The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

by Chris Holcombe

  She focused on breathing in and breathing out. Her complexion somewhat paled.

  “You’re telling me Karl Müller has been murdered?”

  Dash nodded.

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “I do not.”

  “It wasn’t Walter?”

  “Believe me, the thought has crossed my mind, but I can’t say for certain of his guilt or innocence, Miss Meyers.”

  “Please, call me Pru. I think it’s appropriate, given the circumstances.” She paused. “Karl is dead.” No longer a question, but a statement.

  Dash asked again, “How did you know him?”

  “Through a friend of a friend.”

  “Which friend? The man who dresses in drag?”

  She ignored the question. “And Walter wanted you to find a female impersonator? Did he give a name for her?”

  “He did not, but I think her name is Miss Avery.”

  “How did you come across that name?”

  “Karl. He said it was Miss Avery’s idea to come to my club that night.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  Dash adjusted his posture in the chair. “His brother works for the Committee of Fourteen handling their finances. Karl said he is . . .was . . . Walter’s assistant, but I suspect he was lying about that. I also learned he was handing out rent party cards for Harlem’s ‘Baroness of Business,’ a very determined and dangerous woman named Zora Mae. I’m supposed to meet her tonight. Have you met her?”

  She replied carefully, “I know of her and have seen her once or twice from across a crowded room. But if you’re asking if we’re friends or acquaintances, the answer is no.”

  Her answers were so meticulously worded, Dash could feel she was tiptoeing around the truth. Not lying, per se, but not being completely honest.

  “I see,” he replied. “It seems Karl spent some time in Harlem outside of the watchful gaze of his brother, who apparently is uncomfortable around such non-white company. Before Karl disappeared from his hiding place—”

  “Where was that?”

  Dash paused. He didn’t see the harm in telling her. “The Oyster House. It was there he mentioned you, that you were an attorney, and that you had a plan that failed. He was later overheard on the telephone trying desperately to reach someone. I found out yesterday he’d left several messages for Tyler Smith—as did you, I might add. Messages which Tyler Smith never collected. After unsuccessfully reaching for Mr. Smith, poof! Karl is gone.”

  Dash exhaled slowly. All of his cards were on the table. Now he would see if his gamble on the truth paid out.

  “That’s helpful, thank you.”

  Pru composed herself, a drawbridge going up to seal off the emotions that threatened to escape. She was all business now.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I visited the Bar Association, who referred me to the National Association of Women Lawyers.”

  “I’m surprised they did that, considering what they think of us. You’re quite resourceful, Mr. Parker.”

  She freed her hands from each other and began to adjust items on her desk. The notepad. The pens. The stack of files.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be a detective, would you?”

  Dash shook his head. “Not in the slightest.”

  “You certainly act like one. Back to Walter. Does he think this female impersonator had something to do with Karl’s death?” The fingers of one hand began to absentmindedly drum the surface of the desk.

  Dash shook his head again. “I don’t believe so. It’s what he says, but he’s after something else.” He leaned forward in his chair. “What is Walter looking for? He mentioned how this female impersonator would never leave Karl behind because Karl had something she needed.”

  “That’s rather vague.”

  Dash was unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. “Pru, please.”

  She leaned forward on her desk, her expression shrewd. “If you think he’s lying about the reason to find her, what makes you believe him about the rest?”

  Dash ran a nervous hand through his misbehaving brown hair. “I don’t know. If he is lying about that, then he’s after revenge.”

  “Revenge?”

  “According to Walter, this female impersonator corrupted his brother, and she was the last person to see him alive.”

  “Second to last,” she said. “I believe you are the man who has that honor.”

  “True enough.” He sat back in his chair. “Miss Meyers, why were you in my club that night? Karl said it was for a special event. Not a celebration, he was quick to add, but something else.”

  She just stared blandly at him.

  “Alright. The telephone call he was trying to make that night. Do you know why he was trying to reach Tyler Smith? Karl was most insistent about it. Panicked, really.”

