El nodded her head at Flo. “She’s got a point, Dash.”
Flo didn’t stop. “And what if she turns out to be innocent? I know you downtowners like to place the blame on us, but if you ask me, strangling a little fairy boy and dumping his body in the Park sounds like a white man’s game to me.”
Dash looked away, his eyes taking in the room. Cracks like spider legs fanned out in the corners of the plaster walls. The baseboards chipped from abuse were also dusty from neglect. A water stain that seemed to plague every ceiling in New York hung dead center over the room, a giant yellow cloud at sunset. Dash would’ve bet his last dollar the sink in the washroom dripped and the doors wouldn’t stay closed unless they were locked. Whether it was the Village or Harlem, white tenants or tenants of color, landlords were still landlords, and, in the wise words of El, “They don’t do shit but collect the rent.”
Dash took a deep breath and returned to the conversation. “All the more reason to talk with Miss Mae. She might direct me to the real culprit, and I won’t ever have to bother her—or you—again.” He looked at Flo. “Miss Russell, will you please help me?”
Flo stared at Dash for a moment, then dropped her eyes. “I don’t know.”
“C’mon, Flo,” El said. “We’ve got to help those like us when we can, right?”
“He’s not like us. He’s white and rich.”
White, yes. Rich? Not anymore, Dash thought.
El replied, “He’s a degenerate according to the law, just like we are, which means he’ll go to the work yards, just like we would.”
Flo gave El a look that said I’m going to regret this and then said to Dash, “The thing about the Hot Cha is it’s where those with sugar go to show off how many grains they got in the bowl. It’s all about one-upping the person next to you. And if they decide you’re not high-class enough, they don’t let you in, so you’ve got to be in your finest suit or in your most elegant dress. I hear the Baroness wears her furs there, even in August, like a regular Duchess. I don’t think dressing is going to be a problem for you.”
El chuckled. “He practically a Duchess himself.”
Dash piped up, “I object.”
Flo cut him off. “One thing you need to know when you meet Miss Zora ‘I Wear Dead Foxes’ Mae. I hear she got a girl now—can’t remember her name for the life of me—but she’s straight up crazy. Like someone permanently blew her wig off and she can’t get it screwed back on.”
El asked, “She’s icky?”
“No, she’s jealous. Thinks everyone is trying to take away her precious Zora ‘I Wear Furs and Pearls’ Mae. Anyone who tries to get close to Zora ends up having that girl go full-on Zulu on them. I heard from my friend Ruthie that she broke a beer bottle and aimed the jagged edge at someone’s throat.”
“Jesus!”
Flo nodded. “And even Christ might take his own name in vain meeting the likes of her. That’s why I’m not all that thrilled about meeting Miss Zora ‘I Got Minks in Pink’ Mae.”
Dash nodded towards Flo. “Would this girl have killed Karl?”
Flo furrowed her brow. “You better hope not. ’Cause if she did and you get her locked up or worse, Zora will come after us all.” She looked from Dash to El, then back again. “So downtowner? This better not bring trouble back to my house. Or El’s house. Bring it to your house, I don’t give a damn. Have it burn down the whole Village for all I care. But bring trouble up here, we got problems. Understand?”
Dash replied, “I understand.”
“I’ve got a show tonight, but I can take you tomorrow at midnight. Don’t be late.”
Dash said, “Thank you, Miss Russell. I am truly in your debt.”
Flo crossed her arms over her chest again, shaking her head, whether at herself or at Dash, he couldn’t tell. After a moment’s silence, she took a deep breath and said, “Well, shit.”
El barked out a laugh. “Hey now! That’s my line!”
It was the following afternoon, Wednesday, August 18, when Dash finally found the mysterious Pru.
After a few appointments at Hartford & Sons, Dash closed the tailor shop early with the hopes he could charm his way to a name and address from the Bar Association of New York. He figured there couldn’t be that many female attorneys registered. And even if there were half a dozen Prudences listed, he could narrow down the list in short order.
The Bar was on Club Row, a block of West 44th between Fifth and Sixth Avenues that was, sadly, not full of speaks, lounges, and dance halls. Rather, it was the epicenter of the city’s power. The Harvard Club. The New York Yacht Club. The City Club. The St. Nicholas Society and the Penn Club. Nearby stood clubs for Yale, Princeton, Columbia, Cornell, and Brown. Judges, Congressmen, and Presidents sprouted from these gilded gated gardens almost as regularly as perennials. And amongst all this power stood the New York Bar Association, otherwise known as The House.
The House, Dash came to learn, did not approve of women attorneys. The male secretary, to whom Dash initially addressed his query, said, “They’re a radical trend, if I may be so bold to say. A few bored women deciding to cause trouble. It won’t last. Not only is the female mind incapable of maintaining the mental rigor needed to practice law, no one will hire them.”
“I see,” Dash said. “Are they not allowed to be registered with the bar?”
“They are.”
“But they can’t be members of the Bar Association?”
“No.” A satisfied smirk. “They have their own, though. If you really want to degrade yourself, you can pay
