick sides of his cocktail glass. “Why do you ask that?”

  So suspicious, so nervous. What are you afraid of, Karl?

  Dash kept his manner and his voice nonchalant. “I’m a business owner. I like to know how my patrons learn about my place. That’s all.”

  He sipped his Gin Rickey and let Karl work out his response.

  The kid thought for a moment. “It was Miss Avery. She lives nearby and heard of it from a friend of hers.”

  “Glad to see the Village Grapevine is just as strong as ever. Miss Avery, was she the one in the blue and gold dress? Or the suit?”

  Karl’s eyes widened. “Why are you interested in them?”

  Careful here, Dash.

  He shrugged. “I’m not, really. Just making conversation. I ask you questions, then you ask me questions.” He took another sip of his gin, then nudged Karl’s elbow. “Ask me something.”

  The kid quietly debated with himself, then said, “Alright. Who is your friend we’re about to see?”

  “Ah, yes.” Dash set his glass down. “I met her in a Harlem speak once upon a time. Not this one, some place I don’t think I could find again. This incredible woman at the bar was just so lively, so fiery, so funny. A true bearcat in the best sense of the word. One couldn’t help but be drawn to her. Naturally, I introduced myself, and we spent half the night and half the morning talking. Well, arguing mostly.”

  “Arguing?”

  Dash grinned. “Why, yes. I had mentioned I loved jazz music and just adored the band who had invented it, the Dixieland Jass Band. It was the first record I ever heard and of course, in my naiveté, I thought it was the first one ever made.”

  He laughed at the memory.

  “Oh my, she about levitated off her barstool. ‘Those white boys did not invent jazz!’ she said. ‘They stole it from us, and anyone who says differently is a goddamn liar!’ She set me straight and gave me new music to listen to. That’s when I discovered Louis Armstrong and his band, who will change your life if you ever hear them in person. She and I have been friends ever since.”

  Karl’s brows lifted with disbelief. “Friends with another race? Is that even possible?”

  Dash gestured to the room around them. “Anything is possible in these modern times! And if it isn’t, then it ought to be, and we’re the people who can make it so. Besides, those of color are human beings. Just like the Irish, the Italians, the Polish.” He touched Karl’s arm. “And the Germans.”

  The kid smiled, which made Dash grin in return.

  “What is her name?” Karl asked.

  “El Train.”

  Karl titled his head with puzzlement. “Why is that her name?”

  “She’s as powerful as a locomotive, that’s why! Of course, it’s not her real name. Her real name is Eloise Ankins, though nobody calls her that—not if they want to stay alive, that is.”

  “Why would she change her name?”

  “She’s a take-charge kind of woman, not a refined, passive Eloise. Certainly not an Ankins. Horrid-sounding name and she’d tell you so. Sometimes the names we’re given don’t reflect who we truly are.”

  “Like the pansies.” Karl quickly glanced around, worrying someone would overhear him.

  Dash placated his fears. “This is a safe place. Yes, exactly, like them. Now other times, people change their names to protect themselves.”

  “How so?”

  “Take the tailor shop for example.”

  “Ah, you changed your name,” Karl said. “I was wondering why the shop was called Hartford & Sons and not Parker & Sons.”

  The kid hadn’t missed the sign out front.

  Dash chuckled. “Well, almost. My family name is indeed Parker, though I don’t have any sons of my own.” He leaned in. “Accuracy isn’t the point; anonymity is.” He sat back on his barstool. “I actually inherited the shop from a, uh . . . friend.”

  The friend had been the Parker family tailor. Just the thought of Victor with his dark hair flecked with gray, dark eyes, and dark pinstripe suits—always pinstripes—lit a fire buried deep within Dash. He hoped Karl didn’t see the tell-tale blush on his cheeks.

  “He was a Hartford?” Karl looked at Dash expectedly.

  Dash shook his head, trying to recover. “This is where it can get confusing, especially after a few of these.” He gestured to their drinks. “Yes, publicly the original owner went by Victor Hartford, but his real family name was Agramonte.”

  Karl wrinkled his brow. “What name is that?”

  “Spanish. Apologies, Catalan. Victor would gasp if he heard me call him Spanish. We Americans aren’t into the fine nuances of other countries and other cultures.”

  Though he certainly taught me the nuances of a glance or a handshake held too long.

  “Why did he change his name to Hartford?”

  “Because no one would buy from a Spanish tailor, let alone a Catalan one. And when the Spanish Influenza hit, can you imagine the scorn they endured? They were deemed responsible for bringing the ‘plague upon our house,’ as it were.”

  Dash’s father certainly thought so when by Christmas of 1918, Dash’s younger sister Sarah—the one who coined “Father Voice”—was added to the list of the fallen. If Thomas Parker had ever found out the true nationality of his tailor, God knew what he would’ve done.