  No response.

  Dash blew out an exasperated breath. “Pru, I could use some help here. What about your plan?”

  “Are you asking because it could lead you to this female impersonator?”

  “Yes.”

  “What will you do if you find her? Turn her over to Walter? Turn me over as well? What is the goal you’re working towards?”

  It was a good question. His response came out awkward. “If I can find you both, find out what it is Walter is really after, maybe we could work together to stop him.”

  Pru processed his response behind opaque eyes. After a moment, she said, “Mr. Parker—Dash—unfortunately, I am unable to help you. Your situation comes into great conflict with an existing case of mine.”

  “An existing case?”

  “And client-attorney privilege means I cannot reveal my client nor the case itself. My advice to you is to go to a trusted member of the police.”

  Dash smirked. “There isn’t one.”

  “Or find a different attorney. I can refer you, if you like.”

  “But Pru—”

  She was adamant. “I’m sorry. I . . . really, truly am.”

  Dash was at a loss. He had been so sure she’d help him, that they’d band together against Walter Müller with the law as their weapon. Now she was shutting the door on his hopes and all because of a case? What case? And what did it have to do with Walter or Karl? He looked into her lavender eyes and saw steely resolve. She would not budge, he knew that.

  He stood up, taking a shaky breath. “Thank you for your time, Miss Meyers.”

  He took out a card with the address of Hartford & Sons printed on the front.

  “This is where you can reach me if you change your mind.”

  Her eyes flicked down to the card, then back up again. “Good luck, Mr. Parker.”

  He forced a smile. “Same to you.”

  Dash returned to Hartford & Sons, defeated and in need of a drink. He’d sneak a beer out of the secret stash. Joe would give him hell for it, but he didn’t care. What a disappointing day this had been.

  While he was fumbling in his pants pockets for the tailor shop keys, he slowly became aware of the leisurely tapping of a cane behind him. He didn’t make too much of it—lots of people walked with canes in the city. The sound, however, stopped abruptly behind him.

  Dash turned to see an air-tight man dressed better than most who visited his shop during the week. The downward-looking gent wore a matching boater jacket and slacks, the print a luminous shade of blue with wide, tan stripes. The shoes were a sharp brown leather like teak on a boat. Atop his head was a summer straw hat with a wide navy band around the middle. The tapping was courtesy of a bamboo cane curved around the man’s wrist.

  Money.

  “There you are,” the man said, his voice a pleasing baritone. “And here I thought you were closed.” The man looked up and gave Dash a full view of his lovely face: warm, chocolate eyes, thick, pink lips, and a carefully cultivated jaw line. “You are the tailor, unless I am mistaken.”

  The good looks of the man startled Dash. He hoped the surprise—and the attraction—did
n’t show. He managed to say, “You are not mistaken.” Keys finally in hand, he said, “I’m sorry, sir, did we have an appointment?”

  The man shook his head. “Not officially. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. I have a dinner party coming up, and I’m in desperate need of a new jacket. Are you Mr. Hartford?”

  Dash inserted the key into the front door’s lock. “Mr. Hartford is no longer here, I’m afraid. I’m his replacement, Dash Parker.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir. My condolences for Mr. Hartford.” The man pointed to the spot where Walter had struck Dash. “A nasty bruise you have there.”

  Dash reflexively reached up and rubbed his sore spot. “A bit of trouble a few nights ago.”

  “The city seems to invite it.” The corners of his mouth seemed to twitch with amusement. Dash thought those lips were downright kissable.

  Don’t be distracted by beauty. Keep your wits, Dash. He’s far too charming to be what he seems.

  The man nodded towards the shop. “Shall we go in?”

  Dash turned the key and opened the door. “After you, sir.”

  The man with the kissable mouth stepped inside and took in the surroundings while Dash opened one of the windows. He hoped the stuffiness would soon dissipate.

  “You’re not the father or the son?” asked the man, referring to the sign out front.

