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

Dash said, “Can I get you drink?”

“I don’t need any. This is a quick job.”

“I see. And what job is that, my good man?”

Lowell reached inside his jacket, causing Dash to involuntarily flinch. Lowell enjoyed this nervous reaction. He pulled out a single piece of paper, placed it on the bar, and slid it towards Dash. Dash picked it up, giving it first a cursory glance. A typed contract. How formal.

Dash skipped the half-attempted legal language and went straight to the man who was proposing a “distribution of quality spirits” and “protection from unjust and corrupt harassment from law enforcement” for his club Pinstripes: Nicholas Fife. The notorious gangster often referred to as “Slick Nick” by Manhattan’s newshawks.

Dash tried to keep his voice steady. “I didn’t realize he was interested in such places.”

Lowell’s impassive eyes didn’t betray a flicker of emotion, neither humor nor offense. “He sees great potential in your club.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware he’d been a guest.”

“He keeps his ear to the ground.”

“A vigilant man,” Dash said. “And what percentage does Mr. Fife want in return?”

“It’s there on the paper.”

“I like to hear men speak about money.”

“Why?”

“It enhances their good looks.”

Lowell glared at Dash, refusing to play along. “Fifty,” came the reply.

Dash stared at him. “Fifty,” he repeated. “He wants half?”

The number stunned him into a brief silence. How was he going to remain in business with half of his earnings going to someone else? On top of the bribes he already paid to McElroy.

Dash picked up the paper and shook it. “And what exactly do I get in return?”

“The chance to make some heavy sugar. Good booze is a rarity in this town.”

“For half, I need more than just drinkable liquor.” Dash set the piece of paper down on the bar and tapped it with his forefinger. “This so-called protection. I currently pay for it now, at a much cheaper price, I might add, and direct to the people I need protecting from.”

“His offer extends beyond the cops and beyond your club.”

“What do you mean?”

A long-suffering sigh. “If you and your fellow perverts run into any kind of trouble, Mr. Fife makes sure the troublemakers would be sorry for their actions.”

“I’m touched.”

“Don’t get any ideas. He wants to protect his investments. By any means necessary, if you catch my drift.”

“I’m buried beneath it.”

Dash ran his tongue over his teeth while he thought. If just half the stories in the newspapers were true, then Slick Nick was a pitiless brute. A man who organized people to disappear with alarming regularity. Yet he was so far removed from his crimes no one even had a picture of him, much less an accurate description. (Hence his moniker of Slick.) Could Dash really do business with such a man?

Emmett stood at the other end of the bar. He saw Dash’s distress and arched a snowy white eyebrow. Dash subtly shook his head, wanting to keep Emmett out of this. He returned his attention to Lowell. “And the high quality of booze?”

“Best in the city.”

“Easy to accomplish when the standards are so low. Any reports of blindness? Vomiting? Dizziness? The Jake Walk?”

“Better than the truck you’re buying from now. Why pay for scraps when you can have the Real McCoy?”

Dash felt his cheeks burn. Lowell knew about his agreement with another speak, in which they split the last delivery of the weekly booze truck. What didn’t this man know?

Lowell went on. “I’m afraid if we were to do business, your present supplier would have to cease and desist. And we have ways, Mr. Parker, of making sure the desist is enforced . . . for both parties.”

Dash slid the contract back in front of Lowell, his hand slightly shaking. “Would it be possible, Mr. Henley, to try the merchandise before I sign this?”

An annoyed grimaced. “That’s not how it’s done.”

“Look around you. Rules don’t matter here in the Village. If Mr. Fife wants my club, he needs to prove his value.”

Lowell’s sausage-like fingers drummed the surface of the bar while he processed this counterproposal. Those dead, shark-like eyes bored into Dash’s. The ominous drumbeat continued for a moment before suddenly stopping.

“You’re a bold fag, you know that?”

Dash forced a smile, flashing teeth. “I’ve always enjoyed being insubordinate.”

“You talk like an uptowner.”

“A man has to have goals.”

Lowell stuck out a pugnacious chin. “I don’t like uppity perverts. And I don’t like high hats like you.”

“Don’t get yourself into a lather. A man doesn’t buy a suit before trying it on. I should know; I’ve sold many of them that way. Tell Mr. Fife the offer is under serious consideration, pending an inspection of the merchandise. If he has good gin, I’ll sign right then and there.”

Emmett came by with Dash’s sandwich on a round plate. “Here you go, Mr. Parker.” He flicked a look at Lowell. “This man bothering you.”

“I was just leaving,” Lowell replied. He picked up the contract, folded it neatly, and returned it to his inside pocket. He said to Dash, “I’ll convey your message. For your sake, I hope he accepts.”

Fear pricked the back of Dash’s neck. He hoped so as well.

Lowell left his barstool with a groan and sauntered towards the door.

When he was out of sight, Emmett asked, “What was that all about?”

Dash took a healthy sip of coffee, wishing it was gin. “Believe me, Emmett, you don’t want to know.”

14

Somehow, Dash made it through the rest of the day, despite his brain buzzing with questions. Nicholas Fife? Wanted his club? Dash didn’t think gangsters wanted anything to do with “degenerates.” And how was he going to tell his friends about the proposition? This Walter business was already a lot to handle. Now they had to navigate a working relationship with one of New York’s most notorious mobsters!

When it rains, it pours.

He tossed and turned during his early evening nap. The nervous energy of the first night’s previews from the Playhouse cast downstairs didn’t help matters. The constant running to the water