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

The boy looked down at him and said in a low, gravelly voice, “Hit me again and I’ll feed you your own gospel pipe.”

Then, as if he hadn’t been engaged in an altercation, the boy returned to his place next to the bell bottom, who stared at him with a mix of awe and fear. The boy said to the sailor, in a much higher, softer voice, that his enjoyment had been interrupted by a “rude kraut.”

Finn rushed over to Dash. His delicate hands reached up and cupped both sides of Dash’s head, turning him this way and that. The red comb sparkled in Finn’s black hair, the pinpricks of light temporarily blinding Dash.

“Hmm,” he said, “you’re going to have the most brutish bruise in the morning.”

“Oh hell.”

“Don’t be upset. Why, there isn’t a man in here who wouldn’t want to be your nursemaid and check your temperature.” A grin danced across his elfish face.

Dash rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with my temperature, Finn.”

“Just that it’s not being taken by anyone lately. Unless you’ve been using Joe’s thermometer while I’m away.”

The outsider groaned at their feet, interrupting them. They turned their attention to the man on the floor. He spit out blood. Two teeth lay beside him, a pair of dice from a losing throw.

Finn called down to him, “Do you mind? I have to clean that floor later.”

He then went to calm down the customers, telling them “it’s all right, Mr. Parker has it all under control.” Other than a figure in a tuxedo excusing himself towards the door—one of the two Dash had seen at that back table—the rest of the crowd stayed put.

At least the fight hasn’t cleared the room. 

Joe came around the bar and stood beside him. “Let’s get this blowhard outta here.”

They lifted the outsider, each throwing one arm over their shoulders, and aimed him towards the hidden door.

“I’ll get you,” the outsider said, his words muffled by the fast swelling of his cheeks and lips. “I swear to God, I’ll get you.”

Joe looked over at Dash. “What is he, lassie? Rough trade?”

“I tell you I don’t know this man.”

“Huh. Seems awfully angry at ya for someone you don’t know.”

The three of them shuffled to the club’s hidden door, which was actually the mirror embedded into the back wall of the tailor shop’s curtained-off changing area. As Joe pulled it open, the glass caught the reflection of the three men, plus another shadowy figure rushing towards them.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” she said. “I need to catch up with my friends!”

They stepped aside for a tall, dark-headed girl pushing her way through. Her dress shimmered blue and gold. The other person at that back table.

Is she the one this bluenose was looking for?

“Easy, lass!” Joe called out.

She didn’t seem to hear, just crossed the threshold and disappeared.

Joe growled, “Impatient, these young ones.”

“Careful,” Dash replied. “You’re sounding like a Father Time.”

Joe’s response was lost under his breath, but Dash got the idea. They walked into the tailor shop’s changing area, pulling the mirror closed behind them. Only a single wooden chair occupied this space, which was surrounded by a dark green curtain, still swaying from the girl’s hasty exit.

As soon as they set the stranger down into the chair, the curtain was pulled open with a high-pitched ring! Dash turned to see their doorman—and their lookout—Atticus Delucci, backlit by the shop’s sewing table lamp.

“Boss,” Atty said, “I saw a couple of people running out of here. Is everything . . . ?”

He paused when he saw the bloody face of the outsider. Then questions came out fast and furious, followed by righteous anger on his employer’s behalf. Atty yelled at the German man that they lost the war, that it’s no reason to ruin a man’s birthday, and they better act right or go back to where they came from.

“All right, Atty, all right, enough,” Dash said. “We’ve got it under control.”

“You sure, boss? We can teach this fella more of a lesson.”

Dash looked down at his doorman. At first glance, Atty was an admittedly odd choice to stand guard, as he barely stood five foot and barely saw over the bars he regularly attended. He would’ve been taken advantage of by men of ill will and ill repute had he not the muscles blessed by a boxer, a baseball bat blessed by the Yankees, and a pistol blessed by Smith & Wesson—which didn’t often hit its target but was dangerous, nonetheless. Despite Atty’s eagerness, Dash wanted to avoid more violence tonight, if he could help it.

He patted Atty on the shoulder. “That won’t be necessary.”

Joe said, “Close the curtain, lad. We don’t want the entire street seeing this mess.” He nodded towards Hartford & Sons’ front windows, which overlooked West Fourth. Anyone looking in right now would see a stage-lit view of the changing area.

Atty reached back and did as he was asked, the curtain slinging around them again. The changing area darkened by half. Shrunk too, what with four men in a space made for one.

Dash turned his attention to the outsider. “May I have your name, sir?”

For a moment, the man just sat there, stunned. He reached for his handkerchief in his front breast pocket and spit out more blood into it before responding with “Walter Müller.”

The name meant nothing to Dash.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said, demonstrating good manners. “And why is this female impersonator worth getting your head beat in, Mr. Müller?”

Walter wiped his mouth and looked up, his eyes unfocused and dazed. Three men stared back at him. He furrowed his bloody brow and considered his options. He wisely chose to be forthcoming.

“He corrupted my brother. He has brought him here to this . . . this place . . . and others like it, which has made my brother believe he is also . . . unnatural.”

“Your brother is the man you followed here? The one who met up with her?”

“Yes.”

Dash sighed. Another family member who found out about their sibling’s secret life. The desires that