“Don’t worry, El. I just let Walter know we’re not going to be some easy mark for his schemes.”
El took a deep breath. “Well. You better not try that with the Baroness.” She paused. “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this. Maybe you shouldn’t meet her.”
“Come on, El. We’ve come this far.”
“Don’t mean we have to take it further.”
Dash held up a hand. “I solemnly swear not to purposefully antagonize the Baroness.”
El looked at Dash for almost two blocks before relenting. “Let’s see what Flo has to say. You ready to work your magic?”
Dash gestured to his tuxedo. “Who could say no to such a finely wrapped package as this?”
Flo Russell crossed her arms over her bony chest and said, “Absolutely not.”
El replied, “Flo! Don’t be salty.”
“I’ll be plenty salty if I want to.” She pointed her finger at Dash. “I’m not helping him get himself nixed. Or me, for that matter.”
They were all standing in Flo’s one-room apartment on 140th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. Two large windowpanes were open, the copper-colored curtains fluttering in the whispering breeze. Two wooden chairs perched by the sill, where Dash and El sat to blow their cigarette smoke into the night air, the scent still present, tarry and sweet. Flo, who didn’t smoke, stood on the gold and black rug which laid between the chairs and the bed.
El said, “You’re not going to get nixed.”
“Says the woman who won’t be in the Baroness’s line of sight.”
“You won’t be the star. It’ll be him.”
“But I will be the fool who introduced them!”
“Once he starts beating his gums, she’s not going to care one bit about you.”
Watching the two of them argue was almost like watching a married couple. Here was El, tall, big, imposing in a man’s suit. And there was Flo, short, thin, fiery in a red sequined stage dress. The cut was designed to expose as much as decency would allow. The cleverly draped fabric showed off her muscular legs and calves as well as her arms and shoulders.
Flo kept shaking her head, her bobbed black hair gently bouncing from side to side. “No, no. Just ’cause you got a soft spot for this downtowner don’t mean I have to risk my life.”
“Flo, I swear to God—”
“Ladies.”
Both turned to look at Dash.
“I understand the position I’ve put you in,” he said.
Flo muttered, “The hell you do.”
“I am in a desperate situation. I need to give this Walter Müller something.”
“It sure as hell can’t be her. Otherwise, we’re all dead.”
“If she’s as dangerous as you said, then she may very well have killed Karl.”
“Uh huh. And what happens when you tell his brother that?” Flo asked. “Will he go on a rampage, enacting revenge on her like he did with your face? See, that’s what I am worried about. We have no idea what this man is capable of. And if the War taught us anything, his kind are capable of a lot.”
El nodded her head at Flo. “She’s got a point, Dash.”
Flo didn’t stop. “And what if she turns out to be innocent? I know you downtowners like to place the blame on us, but if you ask me, strangling a little fairy boy and dumping his body in the Park sounds like a white man’s game to me.”
Dash looked away, his eyes taking in the room. Cracks like spider legs fanned out in the corners of the plaster walls. The baseboards chipped from abuse were also dusty from neglect. A water stain that seemed to plague every ceiling in New York hung dead center over the room, a giant yellow cloud at sunset. Dash would’ve bet his last dollar the sink in the washroom dripped and the doors wouldn’t stay closed unless they were locked. Whether it was the Village or Harlem, white tenants or tenants of color, landlords were still landlords, and, in the wise words of El, “They don’t do shit but collect the rent.”
Dash took a deep breath and returned to the conversation. “All the more reason to talk with Miss Mae. She might direct me to the real culprit, and I won’t ever have to bother her—or you—again.” He looked at Flo. “Miss Russell, will you please help me?”
Flo stared at Dash for a moment, then dropped her eyes. “I don’t know.”
“C’mon, Flo,” El said. “We’ve got to help those like us when we can, right?”
“He’s not like us. He’s white and rich.”
White, yes. Rich? Not anymore, Dash thought.
