Walter turned and stood up even straighter when he saw her standing behind him. “Sorry, Mother.”
Mother stepped forward. “Who are these men, Walter?”
Her appearance unnerved Walter, and he couldn’t think of a lie fast enough.
Dash obliged him. “We work with your son, madam.”
“At the Committee?”
“Yes, madam, at the Committee of Fourteen. We work in the same department.”
Suspicion narrowed Mother’s eyes. “You don’t look like a Committee man. They don’t get into fights.”
This damnable bruise.
Dash gave what he hoped was a shy, embarrassed smile. “The truth is a bit more foolish, I’m afraid. My shoes came untied and I tripped on the subway stairs.”
Mother’s suspicion stayed put. “Why are you here? Can my son not be ill?”
Walter’s lie for not being at work today. A nice cover for his hangover.
Dash watched Walter’s face as he responded. “Normally we would, madam. Good health is very important. However, there was an emergency, and we needed your son’s immediate opinion on the matter.”
Mother was somewhat placated. “And is this ‘emergency’ resolved?”
Walter finally found his words. “Yes, Mother. Everything is all right.”
The old woman looked from Walter to Dash to Joe, who nodded in affirmation. “Good. Then you can be on your way, and my son can get back to resting.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come, Walter. The heat will do you no good.” She cast a glance to Dash and Joe. “He will return to the office tomorrow.”
Walter let his mother turn him around. He added over his shoulder, “The other matter we were discussing? Perhaps this woman can lead you to the . . . other person. You will give me another report Thursday.”
That was two days from now.
Dash said, “I’m afraid that isn’t much time, Mr. Müller, for a . . . full report.”
Walter’s smile was cruel. “An update then.”
There wasn’t much to say, except “Yes, sir. Will the early evening suffice?”
“The evening?” Mother remarked. “Why don’t you conduct your business during regular business hours?”
“It is all right, Mother,” Walter said. “Sometimes these things happen.”
Dash asked, “We will leave the information at the office then?”
“No, home is fine.” Before his mother could object, he said, “The information is of vital importance.”
Dash nodded. “As you wish. And madam? Our condolences for your son Karl.”
She regarded him dispassionately. “Thank you. I assume Walter told you, though it is none of your concern.”
She turned and disappeared into the shadows of the hall.
Walter looked at Dash and Joe once more before saying, “Thursday evening. Do not disappoint me.”
They returned to the Village, opting for a cab when it was announced at the IRT station that there were significantly delays because of a stalled train.
“I am not waiting in this heat,” Dash replied. “I’m already a sopping mess.”
Joe replied, “As long as you’re paying.”
With the few grains of sugar I have left.
The cab dropped Dash off in front of Hartford & Sons before taking Joe home to the Cherry Lane Playhouse.
As Dash stepped out onto the street, Joe said, “Don’t worry, lassie, we’ll get outta this mess in no time. That story about Walter’s father may be enough to do it.”
Possibly, but then whoever killed Karl would get away with it.
Dash forced a smile. “From your mouth to God’s ears.”
He closed the cab door and watched it drive off. He tried to shake off the tension building in his shoulders from witnessing Walter with his mother. Joe and Atty weren’t wrong when they joked Walter couldn’t visit a toilet without his mother’s say-so. She ruled him with an iron fist. At least she verified what Walter had claimed: Karl was dead. It was possible this was all an elaborate ruse, but Dash didn’t think so.
He went across the street to the Greenwich Village Inn for a bite to eat, suddenly famished.
The tavern was surprisingly empty, with only The Ex-Pats scattered across the round tables. Emmett was sitting at the bar reading the latest issue of The New Yorker, his snow-white brow furrowed. This was a surprise given that Emmett only read those newspapers which were strictly news, “none of that fancy headline shit,” he’d often said.
“Emmett,” Dash purred, “I didn’t figure you for a New Yorker reader.”
