Dash thought of his older brother Max sneaking out of their parent’s house to visit one of four women who each thought she was his only girl. That was if he wasn’t visiting one of the whorehouses down in Times Square. Yet Dash was the degenerate.
He replied, “You’re not wrong, Atty.”
He closed the door behind them and the three of them stumbled towards the curtained-off changing area. Atty pulled back the green curtain and Dash set Walter into the wooden chair, the legs scraping the floor with a groan from the backward motion of his weight. Satisfied Walter wouldn’t slump off and hit the floor, Dash and Atty stepped back, their voices low so Walter couldn’t overhear them.
“What happened tonight?” murmured Dash.
“He tried to force his way in here, but he didn’t know the new code. Smart thinking changing it last night. I wouldn’t let him in, even though he was hollering. I was hoping he’d eventually ankle, but no such luck.”
Dash shook his head and stared at the angry drunk, who kept muttering profanities and slurs over and over.
I got rid of you one time. How the hell will I manage a second?
“Atty, can you go across the street to the Inn and grab some coffee from Emmett? We need to sober him up.”
“Yeah, sure. Need anything else?”
“A sandwich for me. Whatever Emmett’s got. And Atty? Let’s keep the lamp light off. We don’t want anyone else coming in right now.”
“Youse got it.”
Dash heard the clicks of the front door closing and locking. Now only the yellow from streetlights provided any kind of illumination in the darkened shop, their beams creating stripes on the wood floor. Prison bars. Where Dash would soon be if he couldn’t figure out what this bluenose from the Committee of Fourteen wanted.
Dash went and grabbed a chair from the writing desk and dragged it over towards Walter. He pulled the curtain around them, cutting out the lights from the street, and sat across from the belligerent drunk. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Even in shadow, he saw Walter couldn’t hold his head upright.
“Walter,” Dash said, his voice sharp and clear.
The man jerked as if electrocuted. He slurred something incomprehensible.
“Walter,” Dash repeated. “What did you drink?”
“I don’t know,” Walter mumbled.
“Clear or brown?”
“What?”
“What you drank. Was it clear or brown?”
“Clear.”
Thank the Lord for small favors. Most of the poisonous liquors were yellow or brown in color. A clear liquid didn’t necessarily mean Walter hadn’t consumed something lethal, but it made his odds a lot better.
“Good,” Dash said. “Where did you get it? The drink? Was it a speak?”
Walter’s reply was incomprehensible.
“Walter. Talk to me. Where did you get the booze?”
Walter seemed to cry at the mention of the word. Dash felt a small pang of sympathy for the man. Walter had fallen from grace, from that pious podium on which he preached abstinence, sobriety, and purity of spirit.
Welcome to terra firma with the rest of us.
“Walter—”
The tailor shop door opening interrupted them. Atty with the coffee.
The curtain swung open. Dash reached over and took the hot mug from the short man. He thanked him and gingerly placed Walter’s hands around the steaming mug. Dash hoped the heat from the porcelain would stimulate a few of his senses that had been dulled by the alcohol. With both hands overlaid on top of Walter’s, together they lifted the mug to the cracked, dried lips. Walter took a few sips. After a moment, Walter could hold onto the cup of coffee on his own.
Dash released the mug and stood, beckoning Atty to step back a few feet from Walter.
Atty said, his voice quiet, “Your sandwich is on the desk.”
“Thank you, Atty.” Dash nodded towards Walter. “He wasn’t with anyone tonight?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he get here by walking or by cab?”
“By hack. Don’t think he lives close by.”
Dash ran a hand over his mouth. “What are we going to do with him?”
Atty shrugged. “We can just put him six feet under. That way, he don’t bother us no more.”
Dash shook his head. “Offing a man doesn’t solve all problems.”
“Yes, it does! This guy on my family’s old street, some Sicilian fuck—’cuse my language, Mr. Parker—kept coming around and trying to mess with my sister. She’s not more than fifteen and no one’s gonna take her honor, least of all this scraggly do-nothing with no job, no shave, and no clean shirt. Finally, Papa confronted him one day and said, ‘youse try that one more time, I’m gonna turn you from a devil to an angel with one shot.’”
“Let me guess,” Dash said, “the ‘Sicilian fuck’ came back.”
Atty grinned. “And now he has his wings.”
“I doubt he’s in heaven given what he tried to pull.”
“The point is, Papa solved the problem. Might want to think about that with this fella.”
Dash ran his tongue over his teeth and shook his head again. “We’re not killers, Atty.”
Walter must’ve overheard them, for he scoffed, “The hell you’re not.”
Dash walked towards the slumping, slurring man. “What was that?”
“I said, the hell you’re not. You kill. You may not know it, but you deal in death.”
Dash put his hands on his hips. “Oh yeah? Then whose untimely demise did we cause?”
The reply came out wet and mean, like a sudden ocean wave catching a bather by surprise and slapping him across the face.
“My brother’s.”
Dash couldn’t breathe. Karl? Dead? When? How?
Walter’s eyes blazed with anger. “You fairy bastards. You corrupted him. And now he’s dead.”
Atty stepped forward. “You Dumb Dora, Mr. Parker didn’t kill your brother! Why, he tried to help—”
“That’s enough, Atty,” Dash said. He looked at Walter. “We didn’t cause anybody to get hurt, and we have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Goddamn perverts!”
“And you are entirely too blotto to be reasoned with.”
Walter must be wrong. Or playing a cruel joke. Karl was safe and sound up in Harlem, counting inventory in the Oyster House basement. He could not be dead. He just