El replied, “He’s a degenerate according to the law, just like we are, which means he’ll go to the work yards, just like we would.”
Flo gave El a look that said I’m going to regret this and then said to Dash, “The thing about the Hot Cha is it’s where those with sugar go to show off how many grains they got in the bowl. It’s all about one-upping the person next to you. And if they decide you’re not high-class enough, they don’t let you in, so you’ve got to be in your finest suit or in your most elegant dress. I hear the Baroness wears her furs there, even in August, like a regular Duchess. I don’t think dressing is going to be a problem for you.”
El chuckled. “He practically a Duchess himself.”
Dash piped up, “I object.”
Flo cut him off. “One thing you need to know when you meet Miss Zora ‘I Wear Dead Foxes’ Mae. I hear she got a girl now—can’t remember her name for the life of me—but she’s straight up crazy. Like someone permanently blew her wig off and she can’t get it screwed back on.”
El asked, “She’s icky?”
“No, she’s jealous. Thinks everyone is trying to take away her precious Zora ‘I Wear Furs and Pearls’ Mae. Anyone who tries to get close to Zora ends up having that girl go full-on Zulu on them. I heard from my friend Ruthie that she broke a beer bottle and aimed the jagged edge at someone’s throat.”
“Jesus!”
Flo nodded. “And even Christ might take his own name in vain meeting the likes of her. That’s why I’m not all that thrilled about meeting Miss Zora ‘I Got Minks in Pink’ Mae.”
Dash nodded towards Flo. “Would this girl have killed Karl?”
Flo furrowed her brow. “You better hope not. ’Cause if she did and you get her locked up or worse, Zora will come after us all.” She looked from Dash to El, then back again. “So downtowner? This better not bring trouble back to my house. Or El’s house. Bring it to your house, I don’t give a damn. Have it burn down the whole Village for all I care. But bring trouble up here, we got problems. Understand?”
Dash replied, “I understand.”
“I’ve got a show tonight, but I can take you tomorrow at midnight. Don’t be late.”
Dash said, “Thank you, Miss Russell. I am truly in your debt.”
Flo crossed her arms over her chest again, shaking her head, whether at herself or at Dash, he couldn’t tell. After a moment’s silence, she took a deep breath and said, “Well, shit.”
El barked out a laugh. “Hey now! That’s my line!”
It was the following afternoon, Wednesday, August 18, when Dash finally found the mysterious Pru.
After a few appointments at Hartford & Sons, Dash closed the tailor shop early with the hopes he could charm his way to a name and address from the Bar Association of New York. He figured there couldn’t be that many female attorneys registered. And even if there were half a dozen Prudences listed, he could narrow down the list in short order.
The Bar was on Club Row, a block of West 44th between Fifth and Sixth Avenues that was, sadly, not full of speaks, lounges, and dance halls. Rather, it was the epicenter of the city’s power. The Harvard Club. The New York Yacht Club. The City Club. The St. Nicholas Society and the Penn Club. Nearby stood clubs for Yale, Princeton, Columbia, Cornell, and Brown. Judges, Congressmen, and Presidents sprouted from these gilded gated gardens almost as regularly as perennials. And amongst all this power stood the New York Bar Association, otherwise known as The House.
The House
, Dash came to learn, did not approve of women attorneys. The male secretary, to whom Dash initially addressed his query, said, “They’re a radical trend, if I may be so bold to say. A few bored women deciding to cause trouble. It won’t last. Not only is the female mind incapable of maintaining the mental rigor needed to practice law, no one will hire them.”
“I see,” Dash said. “Are they not allowed to be registered with the bar?”
“They are.”
“But they can’t be members of the Bar Association?”
“No.” A satisfied smirk. “They have their own, though. If you really want to degrade yourself, you can pay them a visit.”
Dash’s smile got even bigger. “I would be happy to wallow in the so-called degradation of the law. I do it on a regular basis. Address, please?”