“I’m not. I just see you reading it all the time and thought, what the hell, let me give it a go.”
Dash pulled up a barstool next to him. “Verdict?”
Emmett pursed his lips. “Hoity-toity poppycock. Trivial nonsense. Rolls Royces, letters from Paris, stories about the Ritz-Carltons.”
“I think the Carlton series is meant to be satirical.”
Emmett went on as if he hadn’t heard. “They had a whole column devoted to yachts and how the Sound is being overtaken by them.”
“It is true, though. All of those white sails block the view.”
“And for what? So rich men can get to work without getting on the train or on the bus like the rest of us? Next thing you know, they’ll write about how the rich have two yachts.”
Dash feigned reverence. “Of course they will, Emmett. You can’t expect the idle rich to remain mono-nautical.”
Emmett grumbled as he went around to the other side of the bar, grabbing a cup and saucer and pouring steaming hot coffee. “The only thing these writers got right is the pay-as-you-enter nonsense about the bus. Highly inconvenient. And those citywide franchises they’re proposing? They’ll be bad as the subways, and once again, the real New Yorkers will be cast aside.” He gave a baleful glare to Dash as he set the coffee down in front of him. “To those of us who can’t afford taxis, anyway. Your face still looks like hell.”
“Thank you, Emmett.” Dash then touched the cover of the magazine left on the bar. “But see? You’re as mad as they are about the same thing. It can’t be all poppycock.”
“Huh. I’ll give them credit for the bus thing. And for calling the Volstead Act the ‘Volstead Cancer.’ That’s most appropriate. The usual?”
Dash nodded.
The front door opening interrupted their transaction, and they both turned to see who it was. A large figure momentarily blocked the light of the early afternoon. After a brief pause, the round shape walked towards him. Dash felt a spark of dread.
Not two days in a row of Cullen McElroy.
When the door closed and Dash’s eyes adjusted, he saw it wasn’t McElroy at all, just a bald, rotund man in a gray-green suit. Both he and Emmett sighed with relief.
“I’ll get your sandwich,” Emmett said.
“Thanks, Emmett.”
The bald man walked up to the bar and said in a raspy voice, “Is anyone sitting here?”
Dash gestured to the empty seat to his left. “Have a seat.”
The big man struggled to gracefully sit down. He could barely fit in the space between bar and stool. His poor vest looked like it had been condemned to rack torture, the buttons straining against the bulging fabric. The man eventually settled in with a sigh from his mouth and a groan from the stool.
Intuition fluttered in Dash’s chest. He said, “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new around here?”
“Been here a few times.”
Dash offered his hand, despite his misgivings. “I’m Dash Parker.”
The man’s massive hand engulfed Dash’s. The iron grip was hot and feverish. “Lowell Henley.”
Dash slowly pulled his hand away, repeating the man’s name. The name Finn mentioned yesterday morning. And if Dash had to bet, the same man Joe said was waiting for him in Pinstripes last night.
He cleared his throat. “I understand you’ve been looking for me.”
“I was.”
“And you
found me here.”
“I always find who I’m looking for.”
Dash’s pulse steadily climbed. Details of the mysterious man revealed themselves one at a time. The bald head buffed to a shine. The multiple jowls of his jaw. The impassive eyes that didn’t blink.
Dash said, “Can I get you drink?”
“I don’t need any. This is a quick job.”
“I see. And what job is that, my good man?”
Lowell reached inside his jacket, causing Dash to involuntarily flinch. Lowell enjoyed this nervous reaction. He pulled out a single piece of paper, placed it on the bar, and slid it towards Dash. Dash picked it up, giving it first a cursory glance. A typed contract. How formal.
Dash skipped the half-attempted legal language and went straight to the man who was proposing a “distribution of quality spirits” and “protection from unjust and corrupt harassment from law enforcement” for his club Pinstripes: Nicholas Fife. The notorious gangster often referred to as “Slick Nick” by Manhattan’s newshawks.
