Dash’s smile got even bigger. “I would be happy to wallow in the so-called degradation of the law. I do it on a regular basis. Address, please?”
The difference between the New York Bar Association and the National Association of Women Lawyers was striking. Whereas the House flaunted its marbled wealth, the Women Lawyers showcased their unadorned, plainclothes commitment to social justice. Divorce and marriage laws, a new concept called “minimum wage,” even the right for women to serve on juries. Here lived the noisy, kinetic sparks of ideas and change.
An hour and three cigarettes after his request, the secretary—a woman this time—returned, motioning him to her desk. “You’re in luck,” she said. “We have only one Prudence registered with us. A Prudence Meyers of the firm Meyers, Powers, & Napier on East 14th Street between Third Avenue and Irving Place. Near Tammany Hall.” She handed him a piece of paper with the exact address. “A perfect location for attorneys, I must say. I wonder how she managed that.”
Dash placed the address in his inside jacket pocket. “Sounds like a formidable woman. Then again, aren’t they all?”
The receptionist beamed. “I wish more men thought like yourself.”
Dash returned her smile. “I as well.”
Less than ten minutes later, Dash exited a cab in front of the imposing building of Tammany Hall, its three stories climbing high into the sky, decorated with large windows topped by rounded arches. In the shadow of ruthless political power, Dash pulled out the piece of paper he received from the Women Lawyer’s receptionist, double checked the address, and began counting the building numbers.
He passed by the flashing neon signs of the Olympic Theatre, the Central Hotel, a cigar shop, and the Borough Lunch counter before eventually finding the front of Meyers, Powers & Napier. The only tenant, he noticed, who did not invest in a blinking light.
The shades were up. The front door stood open. He took a deep breath and went inside.
The transition from street noise to this pristine quiet reminded Dash of going underwater, when the sounds of the world vanished in a tranquil, lonely silence. He expected a modest abode like that of the National Association of Women Lawyers, but the firm of Meyers, Powers & Napier was a much flashier affair. Black and gold wallpaper with repeating diamond shapes surrounded the room. Side tables of black marble with white ivory inlays held vases that followed the same procession of color: wide black bases with narrow white tips. Lamps with flat, two-dimensional shades threw light at perpendicular angles, creating dramatic shadows against the walls. Two empty gold loveseats to Dash’s right and left were for waiting clients. At the head of the waiting area was a rectangular bronze desk held up by a pair of narrow Greek columns on each corner.
A hallway behind the desk had four closed doors, two on either side. Offices, Dash assumed. One of the doors at the farthest end opened and out stepped a woman dressed in a white suit—a woman’s suit, Dash noted—holding a thick notebook. She turned and saw him.
“Oh hello,” she called. “I didn’t realize anyone was out there.”
She hurried towards the waiting room. The white jacket with black trim was loosely draped on her narrow shoulders, her white shirt with gold tie was equally shapeless as was the long, white skirt. The suit gave her the appearance of long legs and hardly any torso.
She smiled as she took her place behind the bronze desk. “Do you have an appointment?” Her brown hair was cut short and rounded in curls. A subtle red blush had been added to her cheeks, a not-so-subtle red paint to her lips.
“I don’t,” he said, “but I do have an urgent matter to discuss with Miss Prudence Meyers.”
“I see.”
“I hate to be a bother and show up unannounced like this but . . .”
The secretary waved him off. “Not to worry. We’re here to help. What kind of legal matter is this?”
Dash thought about the Müllers, Zora Mae, and the shadowy world they all seemed to inhabit, and took a chance.
“Criminal.”
15
“Mr. Parker, how nice to meet you,” Pru said, her voice a honeyed alto, her grip, like her voice, pleasant but firm.
The square office they stood in was done up in the same style as the waiting room, only instead of black and gold, it was blue and gold—like the elusive female impersonator’s dress on Sunday night, thought Dash—from the rug on the floor to the walls to the vases.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he replied, sitting in one of two client chairs in front of the bronze desk.
“It’s no trouble at all.” She sat down behind her desk, a striking figure in a man’s navy suit, trousers and all. Her black hair was cropped short, almost like a man’s, yet her face was heavily made-up. Her lips were painted ruby, and her lavender eyes were surrounded by vibrant blue shadow and traced heavily in black ink, like the Egyptians the world was dying to imitate. Despite all the masculine dress, she came off as overwhelmingly feminine.
She folded her hands in front of her, getting down to business. “Tell me about this criminal legal matter.”
Given all the subterfuge he used to find her, Dash gambled on telling the truth. “I’m being blackmailed, Ms. Meyers.”
A curt nod. “That is most certainly criminal. Have you gone to the police?”
Dash shook his head. “I know you’ve heard this one before, but I can’t.”
“And why is that?”
Dash shifted in his seat. Even though she was dressed like a man—an illegal action if seen by the wrong cop—there was always a risk of admitting his nature out loud, especially in the daylight. He hoped she was as open-minded as her appearance.
“Because I am someone who’s guilty of degenerate disorderly conduct, I believe the law says.”
She blinked. “I see.” She unfolded her hands and began to make notes on a pad of paper with an expensive looking ink pen. Without looking
