Flo asked, “Where is she seated?”
He pointed across the room to the far-left corner.
“Thank you, sir.” She reached into her purse and slapped another coin onto the bar, only this time it was a nickel.
The bartender picked it up with disgust. “I thought I was gonna get another quarter.”
“You shouldn’t have pouted. I don’t reward pouty boys.”
The bartender cursed under his breath.
Flo stood up from her barstool, giving one quick glance at Zora’s moll, and then said, “Alright, downtowner, you on your own.”
“Pardon me?”
“This conversation has nothing to do with me, and the less I know about it, the better.” She pointed a finger at him. “And remember what I said, now. Whatever trouble you bring upon yourself, it does not come back to El and me. Understand?”
“I do.”
“Good.” Another glance back at Miss Purple and White. “Be careful with Crazy Eyes over there.”
And with that, she left the bar.
As Dash turned to go to Zora, the man in the tux reached out and grabbed his hand. “You think about my offer now.”
The bartender cut in. “Tully, find some other white meat to chew on. He apparently is Miss Mae’s boy now.” His eyes slid over to Dash’s. “And God help him.”
Dash forced a smile at the man in the tux and left to go meet the Baroness.
18
She appeared to Dash in flashes in between the dancers on the floor. The white cloche hat on top of her head. The glow of her pearl earrings. The high black fur of her collar. The sparkle of her diamond necklace laying against bare skin. And finally, the intricate pattern of the white dress.
Then there was the woman herself. A caramel dream with eyes so warm and inviting, they practically whispered an invitation. A small, upturned nose leading to a richly painted mouth. Skin smooth as the silk draping over it. Her frame was thin but formidable. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was powerful.
Zora’s fingers tapped the tabletop idly to the music, keeping time with the piano player as her eyes kept watch of the dance floor. A faint smile appeared from time to time, as if she was delighted by something—or someone—she saw. She sat alone with a martini. Dash got the sense she didn’t entertain company unless she requested it and she could also dismiss it as fast as she got it.
When she noticed Dash standing to the side of her table, she gestured to an open chair. She waited until the song ended, then gave a rousing round of applause. The twosome announced they were taking a break. The dancers left the floor and the noise diminished by half.
“That Jimmie,” she said. “Voice like a sweet angel. I never get tired of hearing him.”
“He is a fine singer, Baroness. Or do you prefer Miss Mae?”
Zora turned to Dash and measured him up, taking in every inch of his frame. “A downtowner at my table,” she finally said. “And a bruised and battered one as well. Will wonders never cease? Miss Mae will do. What’s your name again? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it already.”
“Dash Parker. I’m here about—”
“Karl Müller, yes, Mr. Johnson said. Bad news, if I remember correctly.”
She held up the blue card Dash had given the bartender, then slid it over to him. Dash left it on the table for the time being.
“You should know, Mr. Parker, I have many folks handing out my cards.”
“Yet bad news about Mr. Müller granted me permission to sit at your table.”
Her thin brows arched over intelligent eyes. “You’re very astute.” She took a sip of her martini. “The name is familiar. I can’t quite picture the figure who goes along with it.”
“Young German kid, about my height.” Dash reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph Walter had forgotten to take with him when he left Pinstripes. He handed it to Zora.
She studied the picture. “Ah, yes. I remember him now. Such an innocent. Such purity. I’m sure whoever seduces him will find him as tender as veal.” She glanced up at Dash. “My, my, you’re quite taken with him. Have you bed him yet?”
Dash felt his cheeks burn. “We didn’t have that kind of relationship.” Something told him to hold back the news about Karl’s murder. “He came to me for help but then he went missing Sunday night. The last time I knew where he was, he was at the Oyster House.”
“Ah. Guilt. Another delicious emotion. Almost as aching and wonderful as lust.”
“Before he left the Oyster House, he made a telephone call. He couldn’t reach someone and then disappeared. I’m wondering if he was trying to reach you.”
Zora seemed amused with his question. “And you came all the way up here to Harlem to find out. Not many white men would’ve braved such a meeting.”
“Why be afraid of a Baroness?”
She laughed low in her throat. The tip of her finger began to trace the circle of her martini glass.
“I’m a single woman from a poor family, and yet, I’m one of the most powerful women in Harlem. Do you know how I did that?”
Dash shook his head.
“I learned long ago that human nature always, always wins out. Doesn’t matter how well you’re raised or how devout you are. When the sun goes down and the rooms get dark, we’re all just animals.”
Her finger stopped tracing the glass. She licked the gin off the tip and then swept her arm across their view of the dance floor.
“Look at ’em. They love the music. They love the liquor. They desire the company more. Dancing is, after all, just the prelude to other things. An overture to the main act. Pansy clubs. Bulldagger joints. We all go because we can’t get it anywhere else.”
“You own clubs?” Dash asked.
“I own clubs. I own houses and apartments that host special kinds of salons—some with stories and acting; others that specialize in pleasure. And people