Dash tried to keep his voice steady. “I didn’t realize he was interested in such places.”
Lowell’s impassive eyes didn’t betray a flicker of emotion, neither humor nor offense. “He sees great potential in your club.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware he’d been a guest.”
“He keeps his ear to the ground.”
“A vigilant man,” Dash said. “And what percentage does Mr. Fife want in return?”
“It’s there on the paper.”
“I like to hear men speak about money.”
“Why?”
“It enhances their good looks.”
Lowell glared at Dash, refusing to play along. “Fifty,” came the reply.
Dash stared at him. “Fifty,” he repeated. “He wants half?”
The number stunned him into a brief silence. How was he going to remain in business with half of his earnings going to someone else? On top of the bribes he already paid to McElroy.
Dash picked up the paper and shook it. “And what exactly do I get in return?”
“The chance to make some heavy sugar. Good booze is a rarity in this town.”
“For half, I need more than just drinkable liquor.” Dash set the piece of paper down on the bar and tapped it with his forefinger. “This so-called protection. I currently pay for it now, at a much cheaper price, I might add, and direct to the people I need protecting from.”
“His offer extends beyond the cops and beyond your club.”
“What do you mean?”
A long-suffering sigh. “If you and your fellow perverts run into any kind of trouble, Mr. Fife makes sure the troublemakers would be sorry for their actions.”
“I’m touched.”
“Don’t get any ideas. He wants to protect his investments. By any means necessary, if you catch my drift.”
“I’m buried beneath it.”
Dash ran his tongue over his teeth while he thought. If just half the stories in the newspapers were true, then Slick Nick was a pitiless brute. A man who organized people to disappear with alarming regularity. Yet he was so far removed from his crimes no one even had a picture of him, much less an accurate description. (Hence his moniker of Slick.) Could Dash really do business with such a man?
Emmett stood at the other end of the bar. He saw Dash’s distress and arched a snowy white eyebrow. Dash subtly shook his head, wanting to keep Emmett out of this. He returned his attention to Lowell. “And the high quality of booze?”
“Best in the city.”
“Easy to accomplish when the standards are so low. Any reports of blindness? Vomiting? Dizziness? The Jake Walk?”
“Better than the truck you’re buying from now. Why pay for scraps when you can have the Real McCoy?”
Dash felt his cheeks burn. Lowell knew about his agreement with another speak, in which they split the last delivery of the weekly booze truck. What didn’t this man know?
Lowell went on. “I’m afraid if we were to do business, your present supplier would have to cease and desist. And we have ways, Mr. Parker, of making sure the desist is enforced . . . for both parties.”
Dash slid the contract back in front of Lowell, his hand slightly shaking. “Would it be possible, Mr. Henley, to try the merchandise before I sign this?”
An annoyed grimaced. “That’s not how it’s done.”
“Look around you. Rules don’t matter here in the Village. If Mr. Fife wants my club, he needs to prove his value.”
Lowell’s sausage-like fingers drummed the surface of the bar while he processed this counterproposal. Those dead, shark-like eyes bored into Dash’s. The ominous drumbeat continued for a moment before suddenly stopping.
“You’re a bold fag, you know that?”
Dash forced a smile, flashing teeth. “I’ve always enjoyed being insubordinate.”
“You talk like an uptowner.”
“A man has to have goals.”
Lowell stuck out a pugnacious chin. “I don’t like uppity perverts. And I don’t like high hats like you.”
“Don’t get yourself into a lather. A man doesn’t buy a suit before trying it on. I should know; I’ve sold many of them that way. Tell Mr. Fife the offer is under serious consideration, pending an inspection of the merchandise. If he has good gin, I’ll sign right then and there.”
Emmett came by with Dash’s sandwich on a round plate. “Here you go, Mr. Parker.” He flicked a look at Lowell. “This man bothering you.”