  “No, sir,” Dash replied, hanging up his own jacket on the coatrack in the back corner.

  “The Holy Ghost then?”

  Dash smiled. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my short little life, but ‘holy’ has never been one of them.” He rolled up his sleeves. “Now, how can I help you today? You mentioned a new jacket?”

  If he didn’t ask about, or suggest, pinstripes, then he was not in the know. And if he wasn’t in the know, then he was either an innocent walking in here or something else. Dash heard of undercover federal agents carefully entrapping speak owners and their patrons. He wondered if this man could be one of them.

  “Yes,” the man replied, “I have a dinner party coming up. A white jacket type of affair. And unfortunately, my current one doesn’t seem to fit anymore.” He patted his midsection. “Too much rich food these days.”

  He’s not one of us, Dash surmised. But could he be the Feds?

  He appraised the man’s frame. When he moved, Dash could see a thickness around the middle, but it wasn’t overbearing nor unattractive. His height helped. That alone could’ve meant cop, but there was also a sense of wealth about him. Dash’s own privileged childhood taught him their calling cards—or as they’d say in the gin joints with illegal poker games, their tells. The way they carried themselves, the style and fit of their clothing, the clear pronunciation of their words. The wealthy had a distinct air.

  “I take it the old coat is too tight when buttoned?” Dash asked.

  The man nodded.

  “Let’s see what we can do about that. Take off your jacket, please.”

  The man gave him a sideways look, but then did as instructed. Dash took the boater jacket, folded it neatly, and draped it over his desk chair.

  “Where should I stand?” the man asked.

  Dash pointed to the center of the room. The man complied, his back to the front windows. Dash grabbed the tape measure from the side of the floor length mirror and came up behind him. “Hold your arms out,” he said.

  When the man did, Dash wrapped the tape measure around the upper part of the man’s chest. Subtle cologne with a citrus fragrance tickled Dash’s nose. He thought he knew the brand. The elegant lavender, rosemary, and jasmine was balanced by a light musk. It made him want to get closer to the long neck, which led upwards to small ears that dared to be nibbled.

  He’s dangerous, Dash old boy. Resist temptation!

  Dash announced, “Forty inches around the chest.”

  “Comes from rowing.”

  Dash dropped the tape measure and then focused on the man’s arms. The muscle definition was apparent as he laid the tape from shoulder to wrist. Could these muscles have come from military training? “Which university?”

  “Princeton. I still do it, you know. A man has to have exercise to keep from becoming a complete blob.”

  “I don’t see any threat of that with you. Sleeve is thirty-four. Would you need pants as well?”

  That little smirk again. “Very well. If the jacket doesn’t fit, why should the pants?”

  Most certainly not in the know. Who are you, sir? Why are you here?

  Dash took the tape measure again and wrapped it around the man’s midsection. “Thirty-four and a half.”

  The man sighed. “I remember when I was thirty. The waist, not the age. I guess there’s no coming back to that, is there?”

  “You look fit and healthy to me, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Parker.”

  “Please, call me Dash.”

  “Alright.”

  Dash dropped to his knees. “Now your inseam. Do you mind?” He held up the tape for the man to hold.

  Instead, the man replied, “Not at all.”

  He made no move to take the higher end of the tape from Dash and place it on the inside of his thigh. Many of Dash’s customers did this because they weren’t necessarily comfortable with the proximity between Dash’s hand and their delicates. This man was apparently comfortable with the thought. Was he an invert as well? Everything about this man was just slightly askew, a millimeter off-balance.

  Who are you?

  Dash kept his face blank and continued with his work. He placed one end of the tape near the man’s ankle and the other high on the upper inside thigh. “Thirty-two. You’re a tall man, mister.”

  “I’ve been told once or twice like a beanstalk.”

  Still on his knees, he asked, “And what will be the name on the account, sir?”

  There was a slight pause. Then the pleasing, sensual voice said, “Surname is Fife.”

