Cullen McElroy of the NYPD was standing in the doorway. With the whirlwind events of last night, Dash had completely forgotten today was “Donation Day.”
McElroy’s beady eyes searched and found where Dash was sitting. He lumbered over. The bohemians went uncharacteristically silent, with a few of the patrons giving him wide berth, as if he were diseased. Round as a globe, his belt was a black equator dividing the copper’s hemispheres. His face was a constant sunburnt red, made even more apparent by the yellow hair peeking out from underneath his police cap, as lifeless and as bland as straw.
Dash felt all eyes upon the two of them.
“Well, well, well,” McElroy said, as he stood next to Dash. “Mr. Parker.” McElroy reached into his pocket with a meaty hand and pulled out his timepiece. He flicked the clasp open. “What time is our usual meeting?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“And what time is it now?”
“I presume a few minutes after ten.”
McElroy regarded the face of his timepiece. “Ten-oh-seven.” He shut the clasp with a loud snap. “And where are we supposed to meet?”
Dash swallowed the pride which wanted to tell this odious officer where he could go. “At my shop.”
“So why, Mr. Parker, do I find you past our meeting time in a place we are not supposed to meet?”
Emmett spoke up. “Quit being a condescending ass and just take his money.”
McElroy flashed him look. “These young ones don’t respect authority. I’ve had to teach one or two how to be respectful and believe me”—he turned back to Dash—“you don’t want to be a student of mine.” He scanned the rest of the room. “None of you do.”
Dash nodded. “Yes, sir.”
McElroy’s grin exposed gray and yellow teeth. “That’s more like it. Yes, sir indeed.” He returned the timepiece to his trouser pockets and gave Dash his full attention. “How goes business at Hartford & Sons?”
“Terrible. I’m barely making a dime.”
“That’s not what I hear. I hear if you want to have a good time, you visit good old Dashiell Parker on West Fourth. He’ll set you up fine.”
“Nasty rumors.”
McElroy went on as if Dash hadn’t responded. “Yes, you hear all kinds of things when you’re on this beat. It would be a shame if I had to report half of what I hear. Do you have your weekly donation to the New York Police Department? Remember, it’s selfless contributions from citizens such as yourself that help the NYPD keep this city safe.”
There was a grumble from the bohemians behind them. Emmett shot them a warning look.
“Do not worry, I’ve got your payment,” Dash said, thankful he actually did.
“Donation,” Cullen corrected.
Dash forced a smile. “Coming right up.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold. He counted out the bribe—five dollars, almost as much as his rent!—and returned the billfold to his pocket. He reached out to McElroy to shake his hand, the money in his palm. He tried not to squirm as the officer’s slimy fingers gripped his own.
“We’re grateful for your generosity,” McElroy said.
“We’re grateful for your blind eye.”
McElroy finally released his hand, the dollar bills now in his palm, which was being transferred to his trouser pocket. Dash wondered how many bills he had in there at one time. A fair amount of sugar, given how many businesses were on this block alone.
McElroy touched the brim of his cap. “Until next week, Mr. Parker.” He looked at Emmett. “I’ll see you next in a few days. And I better receive more respect from you, grandpa.”
He exited the Inn and strolled down West Fourth towards Seventh Avenue—and, no doubt, towards his other victims—whistling along the way. As soon as he left, the tension level in the Inn dropped by half. A collective sigh of relief murmured throughout the room.
Dash turned to see the bohemians still watching him. “Look at that,” he said, gesturing to the front door. “There goes one of New York’s finest.”
Someone scoffed, “Finest, my ass. He’s the worst thing about this city!”
Another voice said, “Yeah, get rid of the police!”
More voices joined in. “No more police! No more police!”
Dash looked at Emmett with a wry smile and raised his coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
It was time to open Hartford & Sons for the day. Granted, Dash wasn’t a tailor, not by any means, despite Victor trying desperately to teach him. (And heaven help him, Victor tried his best.) But a storefront couldn’t stay closed all day without inviting the attention of some cop or federal agent—someone who wasn’t accepting his bribes, that is.
Dash had the wherewithal to at least do measurements, which he would take during business hours, and have Atty, who surprisingly was quite adept with a needle and thread, do the alterations at night. Atty sat at the sewing machine in the right-side window of the tailor shop, the shine of his sewing table lamp the signal to those in the know that Pinstripes was open. Together, he and Dash gave the illusion of Hartford & Sons being a legitimate business. And the nocturnal alterations kept Atty from being bored senseless while standing guard.
Very clever, if Dash could be so bold to admit.
And yet, it wasn’t too clever for Walter Müller.
Dash sincerely hoped the bluenose’s presence wasn’t a harbinger of things to come.
He spent an uneventful day taking measurements from those who didn’t know about the club and answering questions about “pinstripe suits” from those who did. No one named Lowell Henley stopped by, which eased some of Dash’s anxiety. Maybe this Mr. Henley would forget all about him and bypass his club entirely.
Long shot odds for that one.
At 5:00, he closed up shop and went to a public bath, letting the steam and the water wash away the grit and dirt of the day. He returned to the Cherry Lane Playhouse apartment, where he napped, despite an incessant stage manager from below yelling “Theodore! Places! Anyone seen Theo? He’s missed his entrance three times! God help me . . .”
At 9:00,
