As Dash walked forward, he heard a slight crunch. He looked down. Beneath him on the intricate ruby red, gold, and sienna blue rug were shards from a broken glass, scattered ashes from past cigarettes—or perhaps from a dropped ashtray, given the multitude of them—and a large red wine stain. Dash doubted Mr. Smith would be getting his cleaning deposit back.
“Lassie,” Joe said softly. “Where is Mr. Smith?”
He is taking a rather long time to show himself, Dash thought.
He turned around and nodded towards the closed bedroom door. “Dressing,” he mouthed before calling out “Mr. Smith?”
A muffled voice behind the bedroom door replied, “One moment!”
“Something’s wrong,” murmured Joe.
A sudden tingling sensation tickled Dash’s throat and chest. “I think you’re—”
Dash didn’t get to finish the sentence for just then the bedroom door opened, and a tall man dressed in a light gray suit stepped into the front room, brandishing a shiny black pistol.
“Alright, gents,” he said. “Just who the hell are you?”
12
Standing across the room from each other, both Dash and Joe raised their hands upwards.
The man was closest to Joe, who dwarfed him in size. He jerked his head towards Dash, saying, “Get over there with him.”
Joe nodded and sidestepped his way across the room, never once taking his eyes off the pistol.
Dash tried to keep his voice steady. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”
The man pointed his pistol at Dash. “You bet there has. I’m not gonna ask you a second time. Who are you? ’Cause neither one of you is Karl Müller.”
Joe tried to intervene as he stood beside Dash. “Look, lad, we just want to—”
The man quickly aimed the pistol back at Joe. “I said who, you goddamned Mick!”
“All right, all right,” said Dash, trying to make his voice steady. “Keep it jake, fellas.” He pointed to his chest. “Mr. Smith, my name is Dash Parker, I’m a tailor down in Greenwich. This is my business partner Joe O’Shaughnessy.”
Tyler Smith was confused. He frowned. “Bohemia? What are you doing in midtown?”
Joe replied, “We just want to talk to ya about Karl, Mr. Smith.”
“What about him?”
Dash didn’t see a way to soften the blow. “He’s dead.”
“Dead!”
“Murdered, in fact.”
Tyler looked to Joe, who nodded in affirmation. “Oh. I see.” The pistol sagged, the weight of the metal too heavy for his depleting resolve. His voice quieted. “That’s why he hasn’t been around.”
“You were waiting for him?” Dash asked.
Tyler hesitated. “No, but he usually swings by.” He cleared his throat, his voice strengthening. “He’s like an alley cat that way. Seems to disappear and then one night, you hear a little pawing at the door and a pathetic little mew, practically begging to be let in.”
Joe said, “Mr. Smith, we are in a bit of a situation. We need your help finding someone.”
The gun came back up. “You coppers?”
Joe scoffed, “Christ bleedin’ on the cross, do we look like coppers?”
Tyler waved the gun in an irritated fashion, causing Dash and Joe to tense at the metal nozzle aiming this way, then that. “How the hell should I know? They got coppers now dressed in everyday clothes instead of the usual blues. And, uh, not to point out the obvious”—he nodded to Dash’s face—“but it looks like you got yourself into a fight with someone. Someone you were arresting, maybe?”
“I did get into a fight,” Dash replied, “but not while arresting someone. A misunderstanding in a speak. A speak I own.” He decided to take a chance. “A special speak for certain types of men who fancy, shall we say, different types of company . . .”
Wariness followed by understanding flickered across Tyler’s face. He lowered the gun to his side. “You better not be chewing gum, mister.”
“You have my word as a gentleman.”
Tyler smirked. “Not much worth in that, these days.”
Despite the confrontational words, the gun stayed at his side.
With the weapon not taking all of Dash’s attention, other features of Tyler Smith came into view. He was thin, with short brown hair and delicate eyes and lashes. The smooth skin of his cheeks had not yet been touched by stress or age. The suit he wore was nondescript, a light summer gray, the bright blue tie the only splash of color on him.
Dash said, “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I understand you and Karl used to be close.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Oh?” Dash followed his instincts. “I thought you two were . . .”
“No. Well yes, but it wasn’t what you think.” Tyler was agitated, his eyes darting around like he was looking for an escape. He found one in the bar cart. “Would you two like a drink? My nerves are a bit overcome by the news.”
“Aye,” Joe replied. “Whiskey if ya got it.”
Dash shrugged. Oh, why not? He just had a gun pointed at him. “Gin for me.”
Tyler pointed to the weapon. “I apologize for this.” He then laid the gun on the top surface of the stacked three accent tables. “I actually don’t know how to use the blasted thing.”
Joe asked, “Then why do ya have it, lad?”
A jaded look. “Have you seen this city lately? I’m surprised you two don’t have one, given the roughness of your neighborhood. Bohemia isn’t exactly where the cream lives, though I mean no offense.”
Tyler went over to the drink cart holding various bottles of liquor. He set out three empty glasses. He spoke over his shoulder as he selected the bottles: one whiskey, one gin.
“How did you learn about Karl?”
Dash noticed his voice was less rough and less forced, his cadence relaxing into the vamp-ish style of inverted men when they’re in the company of each other. He replied, “His brother told us.”
“You met the infamous Walter. What did you think?”
“A bloody no-good bluenose,” Joe growled.
Tyler turned. “That about sums it up.” He nodded towards Joe. “On the rocks?”
Joe replied that was fine.
Tyler turned back around and added a
