The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel by Chris Holcombe (ebook reader for laptop .TXT) 📗

thin walls more arguments than peace and quiet. That last bit referred to their unique living situation: the apartment was above the Cherry Lane Playhouse on Commerce Street, a few blocks south of Pinstripes. According to Finn, who found the living space through a performer he was seeing at the time, in no existing world would playwrights, directors, and actors get along. Indeed, at this very moment, someone was yelling about his character’s motivation and how he’d never say that line, to which another voice responded with: “Fuck your motivation, your job is to say the lines, not write them!”

Finn, momentarily distracted, raised his eyebrows. “Must be a new production.”

“Previews start tomorrow.” Dash stifled another yawn. “What time is it?”

Finn ignored the question and rolled his hand dramatically. “This is when you ask what I am distraught over . . .”

Dash ran a hand through his hair, trying to rouse himself. “Apologies. What’s the matter?”

Downstairs, a door slammed, followed by a shouted “Get back here this instant!” and another door slam. That’s when Dash noticed in Finn’s hand a rolled-up newspaper, which Finn brought up and slapped on his thigh.

“My favorite screen star, the Latin lover Rudolph Valentino, was struck ill!”

“Who?”

“Rudolph Valentino. Don’t tell me you don’t know who that is.” Dash’s ignorance earned him an eye roll. “He’s just the god of cinema. He’s here in New York at the Hotel Ambassador. I was going to camp out there last night after my shift, see if I could run into him at the bar they have in the basement. An oh hello there, how are you? sort of thing. Now the man had to go get himself an ulcer and a ruptured appendix.”

“I don’t think those are the kinds of things you go and get.”

Finn ignored him. “He was with his valet when it happened. They were in his apartment when Rudolph suddenly gasped, put his hand to his side, and then collapsed. They rushed him to the hospital where the doctors performed a double surgery. A double surgery! Oh my poor, sweet Valentino.”

“Did the doctors say how he’d fare?”

Finn’s eyes were heavy with sadness. “We won’t know for three or four days. I don’t know how I’ll be able to stand it while his life hangs in the balance.”

“Must be some actor.”

“He’s more than that! Those eyebrows. Those cheekbones. Those lips. He practically screams masculine bravery, no matter what that anonymous writer wrote in the Chicago Tribune . . .”

This time, Dash hit his cue. “What did the Chicago fellow write?”

“Malicious lies, that’s what! It was an inflammatory editorial called ‘Pink Powder Puffs.’ Said beautiful men like Valentino are lightweights and aren’t real men. Ha! I never. Valentino was so insulted he challenged the writer to a duel.”

“How courageous, challenging an anonymous man in a faraway city.”

“Of course, the yellow-bellied boar didn’t show. Do you know what Valentino’s first words were when he came out of the anesthetic from his surgeries?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“‘Doctor, am I a Pink Puff?’ And you know what the doctor said? He said Valentino had been very brave. Very. Brave.”

Finn beamed a satisfied smile, though the smug victory over the Powder Puff article didn’t last long. Within seconds, Finn’s face crumpled again, and he clasped a hand over his heart.

“Whatever shall I do if he doesn’t recover? Why I’ll die, I’ll just die.”

“Don’t be goofy, Finn. Doctors can do wonders these days.”

Dash stretched his arms upwards, trying to wake his body up. That’s when he noticed Finn’s face had been scrubbed clean of last night’s rouge, though faint black liner still traced his luminous blue eyes. He had also changed clothes, the white vest with no shirt inviting the kind of trouble from which one doesn’t recover. He was now wearing blue-gray wool pants, wide with a two-button waistband and wide belt loops. On top of Finn’s trousers were a simple white shirt and suspenders. Instead of wearing a proper hat—a fedora, even a bowler—he opted for the flat cap of a newsboy. His vain attempt to stay young.

Finn said, his words tumbling over each other, “A bunch of us will be attending a vigil later today. I might even sneak into a church and light a candle. Valentino’s Catholic, I believe, so I have to pray to the right God. Though I’ll be praying to the goddesses as well. Every little bit helps!”

What happened next was a miracle, for Finn seemed to acknowledge someone else’s plight over his own.

“Ohhh, I see we’re looking like a painted lady today.”

Dash reached up and gently touched his face. He winced. Still tender. “How bad?”

“Like a giant thumb pressed itself into your eye.”

Finn stood up and peered over the side of the bed. The neighboring cot—the landlord’s suggestion for turning a two-room apartment into something more—was empty of Joe’s usual presence. Not that Joe spent every night on it. He and Dash flipped a coin to see who got the bed. Sometimes, when neither side was willing to lose, they’d share it. Those were some of Dash’s favorite nights.

Alas, Joe was not here to flip the coin last night. Finn noticed the man’s absence.

“Did Mommy and Daddy have a fight?”

Not quite, thought Dash.

Joe had to bring medicine to his sister’s apartment in Sunnyside, Queens, to help his nephew who, the poor lad, was suffering from the croup. While Dash admired Joe’s dedication to his family, he often wondered if Joe’s sense of family duty was born out of guilt of his own nature.

Dash shook his head. “We are not a couple, Finn. We are . . . sometime companions.”

The little man rolled his eyes and returned to the chair. “Yes, of course. Lord knows I never hear anything from my bed in the salon.”

“You mean the hall.” New York landlords were certainly crafty in cramming as many tenants into a two-room apartment as they could.

Finn talked over Dash. “Casual acquaintances. Weekend friends. Separate candles, who only on cold lonely nights light each other’s wicks. You can’t fool