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

of calico, isn’t he?” He returned it to Dash. “Have you ever had one, a German? They are quite the specimen. Tall, muscled. And what’s hanging between their legs is simply—”

“Have you seen him, Finn?”

Finn pouted but then answered the question. “I seem to recall one blondie tonight. It could be that fellow’s brother.” He pointed to the photograph in Dash’s hand. “This looks an awful lot like him, now that I think about it.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Young. Blushing. Nervous. I’d say it’s his first time in a club like this, or very nearly his first time. When I asked him what he’d like to drink, I thought he’d faint. I wanted to hold him to my breast and say, there, there, it will be alright.”

“Anything else?”

“He seemed to be waiting for someone. Always checking his wristwatch, which I’m just dying to have if someone will give me a raise.”

“You’re trying my patience, Finn.”

“I didn’t realize you were one for virtues. Anyhow, he was always looking at his wrist and checking the door. Like he was watching Helen Wills on the court. Back and forth, back and forth.”

“Did anyone arrive for him?”

“I don’t believe so. His table was already full. Not sure how they could’ve fit one more person, unless he sat on someone’s lap.”

Dash nodded, making a guess. “Right, the woman in the blue and gold dress and the man in the tuxedo.”

Finn’s eyes widened. “How on earth did you know that?”

Dash tapped the side of his forehead. “I’ve got spiritualist powers.”

“Hmm, they’re only working at half-speed, I’m afraid. You got one wrong.”

“Oh?”

“It wasn’t a man in the tuxedo. It was a woman.”

“Ah.”

Dash peered over Finn’s shoulder to see the table in the back-right corner. It was empty.

Finn turned around. “My, my. Everyone must’ve run off. Where do you suppose the pretty boy went?”

Either Karl was the tuxedo-ed figure Dash saw running out of here, or . . .

“If he’s still here, he’s hiding. And I know where.” Dash patted Finn’s shoulder and returned to him the ice pack. “Thank you, Finn. Back to work you go.”

Finn faked offense. “All I am to you is a hot number to parade around for tips.”

“And no one does it better.”

“I see. Well, dearie, while I’m out here degrading myself, something else you should consider.”

“What is that?”

“How did this Walter fellow even know about this club?”

“Simple. He followed Karl here.”

“Yes, but how did he know the secret knock?”

And with that, Finn glided off.

Dash nodded to himself, recognizing the question was a damned good one. The secret knock to get into Pinstripes was a series of syncopated hits not unlike the jazz that was roaring across Manhattan like a thunderclap. Patrons had to give it on the tailor shop’s front door. If the knock didn’t match the code, Atty, who was sitting at the sewing machine in the right-side window, would press a button on the side of his table. The button was wired to a red bulb inside Pinstripes. The red light would glare, causing everyone to stop the music and quiet themselves. Joe would lock the club’s secret door while Atty dealt with whomever out front. Only Dash gave out the secret knock, and he certainly wouldn’t have given it to a bluenose by accident. Perhaps one of his patrons parted with it by mistake? He’d have to sit down with Atty to figure out what went wrong. In the meantime, he had to contend with the Müller brothers.

Damn. This was not how his birthday was supposed to go.

He placed the photograph of Karl in his inside jacket pocket and made his way toward the back of the club, maneuvering around clusters of couples and trios. A few reached out and shook his hand, some wishing him a happy birthday, others saying what a glorious club this was. Crossing the dance floor, Dash walked through a cloud of nicotine mingling with the juniper of gin, the yeast of beer, and the sweet musk of sweat. Joy, freedom, and desire all in one fragrance.

At the back of the room and to the right of the band was the water closet. Dash knocked on the door. “Karl? Are you in here?”

A pause.

A nervous voice stammered, “Who is it?”

“My name is Dash Parker. I am the owner of the place. May I please come in?”

A longer pause this time.

“I promise I won’t make you leave with your brother.”

Silence still.

Then the lock clicked, and Dash went inside.

3

A young man stood nervously in front of the toilet. Unlike most of the patrons tonight, he wore the appropriate formal wear for a night out: tuxedo jacket, white shirt and waistcoat, white tie.

Money, Dash thought. I see I was right about the family being rich.

Like in the photograph in Dash’s pocket, Karl’s hands were clasped in front of him. Unlike in the photograph, in which his smile was forced, here the smile was gone, replaced by a panicked thin line.

“Is he gone?” Karl asked.

Dash shut the door behind him. “Not yet.”

Karl looked to the side wall, as if he could peer through it and see his brother. “I can’t go back there. Not after tonight.”

“Go back where?”

“Home.”

“Is home that unwelcome for you?”

Karl swallowed a cry, trying to keep the tears down. He looked even younger in the flesh than in the photograph in Dash’s pocket. A nymph’s nose, a child’s eyelashes, an aristocrat’s slicked-down hair. His smooth palms didn’t speak to long days of hard work, and his unblemished knuckles didn’t tell a story of fight and flight. Either he lived high above the streets or he was extremely careful walking them. He had to be with that wristwatch of his. Not many Village men owned one, and some would think it was theirs by virtue of seeing it on someone else.

Karl’s head was still shaking from side to side. “I can’t go back there. He knows.”

“I can tell him you’re not here.”

“He won’t believe you.”

“My men will keep him from searching the place, I promise you.”

The kid stopped shaking his head. “Why