The difference between the New York Bar Association and the National Association of Women Lawyers was striking. Whereas the House flaunted its marbled wealth, the Women Lawyers showcased their unadorned, plainclothes commitment to social justice. Divorce and marriage laws, a new concept called “minimum wage,” even the right for women to serve on juries. Here lived the noisy, kinetic sparks of ideas and change.
An hour and three cigarettes after his request, the secretary—a woman this time—returned, motioning him to her desk. “You’re in luck,” she said. “We have only one Prudence registered with us. A Prudence Meyers of the firm Meyers, Powers, & Napier on East 14th Street between Third Avenue and Irving Place. Near Tammany Hall.” She handed him a piece of paper with the exact address. “A perfect location for attorneys, I must say. I wonder how she managed that.”
Dash placed the address in his inside jacket pocket. “Sounds like a formidable woman. Then again, aren’t they all?”
The receptionist beamed. “I wish more men thought like yourself.”
Dash returned her smile. “I as well.”
Less than ten minutes later, Dash exited a cab in front of the imposing building of Tammany Hall, its three stories climbing high into the sky, decorated with large windows topped by rounded arches. In the shadow of ruthless political power, Dash pulled out the piece of paper he received from the Women Lawyer’s receptionist, double checked the address, and began counting the building numbers.
He passed by the flashing neon signs of the Olympic Theatre, the Central Hotel, a cigar shop, and the Borough Lunch counter before eventually finding the front of Meyers, Powers & Napier. The only tenant, he noticed, who did not invest in a blinking light.
The shades were up. The front door stood open. He took a deep breath and went inside.
The transition from street noise to this pristine quiet reminded Dash of going underwater, when the sounds of the world vanished in a tranquil, lonely silence. He expected a modest abode like that of the National Association of Women Lawyers, but the firm of Meyers, Powers & Napier was a much flashier affair. Black and gold wallpaper with repeating diamond shapes surrounded the room. Side tables of black marble with white ivory inlays held vases that followed the same procession of color: wide black bases with narrow white tips. Lamps with flat, two-dimensional shades threw light at perpendicular angles, creating dramatic shadows against the walls. Two empty gold loveseats to Dash’s right and left were for waiting clients. At the head of the waiting area was a rectangular bronze desk held up by a pair of narrow Greek columns on each corner.
A hallway behind the desk had four closed doors, two on either side. Offices, Dash assumed. One of the doors at the farthest end opened and out stepped a woman dressed in a white suit—a woman’s suit, Dash noted—holding a thick notebook. She turned and saw him.
“Oh hello,” she called. “I didn’t realize anyone was out there.”
She hurried towards the waiting room. The white jacket with black trim was loosely draped on her narrow shoulders, her white shirt with gold tie was equally shapeless as was the long, white skirt. The suit gave her the appearance of long legs and hardly any torso.
She smiled as she took her place behind the bronze desk. “Do you have an appointment?” Her brown hair was cut short and rounded in curls. A subtle red blush had been added to her cheeks, a not-so-subtle red paint to her lips.
“I don’t,” he said, “but I do have an urgent matter to discuss with Miss Prudence Meyers.”
“I see.”
“I hate to be a bother and show up unannounced like this but . . .”
The secretary waved him off. “Not to worry. We’re here to help. What kind of legal matter is this?”
Dash thought about the Müllers, Zora Mae, and the shadowy world they all seemed to inhabit, and took a chance.
“Criminal.”
15
“Mr. Parker, how nice to meet you,” Pru said, her voice a honeyed alto, her grip, like her voice, pleasant but firm.
The square office they stood in was done up in the same style as the waiting room, only instead of black and gold, it was blue and gold—like the elusive female impersonator’s dress on Sunday night, thought Dash—from the rug on the floor to the walls to the vases.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he replied, sitting in one of two client chairs in front of the bronze desk.
