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

Joe roared, “He just came to the shop?! In broad daylight! The nerve of that man!”

It was close to sunset and they were standing out front of the Cherry Lane Playhouse, watching folks line up for the box office for tonight’s show, the second night of previews. They smoked cigarettes off to the side near their apartment entrance. The sky was a brilliant pink overhead.

Dash took another nervous drag and said, “That’s generally how these men operate.”

Joe gave him a pointed look. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about him sooner.” He meant Lowell Henley.

“I’m sorry, Joe. I didn’t want to worry you and Finn and Atty until there was something to worry about.” Dash looked down at his feet. “I suppose now there is.”

Joe reluctantly nodded, his form of accepting Dash’s apology.

A “normal” couple, radiating energy, came up to them. “Is this the line for the box office?” the man asked. His cheeks were cherub red, as were hers.

Dash shook his head and pointed to their right. “It’s over there.”

The woman lightly bumped her elbow to his arm, her manner good-natured. “I told you so.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The man tipped his hat to Dash and Joe. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

“Happy to oblige,” Joe replied.

The couple left them to get in the correct line.

Joe snubbed out his cigarette in the teacup they used as an ashtray, placed it on the ground, then seized Dash by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, lad. I should’ve been there.”

Dash looked into Joe’s emerald eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Ya could’ve been hurt. Or worse.”

Don’t remind me.

The moment Nicholas Fife left the shop, Dash practically fainted into his desk chair. All of the tension which had built up like steam in a boiler burst through. The rush of relief at having still been alive was quickly followed by the mounting dread of what would happen next.

Fife is always watching. Is he watching us now?

Dash looked up and down the street, saying to Joe, “How could you have known he’d pay us a visit? I had advance warning, what with Lowell offering me the contract and all, and even I didn’t anticipate this.”

Joe released Dash’s shoulders and sighed. “We’ll have to do it, won’t we? Sign the agreement?”

Dash’s eyes stopped patrolling the street and settled back on Joe’s face. The freckled forehead was wrinkled with worry, and the corners of his eyes held lines of regret. An old feeling rose up in Dash’s chest and he quickly swallowed it down.

Shaking his head, he replied to Joe’s question, “I don’t see how we have a choice.”

They didn’t have many choices these days, what with men like Fife, Müller—hell, even McElroy—in their lives.

Did you really believe freedom was possible?

Another couple, this one older, their hair completely gray with faces lined like crumpled paper bags, walked up to them.

“Excuse me, sirs,” the older gent said. “Is this the line for the box office?”

Joe turned his head to the side and blew out a line of cigarette smoke.

Dash pointed to their right. “The box office line is over there.”

Joe muttered, “Where the bloody box office is.”

The old man registered Joe’s sarcasm with a slight pause and a flash of the eyes.

The woman on his arm, Dash supposed his wife, said, “I told you, Harold.”

The man cleared his throat and a forced smile. “Thank you very much.”

The couple moved off.

Joe said to Dash, “We can make it work, lassie. With Fife. If his booze is as good as he claims, it might not be so bad.”

“I’m supposed to try it sometime.”

“When?”

Dash shrugged. “Whenever is most convenient for Fife, I imagine.”

Another couple, this one in their thirties, came up to them. Before the man could speak, Dash pointed to his right. “Box office line is over there.”

“See?” the woman said, as they moved away. “I told you it wasn’t possible the line was that short.”

Dash didn’t hear the man’s reply. He said to Joe, “As if we don’t have enough to do with this Walter mess, I’ve now got to find a suit for Mr. Fife.”

Joe shook his head. “He was just using that as an excuse to get into your shop.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

The sidewalk was increasingly busy with those going to dinner or to a show. A derelict man was stumbling among them, bumping into a man in a brown suit and offering a pantomimed apology. The man in the brown suit glared at him, using a handkerchief to wipe off any street grime that may have transferred from the derelict’s dirty rags to his jacket and shirt.

As the derelict got closer, Dash could see scraggly whiskers hiding his face. Dirty gray hair in need of a trim cascaded over his ears and down to his shoulders. The suit he wore was covered in patches on the knees and elbows, the fabric a different color. Surprisingly, the man didn’t smell, though Dash had expected him to.

The derelict stopped right in front of them.

Joe gave the man a wary look. “No spare change and no spare booze, partner.”

The derelict replied in a familiar voice, “Well I never! Is that what you call Catholic charity, you brute? May the goddesses never see such selfishness.”

Dash squinted his eyes. “Finn?”

The derelict reached up and pulled off the long, gray hair. It was a wig. Underneath was the dark-haired Finn, his grin unmistakable behind the fake whiskers.

“I told you it would be a marvelous disguise.”

Finn tossed the wig to Joe, who jerked away as if Finn had tossed him a tarantula. The wig floated to the ground.

“Finney!” Joe bellowed. “Why ya playing the fool?”

A hand went to his breast. “I didn’t play the fool, but I daresay our Mr. Müller did.”

Dash said, “He didn’t recognize you?”

Finn crossed his arms, clearly pleased with himself. “He never gave me a second look.”

Dash smiled. It was about time they had some good news. “Where did he go?”

Yet another couple came up to them.

Before Dash could give his usual response, Joe barked, “This is not the bloody box office line. Yer