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

Dash was told to get out. He thought about running for it. If they were going to shoot him, what difference did it make where and when? Yet fear—or was it hope?—kept him from bolting.

The driver stayed in the car while the still unnamed gunman and Lowell went with Dash. They made a three-man procession to one of the warehouse doors, the gunman in front, Dash in the middle, Lowell in the rear. Parked on either side of them were dozens of dark green trucks with queens furniture emblazoned in gold paint on the sides. Underneath were the italics pieces fit for royalty! Dash felt another giggle bubble up.

One of the warehouse doors opened with a piercing shriek. The gunman stepped to the side and gestured for Dash to go in ahead of him. The giddiness now gave way to pure leaden dread. His body did not want to move, but he knew he had no choice. He swallowed bile. A deep breath followed, taking in the smell of grease, dirt, and slight decay from the River, then he stepped into the poorly lit warehouse.

The room was large. Impossibly large. Only a few lights overhead created the absurd effect of stage spotlights. Instead of singers and dancers, they illuminated large wooden crates stacked from the floor almost to the ceiling. Was all of this furniture? It couldn’t be. It had to be, what? Liquor? If so, there was enough to drown all of Manhattan ten times over.

Dash heard a throat clearing. He faced forward and saw Nicholas Fife. The gangster stood at the very end of the warehouse floor, hands clasped in front, a smile on his face.

“Mr. Parker,” he said in his maddeningly pleasing baritone. “I’m so glad you could join us.”

I had a choice?

The night was getting more and more absurd. Kidnapped at gunpoint, yet here is a gangster who was persistently polite. Dash half expected him to offer a drink. Which he would’ve taken. He for damn sure would.

Fife gestured to the space around them. “What do you think?” he asked, pride filling his frame.

Dash stood dumbfounded. When the gangster looked him in the eyes, it was clear he wanted an answer. “It’s . . . it’s impressive, sir.”

“And it’s just one of many. I would tell you where they are but”—Fife grinned—“then I’d have to kill you.” He beckoned with an outstretched hand. “Don’t be so shy, Mr. Parker. Come here.”

Dash looked to Lowell and the gunman, who flanked him on either side. They stood at attention, spines rigid, like bell bottoms and soldiers. Dash forced himself forward, his legs ever so slightly shaking. Fife waited patiently with that damnable smile on his face. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, the vest, shirt, and bow tie blindingly white against the dark jacket and pants.

When Dash was standing directly in front of Fife, the gangster opened his tuxedo coat wider.

“Do you see?” he asked, pointing to the tightness of the shirt around his midsection. “My rowing hasn’t kept my middle from expanding.” He let the jacket fall back to its resting position. “We never did discuss when my new suit would be ready.”

“When would it need to be?”

Fife laughed. “See? That is the absolute correct answer. When would it need to be? I love that.”

He pulled Dash to his side and spun him around, his arm around Dash’s shoulders, as if they were friends. Buddies. Chaps. The spice of his cologne once again filled the air. So pleasing, one would never think it was the aroma of violence and death.

His breath was hot against Dash’s cheek as he leaned in and answered, “I’d like the suit next Friday, if possible. That’s when I must look excellent for this white tie dinner. Dreadfully boring affair but one must entertain boring people sometimes.”

He looked at Dash expectantly.

Dash nodded vigorously, causing another chuckle from the gangster.

Fife squeezed Dash’s shoulder then patted his back. “Good! Now that that’s settled, let’s get to the real reason why you’re here.”

The gangster started walking.

Dash hesitated, then followed, staying a few steps behind. “The real reason why I’m here?” he repeated.

“You had concerns about the quality and—I’m assuming—safety of my product,” Fife replied over his shoulder.

He led Dash to a side door, which opened with another piercing squeal. The gangster winced. “I apologize for that. The hinges need oil. Some even need new hinges. But I find I like knowing when doors are being opened and shut. It keeps me from being surprised by someone sneaking in . . . or out.”

Together they walked through the doorway, Dash noticing that Lowell and the gunman stayed behind in the main room with the stacks of liquor.

They entered a narrow hallway with jaundiced lighting, the pale yellow sickly against the exposed brick walls. Unexplained puddles of water dotted the floor, and the smell of damp was ever present. Fife led Dash to the very end of the hallway where he made a sharp right.

There was another room much smaller than the one they had just left. Chemical smells assaulted Dash’s nose, pungent, metallic, and acidic. Oppressive heat tugged at his clothes. The lighting, though still muted, was of better quality here. Dash saw shelves of glass beakers, containers, and strangely designed funnels; clear and colored liquids filled some, others remained empty.

It’s a chemistry lab.

Fife turned around just as Dash had the realization. “This is where we manage and maintain quality control.” He gestured to a spot behind him. “And this is who is in charge of it.”

Dash stepped to the side to see around the gangster. A long wooden table held beakers, burners, and more of those elaborate glass funnels. Standing behind the table with rapt attention on a beaker filled with a mud-colored liquid was a short Italian man.

“Mr. Parker, may I present to you Angelo Avogadro.”

The chemist had a long, oval face, which remained still, showing no reaction to the two