“It’s no trouble at all.” She sat down behind her desk, a striking figure in a man’s navy suit, trousers and all. Her black hair was cropped short, almost like a man’s, yet her face was heavily made-up. Her lips were painted ruby, and her lavender eyes were surrounded by vibrant blue shadow and traced heavily in black ink, like the Egyptians the world was dying to imitate. Despite all the masculine dress, she came off as overwhelmingly feminine.
She folded her hands in front of her, getting down to business. “Tell me about this criminal legal matter.”
Given all the subterfuge he used to find her, Dash gambled on telling the truth. “I’m being blackmailed, Ms. Meyers.”
A curt nod. “That is most certainly criminal. Have you gone to the police?”
Dash shook his head. “I know you’ve heard this one before, but I can’t.”
“And why is that?”
Dash shifted in his seat. Even though she was dressed like a man—an illegal action if seen by the wrong cop—there was always a risk of admitting his nature out loud, especially in the daylight. He hoped she was as open-minded as her appearance.
“Because I am someone who’s guilty of degenerate disorderly conduct, I believe the law says.”
She blinked. “I see.” She unfolded her hands and began to make notes on a pad of paper with an expensive looking ink pen. Without looking up, she asked, “Do you know who is blackmailing you?”
“Oh yes.”
She looked up. “You do?”
“And unfortunately, I believe you do as well. Walter Müller.”
She hesitated only slightly, but it was enough. She knew that name and that man very well. “Walter Müller,” she repeated, the pace of her words slowing. Her eyes went back to her notes. “How did you find that name?”
“He gave it to me himself while he blackmailed me to my face.”
More scribbles on the pad. “No notes or telephone calls or anonymous contacts?”
“It was very ‘nonymous.’ Apologies. Bad joke. Trying to find the humor in this has been trying.”
“It’s understandable. What were the terms of his blackmail?”
“He didn’t ask for money, which is what I thought he’d do.”
This surprised her. “Oh? Interesting. What did he ask for in return then?”
Dash swallowed. This would either go well or go very badly very quickly. “He asked me to find you.”
She stopped writing. Her head remained down, her eyes on the paper. “I’m sorry?”
“To find you. And a female impersonator.” Dash started speaking hastily. “Before you panic, he doesn’t know I’m here and I won’t tell him I’ve found you. But, Miss Meyers, he is most keen on the subject and if I don’t give him some kind of answer, he will turn me and my friends over to the police
for degeneracy and serving illegal liquor.”
She frowned, looking up again. “You broke the Volstead laws?”
“I own a speak.”
A curious intelligence peeked out of her lavender eyes. “No,” she breathed. “It can’t be. The bruise. Of course. You’re the speak owner Walter punched. What’s it called again? The speak, I mean. It had something to do with suits.”
“Pinstripes. You remember what happened that night?”
“A bit hard to forget. Walter made quite an entrance. I thought the entire club would come to your defense.”
“They would have, too.”
“I don’t condone violence, but thank goodness that little boy in the green suit incapacitated him. I’d hate to think what Walter would’ve done otherwise.”
“As I’ve recently learned,” Dash said, “he’ll do most anything.”
She put down her pen and folded her hands in front of her again. “This is a most distressing situation.”
“Indeed. What makes it all the worse is Karl dying and I—”
“Excuse me. What did you say?” Her face showed confusion mixed with panic.
She doesn’t know.
Dash took another deep breath. “Karl. He’s been killed.”
Incomprehension still crowded around her frown lines. “Killed?”
“Murdered.”
Dash then sketched out for her what details he knew and added in Karl’s time in Harlem, including the telephone call he made.
“Next thing I know, Walter is back at my club—drunk, I might add—telling me it’s my fault Karl is dead and to atone for my sins, as it were, I’m to find a man who dresses in drag. Along the way, I discovered your name.”
He shook his head in disbelief.
“It’s all like a bad dream.” He focused on Pru, who seemed to be half-listening to him. “If I may ask, how did you know Karl, Miss Meyers?”
She raised a hand. “Excuse me. I need a moment to absorb this information.”
The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel Page 13