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

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