“I was just leaving,” Lowell replied. He picked up the contract, folded it neatly, and returned it to his inside pocket. He said to Dash, “I’ll convey your message. For your sake, I hope he accepts.”
Fear pricked the back of Dash’s neck. He hoped so as well.
Lowell left his barstool with a groan and sauntered towards the door.
When he was out of sight, Emmett asked, “What was that all about?”
Dash took a healthy sip of coffee, wishing it was gin. “Believe me, Emmett, you don’t want to know.”
14
Somehow, Dash made it through the rest of the day, despite his brain buzzing with questions. Nicholas Fife? Wanted his club? Dash didn’t think gangsters wanted anything to do with “degenerates.” And how was he going to tell his friends about the proposition? This Walter business was already a lot to handle. Now they had to navigate a working relationship with one of New York’s most notorious mobsters!
When it rains, it pours.
He tossed and turned during his early evening nap. The nervous energy of the first night’s previews from the Playhouse cast downstairs didn’t help matters. The constant running to the water closet. The pipes groaning with every toilet flush. Voices rising and falling in pitch during vocal warm-up and diction exercises. “One hen, two ducks, three squawking geese . . . four limerick oysters, five corpulent porpoises . . .”
“Oh, to hell with it,” Dash grumbled, getting up from the bed and dressing.
Joe, who was seated in the wooden chair by the window, smoking, said, “I don’t know why ya think ya can sleep when they open a show. They’ll be like this all week until the reviews come out.”
“Why can’t we live somewhere sane so a man can get some rest?”
Joe flicked his emeralds at Dash. “What’s gotten into ya, lassie?”
Dash shook his head. “Nothing. Just a case of the grumps.”
In the end, he didn’t mention Fife to Joe or Finn. There wasn’t much to tell anyway—at least, not yet. Besides, he had to focus on his next task: convincing El’s friend to take him to meet Harlem’s Baroness of Business.
At half-past midnight and dressed in his finest tuxedo, Dash walked up to the entrance of the Oyster House. The giant doorman, Horace, grinned when he saw him. “Good evening, Mr. Parker. Three nights in one week.”
“Hello, Horace. Have I missed El?”
“No, you didn’t,” said the woman herself, as she moved through the entrance towards Horace and Dash. “I go
t one hour before my next set. Hurry up before Les sees you. He’s likely to kill you on sight.”
Horace gave Dash a worried look, but Dash just smiled. “Don’t worry, Horace, I’ll get back into his good graces.”
While Dash reassured Horace he kept his secret about Karl and Leslie’s telephone, El went to the street and tried to hail a cab.
Horace cleared his throat. “That’s nice and all, Mr. Parker, I do appreciate that. Now I heard where you’re going tonight. To see someone who will introduce you to Miss Zora Mae?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Horace looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. No one in the line seemed to be paying attention. A purple and white cab pulled to the curb in front of El. He lowered his voice even more.
“I overheard something I think you should know.”
“What is it?”
El whistled to Dash through her teeth, causing him to jump. “Don’t just stand there. Someone will steal our hack.”
“Mr. Parker,” Horace pleaded.
“C’mon, downtowner, let’s go!”
Dash smiled at the big man. “I’ll be back, I promise.”
Dash followed El into the cab. When the door closed, she gave an address on 140th Street. The driver, recognizing El from her publicity posters, said none of his friends was going to believe this and what an honor it was to drive her this evening. Then he pressed on the gas and they surged forward.
She looked over at Dash. “You cause any trouble since last night?”
“Only threatened Walter with exposing the truth about his father to the Committee of Fourteen.”
El looked at him warily. “Which is what?”
“He was a female impersonator with a penchant for army soldiers in the underground cabarets of Berlin.”
El smacked his shoulder. “What is wrong with you, downtowner? You have a death wish? You must. Going after a bluenose and the Baroness. Shit. We should swing by the undertaker and pick out your headstone while we’re at it.”
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