  Karl nodded, his voice solemn. “I understand. Just like they blame all us Germans for the War.”

  Dash’s smile curved towards sadness. “When tragedy hits, people will need someone, or something, to blame.” He took a long drink to cleanse his palate. “Anyhow, Victor simply picked his new name from a map. He said, ‘if Hartford’s good enough for a state capitol, it is good enough for me.’”

  “He must’ve been a good friend to have left you his entire business.”

  Dash’s body warmed with the memory of those secret nights in the back of the tailor shop—where music swelled from the Victrola and he and Victor discussed everything from worldly politics to the pulp stories Dash read with abandon. The air t
hick with cologne, laughter, and spilled wine. And then later, humid breaths on skin, lips salty with sweat. The room seeming to spin like the record on the turntable, the needle scratching as no one seemed to care the song had long ago finished.

  “He most certainly was a good friend,” Dash replied.

  “Was?” Karl approached his next question with care. “Did he die?”

  Dash quickly shook his head. “No.” Thank God that wasn’t the case. “No, no, he—” Dash didn’t want to explain, not just yet, so he settled for: “—he had to leave. Circumstances beyond his control. You know how life can be.”

  That was 1925. A bad year all around.

  Karl said, “And this new name, it gave him a new life when he moved here?”

  “It does for most who come to this country.”

  “I wonder . . .”

  Dash looked at Karl with interest. “Wonder what?”

  Karl was speaking barely above a whisper, not talking to Dash at all, but to himself. “I wonder if I should do something like that. Go to a different place. Give myself a new name. A new life.”

  “Why would you need to?”

  Karl didn’t answer.

  Dash leaned in closer. “What are you running from, kid?”

  Before Karl could answer, El Train appeared onstage.

  6

  The roar from the crowd was deafening. Half the room stood up—a few even stood on their chairs—to applaud and whistle the tall, broad-shouldered, busty woman. She was dressed in a man’s black tuxedo with tails. A top hat cocked to the side on her head, a face round like the moon, a snaggletooth dead-center in her grin. She placed her hands on her hips and scanned the crowd, seeing if they met to her liking.

  After a full minute of cheering, she raised her hands and yelled her usual greeting. “Well shee-it!”

  The crowd replied back, “Well shee-it!”

  “You act like you’ve never seen a woman before! Some of you probably never even been with one. I know some of you never been with a woman like me. That’s alright, baby, that’s alright. Better late than never. Now tonight, I’m gonna educate you on the subject of l-o-v-e.”

  Dash watched as El pulled out the piano bench, flipped her tails back, and sat down.

  “Tonight’s first lesson is Alice Blue Gown. You know Alice Blue Gown? She one baaad little girl. Most don’t want to admit she’s around and those that do, well, you get told to keep your mouth shut. It’s not appropriate conversation for polite society. Uh huh. As I look down from this stage, I can plainly see you’re not society. And I’m not polite, so we’re gonna tell all tonight!”

  The crowd applauded with anticipation, then quieted down as El began to play. The music belonged to “Alice Blue Gown,” a well-known song often performed in cabarets, rumored to be inspired by Alice Roosevelt’s signature dress. To the Roosevelts’ chagrin—or horror, more likely—El had rewritten the lyrics to be about something entirely different.

  The intro was slow and teasing, full of dramatic pauses. She sang in her full, husky voice:

  I once had a gown, it was almost new

  Oh, the daintiest thing, it was sweet Alice blue

  With little forget-me-nots placed here . . . and here . . .

  To the crowd’s giggles, El paused to point to either side of her substantial bosom.

  When I had it on, my love I just had to share . . .

  Then I whored and whored and whored

  ’Til it ripped and it wasn’t no more!

  The music then changed to a more stomping blues number, El’s voice guttural and full of power, her fingers flying over the piano keys.

  In my sweet little Alice blue gown

  When I first let my panties down

  He was so proud inside

  As I ground his gospel pipe

  He shouted “Mama, mama!” as he shuddered and closed his eyes

  Then he said, “Dearie, please turn around”

  And he shoved that thing right up my brown!

  He tore it, I bored it, Lord, how I adored it

  My sweet little Alice Blue Gown!

  The room gasped, whooped, and hollered in response to the new lyrics. Several women in the crowd laughed so hard, tears streamed down their faces. The men doubled over as well, some even stamping the floor in a fit. Dash looked over at Karl, whose face was bright red.

  The song concluded with a trilling flourish on the piano keys, and the audience applauded enthusiastically. El beamed, taking it all in.

  She played songs in that profane vein for the next hour. When she finished, she took a bow, saying, “Well shee-it, I guess y’all weren’t a bad crowd after all!”