  16

  Dash froze.

  He misheard. He must have misheard. This cannot be the notorious gangster who sent Lowell Henley to approach him.

  “First name?” Dash managed to ask.

  “Nicholas. Although some in the newspaper business call me ‘Slick Nick.’”

  Dash lowered the tape and looked up at the man, who no longer seemed handsome nor playful. There was a darkness to his eyes, a menace to his lips. Fife’s face hadn’t exactly changed expression, per se, but like Adam taking a bite of the apple, Dash felt the innocence fall away from his eyes and saw the world take on a new tint. Down on his knees, his throat within grabbing distance of this killer’s hands, he felt beyond vulnerable. He felt naked.

  Fife said, “I would’ve been here sooner, but a man of my position is rather busy.”

  Dash’s throat was suddenly dry, his mouth mealy with fear. He concentrated on keeping the shakes from his voice as he lowered the tape measure. “I can understand that.”

  “You sent away one of my associates. Was the contract not agreeable to you?” The voice was maddeningly calm, flat seas in contrast to Dash’s roiling ocean.

  “I don’t like to sign contracts without further investigation.”

  Fife nodded. “I see you’re a savvy businessman. I’m a savvy businessman too. And savvy businessmen don’t like to negotiate with an associate.”

  “I just wanted to try the merchandise first.”

  “You’re a bar owner, you need to know what will be behind your bar. A bar that could be protected from . . . let’s say . . . legal nuisances.”

  “Your associate did mention that.”

  “Yet you seemed unimpressed.”

  Dash gave what he hoped was a calm shrug. “I pay the police now to ignore my club. What additional protection do I need?”

  Fife considered his response for a moment. “It amazes me how naive some men can be. I didn’t think you were one of them, considering your nighttime activities. But let me educate you on how this world works.

  “A man like
myself provides the needed goods to make the businesses of men like yourself run. Without my goods, no one would attend your lovely little club. Well . . . maybe to engage in some degenerate fucking. That would make you nothing more than a madam, a den mother to whores. You strike me as the kind of man who’s a little too well-bred for that.” He paused.

  Dash held his breath.

  Fife continued. “As in any industry, there are competitors. Others who provide the same goods—inferior goods, I must add—and they act aggressively to compete. You understand economics, don’t you?”

  Dash nodded, never taking his eyes off the gangster’s face. His knees began to stiffen, but Dash refused to adjust his position.

  If I had to, could I make a run for it?

  Probably not. He wasn’t poised for flight.

  But the windows are open. People can see in. Surely, he wouldn’t kill me in broad daylight.

  Yet how many stories had he read where gangsters had done exactly that? Too many to mention.

  Fife’s pleasing voice said, “I see you are a quiet student. I hope that means you’re listening.” He smiled, then just as quick as it formed, the smile uncurled itself and settled back into a flat line. “Economics, to be uncouth about it, is a form of war. Everyone is trying to be on the positive side of scarcity. That’s what war really is, by the way. It’s not fighting injustice or defeating an evil enemy, like a warlord Kaiser. It is, simply put, the acquisition of limited resources. Land. Gold. People—especially people. All are elements to be used in the creation of more wealth and more power for those in charge. The goal is to be the leader everyone fears so no one will come after you and take what you’ve killed to get.”

  The gangster began to adjust the cuffs of his sleeves.

  “The Romans were quite effective in this regard. The slightest infraction, however minor, was met with brute force. It was said that a Roman could walk down any street without fear of harassment because of the unspoken, but always executed, threat of the Empire.”

  The cuffs now fixed, Fife smoothed out his sleeves, running his hand from shoulder to wrist and back again.

  “My competitors have never tried to come after me. Nor have they ever tried to steal a club that’s under my control. A free agent, like yourself, is vulnerable to their attack. You see, while you’re paying that sack of lard of a policeman to protect yourself and your employees from jail, you’ve left yourself wide open for someone to waltz in and take your club by force. And they. Will. Do that.”