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

pressed against backs, eyes half-closed in bliss. This gentle moment was considered “degeneracy” by those nanny lawmakers, and Dash marveled, not for the first time, at the cruelty of the language used to describe the tenderness on display.

“I said,” the outsider continued, “I will pay you handsomely if you can find this . . . person. If that’s what it’ll take for a man like you.”

Before Dash could reply, another voice cut through the noise. “Pardon me, boys, a lady is coming through!”

Like a miniature Moses, Finn Francis—Dash’s other roommate and partner as well as the club’s only waiter—parted the sea of men to get to the bar. He inadvertently separated the bell bottom from his green-suited prize, and their dimpled smiles were replaced with momentary frowns. They rejoined each other’s limbs immediately after Finn passed.

Once in front of Joe, Finn said, “I need three gin martinis, extra dirty, no olives, and one beer from the secret stash. And I cannot emphasize the no olives part enough, Mr. O’Shaughnessy. I got a Your Highness who is just insufferable, and if this Queen Mary sees any trace of olives, she will raise all-holy hell.”

He turned his mascara-lined blue eyes to Dash.

“I swear to Athena, she thinks this place is the Ritz-Carlton and the service should be the same. No offense, dearie.”

Caught off guard, Dash replied, “None taken.”

“But this is a bar in the Village, and you get what you get. Why people act like they’re the Astors when their bank accounts look like the O’Shaughnessys—”

“Finney,” growled Joe.

“—I’ll never know.” He caught Dash’s expression. “What’s that look for?”

Dash stared into his friend’s wide blue eyes which sparkled with intelligence, the painted lashes magnetic in their effect. For the life of him, Dash couldn’t get the words out fast enough to warn this “wisp of a lad” with short black hair, a smooth oval face, an impish upturned nose, and a pointed dimpled chin that an outsider had broken into Pinstripes.

The outsider quickly set his sights on the small man. “You said ‘she.’ A queen, I believe?”

Dash tried to catch Finn’s attention with a quick and forceful shake of his head. Alas, the little man didn’t see it, or more likely, ignored it.

“I did,” Finn replied, turning towards the outsider, “and not that I’m a flat tire, but she can sometimes be too much. And dearies, I am quite at home with being too much.”

He gestured to his own outfit, a crisp white vest with no shirt underneath, showing off his sinewy arms and narrow, hairless chest. Despite the fact he wore no proper shirt, he still placed a matching white bow tie around his neck. A sparkling comb in bright red flashed from the corner of his dark-haired head. The cherry on top of a soufflé of a man.

The outsider was persistent. “And one of the men at this table, he ordered a beer?”

“That’s what I said. Little kraut.” Finn caught himself. “I don’t mean to offend. A German boy. Nice enough. A bit shy.”

“Where is this table?”

“Why, back there next to the—”

“FINN!”

All three men—his waiter, his bartender, and the outsider—were surprised at the sudden rise in Dash’s voice. Even the bell bottom and his green-suited companion paused their conversation.

Dash forced a polite smile and spoke softer. “I believe this man was just leaving. He was looking for someone, but she is not here.”

He glanced meaningfully at Joe and mouthed the word “bluenose.”

Joe finally got the hint. “Aye,” he said, aiming his green emeralds at the outsider’s blazing blues. “She’s probably elsewhere. Best be on yer way.”

The outsider replied, “I can see the men here lack the proper breeding.”

“What was that, bub?” the bell bottom said, tearing his gaze away from the boy in the green suit, his hackles rising.

The man ignored the sailor. “And the proper respect of those who have good breeding.”

The accent got thicker, the consonants harsher. Bigger bombs landed.

He looked at Finn. “Take me to the table. Now.”

Finn’s eyes flashed. He tried to redirect in his own way. “Why choose a Queen Mary when you can have almost every man in this room? A tall, strapping thing like yourself, you could have your pick of the litter.”

Finn quickly saw his error.

Dash did as well.

The outsider stepped towards the small man, his body tight with promised violence. “What did you say to me?”

“I-I just thought—”

“Do you honestly think I want to engage in this, this filth?!”

Dash grabbed the man’s shoulder to pull him away from Finn. “Sir, I will not ask you again—”

The outsider gave no warning. He quickly whirled around to Dash with his right hand closed into a fist. By the time Dash registered the motion, it was too late.

2

The blow struck the side of Dash’s face, and his head snapped back into the shoulder of a patron behind him. A teacup tumbled to the floor and broke. The band halted abruptly.

The outsider grabbed the front of Dash’s vest, crumpling it, and brought him forward. Instead of waiting for the next punch, Dash tried to knee the man. He was a little off—his kneecap connected with the man’s hard ribcage instead of his soft groin—but the outsider let out a surprised yelp, regardless. Dash kneed him again, hitting the other side of his ribs. He felt the crowd surge around them.

“Get ’im, sister!”

“Ya meat-packing piece o’ shit!”

“Hit the Hun!”

“Dash, duck!”

That last one was yelled by Finn. Dash crouched down as the outsider’s fist sailed over his head and connected with the jaw of the young man next to him, the one in the green suit who had been talking with the bell bottom. The one some men would call “a fairy.”

Big mistake.

The boy shook off the blow and left his barstool, pushing Dash out of the way. He grabbed the outsider’s crotch and practically lifted him up by his delicates. The outsider’s face twisted in pain. The boy released him, seized the back of the outsider’s head by his hair, and raised it high before slamming it down onto the bar, hard, three times. Bam! Bam! Bam!

The outsider dropped to the