  As she strolled off the stage, she said over her shoulder to Dash, “You’re just going to stand there and gawk? Or are you going to get some stones and come on back?”

  Dash smiled. He patted Karl on the shoulder, and they followed El’s imposing frame into the back office.

  The room was a cramped affair with a desk right next to the door. The three of them squeezed past it and the man sitting in the chair as they entered. The man was talking on the telephone. Karl’s eyes flashed when he saw the contraption. Dash regarded the kid with a quizzical look.

  I wonder what that’s about?

  The three of them gathered in an open space on the other side of the desk by a half-opened window. The man on the phone—Leslie Charles, the club’s owner—finished his conversation with a “I told you I would, now leave well enough alone!” and then slammed the receiver down. He shook his head to himself, muttering, “Goddamn, nobody has patience anymore,” then swerved around in the swivel chair with an ear-piercing squeak and looked up.

  Every time Dash saw Leslie, he was always shocked by the man’s appearance. Dash had never seen such bright blue eyes on a dark man. They were like the fake sapphire jewelry dancers and actresses wear on stage.

  “Mr. Parker,” Leslie said, his voice flat, his expression bored. “What brings you back here?” He looked Karl up and down. “And why’d you bring a friend?”

  El rolled her eyes. “They’re not here for you, fromby, they’re here to talk to me. And judging by that bruise on Dash’s face, it’s a fraughty issue, isn’t it?”

  Dash nodded. “We are in a bit of a situation.”

  El shook her head. “You downtowners sure know how to get into trouble. Les.”

  The man flicked his sapphires to her. “What, girl?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you ‘what girl’ me. Do I have to teach you manners? We have to talk about something private.”

  Leslie pointed at his chest. “You want me to leave my own office?”

  “Considering all those ladies and gents out there came to see me, and all their sugar is going into your cash drawer, honey, this might as well be my office.”

  He stood up, though there wasn’t much height difference from when he was sitting down. Leslie Charles was a short man who desperately wanted to be tall. Dash had heard he added inches to his shoes’ heels. He also coiffed his hair high, a thick black valance over a window display of a face. El once said, “God spent extra time on him, and he knows it.” An accurate assessment in Dash’s view. But even with the tall hair and the tall shoes, he was still dwarfed by the formidable frame of El Train.

  “El,” Leslie said, “you gotta learn to respect a man. This is my club, that is my money, and this is my office. And I am not going to be run out of it by a she-he like you and two pale, pasty white boys like them. We clear?”

  When Leslie paused to take a breath, El said, “You done?”

  Her lack of reaction flustered the angry man. “El, I swear to God—”

  “Be a dear and bring us some refreshments. I’m parched and this boy—what’s your name?”

  The kid stammered at first, then managed to get out “Karl.”

  “Right. Karl here looks like he could use some liquid nerve.”

  She and Leslie stared at each other for a moment, Leslie’s face scrunche
d with anger, El’s face uncreased with angelic patience. Leslie lost the standoff—as if he could ever have won it in the first place—and left the office, slamming the door.

  El chuckled. “I guess he had to have the last word.”

  She took his seat at the desk and gestured towards the half-opened window overlooking the small alleyway. Dash sat on the sill, grateful for the breeze coming through the opening. He swore August got worse with every passing year, the air thick and heavy with the smells of sweating bodies, urine-filled alleyways, and overflowing trash cans. At least tonight the wind was cool.

  Karl stood near Dash, keeping close.

  Dash said, “El—”

  She held up a pointer finger. “Three, two, one—”

  The office door opened, and Leslie roughly handed her three glasses. One was dark whiskey for El, the other two were Gin Rickeys for Dash and Karl. Leslie slammed the door again as he left, causing El to laugh.

  “Whoo, he mad tonight. I think I’ve outdone myself.”

  She handed Dash and Karl their glasses and they clinked in a silent toast.

  Once the first sips were completed, El said, “All right, boys. Talk.”

  It took a good half hour of verbal tap dancing on Dash’s part to get El to agree to hide Karl.

  “Are you crazy?” she initially said. “You want me arrested? Good Lord, Dash, I am not taking on that risk.”

  “He needs help, El.”

  “Then you help him.”

  “His brother won’t come up here. He’s scared to death of Harlem. Besides, my place would be too easy to find.”

  “You don’t have any other white folks to take him to?” she asked over the rim of her whiskey glass. “Huh. I suppose you don’t. Your family won’t help you, that’s for sure.”

  Dash held open his hands. “We need to help those persecuted by the normals.”

  “Says you. And don’t you be using persecuted as if you’re a preacher at a pulpit. I didn’t fall for that when I was younger, I won’t fall for that now.”