Walking the careless zigzag of the Village streets, Dash felt himself come alive. True, he worked during the daylight hours, but he was a night animal by nature, always had been. When he was sixteen, he would sneak out of the family home and explore all the neighborhoods his parents told him to avoid—especially the ones Thomas and Mary Parker disdained. Just the act of being where he wasn’t supposed to filled him with euphoria. And with it came sharpened senses and a quickness and deftness he didn’t have during “normal” hours.
Even now, years later, he thrived off the shadowy sounds of the darkened city. The purr of unseen motor cars. The squeal of the elevated trains navigating the curves from West Third to Sixth Avenue. The rapid click of shoes on pavement and the loose laughter of friends. In between the bursts of sound was the sensual swivel of a cap being removed from a bottle. Dash tingled with excitement and anticipation. Who knew what wonders the night would bring?
When Dash turned onto his portion of West Fourth between Barrow and Jones, he stopped. This section of street looked different tonight. He scanned the narrow area, looking for something out of place. What was it?
The windows in the apartments above him were lit, the sounds of clattering dishes from their occupants spilling out into the night. Nothing unusual there.
The gentle rush of the wind interrupted by the harsh metallic echo of trash being thrown carelessly into bins. A mouthwatering aroma of sautéing onions and garlic from nearby restaurants was interrupted by a toe-curling whiff of urine and vomit from rotting places unseen.
So far, a typical summer night in New York.
Dash scanned the street again.
Ah. It was his tailor shop.
The light in the front right window was out. Strange. Pinstripes wasn’t closed this evening, so why did Atty have the light off? Were they late opening?
Trouble, he thought.
And his eyes found it. A darkened figure was weaving back and forth in front of Hartford & Sons. The figure looked familiar, but the distance and the shadows hid his face. He stumbled, caught himself, then stumbled again. The plate-glass window of Dash’s shop was a backdrop curtain for this sloppy performance, the name of the shop the marquee. Intuition whispered a warning.
Run. He hasn’t seen you yet.
But if the man was here now, then he would return again. And if Dash could point in the opposite direction, he might be able to keep the kid safe for longer.
Dash took a breath, then slowly walked east on West Fourth towards his shop. The dark figure was now cursing to himself. Dash was ten feet away when stray pieces of gravel crunched beneath his feet.
The figure turned around and looked straight at him.
“You!” the German voice shouted.
“Oh hell,” Dash muttered.
He had guessed right. The figure was Walter Müller.
8
Unlike last night, tonight Walter’s state of dress was a state of anarchy. Jacket crooked, tie askew, elbows and knees smudged with dirt and grime, no doubt picked up from crawling across whatever surface he had fallen upon. And he had definitely fallen. The man couldn’t maintain his balance. Was he drunk? Dash couldn’t believe it. A bluenose? Dash would’ve doubted his observation, but enough time spent in speakeasies had made him an expert in determining who was half-seas over. And Walter had gone overboard.
“Mr. Müller,” Dash said, keeping his voice steady and neutral.
“You bastard. You fairy bastard!”
Dash flicked a look around. Several passersby gave them wide berth, staring at the drunkard with equal parts humor and disdain. At the announcement of “fairy,” some eyed Dash.
“Too much giggle water,” he replied to the questioning stares.
One of the men said, “Get him out of here before he hurts somebody, will ya?”
“It’s more likely he’ll hurt himself,” Dash replied. He closed the distance between him and the German. “Walter, let’s get you some joe.”
Walter swatted at the air. “I don’t need coffee.”
Dash tried to grab Walter’s arm, but the man yelled “No!” before he stumbled backward, hitting the sidewalk with an awkward thump. Some of the spectators laughed.
Dash reached down and said, “Take my hand, Walter. Before you further embarrass yourself.”
The German gave him a look of utter contempt. He tried to stand on his own, but he couldn’t manage it. Reluctant, he let Dash help him up.
“This way.”
Dash steered him to his storefront. He then placed Walter against the doorframe while he caught Atty’s eye. The man must’ve watched the whole scene from his perch in the shop window. At first, Atty seemed confused. He rightly didn’t want Walter coming in, but Dash needed to get Walter off the street before he said something even more inflammatory.
“You bastard,” the German kept saying, his alcohol-stained breath offending Dash’s nose.
The bruise on Walter’s face was double that of Dash’s. Red and purple circles surrounded both eyes; broken capillaries fanned out over his brow and down his cheeks. And, of course, the missing upper two teeth. He looked like a man with nothing left to lose. A dangerous man.
Dash nodded to Atty, who finally got up and walked towards the front door.
As Atty undid the locks, Dash said, “Mr. Müller, you are disrupting my place of business.”
“What are you going to do? Call the cops? Ha!” Spittle landed on Dash’s face. “Let’s call them. Let’s call them right now!”
He was leaning on the tailor shop door when Atty jerked it open. Walter almost fell onto the floor but Atty caught him, saying “Whoa, there!” Atty’s eyes flicked over to Dash. “I need some help here, Boss.”
Dash grabbed Walter’s torso and helped Atty stand the German more upright. “Let’s get him into the changing area.”
“Youse sure?”
Dash said as he pushed Walter inside, “It’s better than on the street when he can say all kinds of things. He’s so bleary-eyed, God knows what will come flying out.”
“And he a teetotaler? I knew it!
