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

“I followed a companion of his.”

Cold sweat licked Dash’s palms. Only law enforcement and private detectives followed people, didn’t they? “Tailing,” the pulps called it. Now who was this female impersonator? And why the urgency over her? If the cops or the Feds wanted to raid Dash’s club, this outsider had all the evidence they needed to shut Pinstripes down: men drinking liquor, men dancing with men. Who would care about just one girl gallivanting around the Village in her latest drag?

Unless . . . unless she was rich, and her wealthy family was trying to stop a scandal.

Just like mine did.

Dash cleared his dry throat again. “Perhaps she gave you the slip. This city at night can trick many a man’s eye. I’d look elsewhere, if I were you.”

The outsider sighed, as if Dash were a misbehaving child. “You are being difficult.”

Dash projected a cockiness he didn’t feel. “‘Stubborn’ is the word most men use to describe me.”

“Give me your name.”

Dash was about to reply none of your concern when his name was called by a familiar voice to his left.

The man arched his brow. “Dash?”

Hell.

First, he said he was the club’s owner, now someone else said his name. The only information left to volunteer was his home address!

He forced a smile. “Short for Dashiell. Excuse me.”

He turned and pushed his way to an open space at the crowded bar. Once he laid his hands on the polished wood surface, he called out, “Evening, Joe!”

His bartender, business partner, and roommate Joe O’Shaughnessy stood behind the wooden bar, grinning one of his mischievous smiles. “Happy birthday, me lad!”

Joe placed his hands on hips tightly clad in brown trousers. Broad, wide shoulders strained against the matching suspenders, and the wrinkled white shirt worn with no tie (no matter how much Dash begged him) featured rolled-up shirtsleeves exposing thick forearms covered in fiery hair.

He bent forward at the waist. “Or is it me lass?” he added with a wink.

Dash wanted to reply to Joe’s usual flirtation in his usual way, you’ve seen my bed from time to time, you tell me. Instead, he lit a cigarette and flicked a wary look to the outsider behind him.

“We have a problem.”

“Ya tellin’ me.” Joe reached down underneath the bar and brought up a bottle of clear liquid. He poured the elixir into a snifter glass and passed it to Dash. “Taste this.”

“Joe, I—”

“Taste it, lassie.”

Dash acquiesced. He didn’t want to alert his patrons about a wolf in their midst—not yet, at least. Better to avoid a brawl and go along with Joe’s banter. Which was disarmingly easy. Not only was Joe forceful, he was right irresistible. A big six of a man with eyes the most vivid green, made even more luminous by the flaming red of his hair and the paleness of his freckled skin. A woman on the street once described those eyes as emeralds on the neck of the Queen. Joe replied they were the only things royal about him. Everything else was purely second class.

Well, thought Dash, not quite everything.

He picked up the snifter. “Gin?”

Joe nodded.

Dash flipped the liquid back. It burned his throat like coal smoke.

“Dammit, Joe.” He dropped the snifter onto the bar and brought up the cigarette to wash the taste out of his mouth. “The past two weeks, it’s gotten worse and worse.”

Joe nodded. “I know, I know. It’s just that by the time the truck gets here—”

“—the good bottles are all taken.”

“I’ve been mixing ’em with fruit juices and seltzer like usual. Only now I’m startin’ to hear complaints.”

Dash exhaled a thick cloud of blue-gray smoke. Not all of the changes in this decade had been good. Ever since the ridiculous Volstead Act, beer and wine had been replaced with “cocktails,” concoctions to hide the vile taste of the bootlegged alcohol. Glasses were now loaded with lemon juice, honey, sugar, and mint leaves. Like drinking candy. Appropriate since the federal government and its nannies continued to treat its citizens like children. But if the childish disguises weren’t working anymore, then how could they compete with the thousands of other speaks in town?

Joe put away the snifter and said, “All right, lassie. What about this problem?”

“Dash, is it?” the Problem said. “We have not finished our conversation.”

Dash placed his cigarette on the lip of an ashtray, murmuring to Joe, “A bluenose snuck in.”

Joe was confused. “What was that?” he said at the same time the outsider called out Dash’s name.

Hell, Dash thought for the second time tonight and turned around.

The outsider had stepped closer to him. At that moment, the band ended their song with a squealing high note and a mighty cymbal crash. The crowd of men exploded into cheers and whistles, drowning out the outsider’s words.

“I’m sorry?” Dash said once again, cupping his hand behind his ear while he thought to himself, how do we get him out of here without causing a fight?

The outsider’s mouth moved, but still Dash heard no words over the din. A few of the men surrounding the dance floor started to mill about. In between the patterns of glad rags, Dash thought he saw the flash and sparkle of a blue and gold dress. Was he imagining it? He narrowed his eyes. There. At the back-right table nearest the band. A blue and gold dress. Now where did she come from? She was probably in the water closet when Dash and the outsider scanned the room the first time. Lucky for her. She sat with two darkened figures in tuxedos, the only other tuxes in the place besides Dash’s.

The outsider’s eyes sparked. He started to turn to see what was behind him.

Dash touched the man’s shoulder to stop him. “I can’t hear you!” he shouted.

The man’s frowning lips moved in a frustrating pantomime.

The cheering and whistling eventually stopped and the band began a slow waltz. The men on the dance floor, breathing hard, wiped their faces with their handkerchiefs and grabbed their partners again to sway to the soft music. Heads rested on shoulders and hands