The man sat still for a moment, then laughed. It was a harsh, cruel sound.
“Why would I murder him?” Walter asked.
“Because your brother ran to him whenever your mother would kick him out for refusing to stop his way of life. Being the good dutiful brother, when you didn’t find him at my club, you went to his usual rescue place. Perhaps this Tyler Smith wouldn’t let you see him.”
“And I what?” Walter said, his voice mocking. “Hit him over the head with an ashtray in a rage? Seems a bit trite, Mr. Parker.”
“Not for someone who hates the queer sex as much as this household does.” Dash pointed to the framed family photographs. “I see Father Müller’s been effectively erased from the family. Will you do the same to Karl now that he’s gone too?”
Walter took a few deep breaths, getting his anger under control. “The next time we meet, you will give me their names and addresses. No excuses. Or there will be consequences you cannot fathom. Understood?”
This was no idle threat. This was a promise.
Dash replied, “Understood.”
Walter gave Dash until next Tuesday, August 24. It wasn’t much time—only five days—but it was more than what he’d given them previous. Back at the Greenwich Village Inn for dinner, much to his dismay, Dash discovered an argument was underway.
“This is America, and we should only support Americans,” a male voice said among jeers of protest. “Why give money that’s just gonna go to the Vatican in those collection plates? No offense to you Catholics, but where do you think your money goes? It ain’t to your parish, that’s for sure. And thank God Harding knew that, and Coolidge ain’t futzing it up. You radicals would have us corrupted from the inside out.”
A deep, female voice said, “Sir, this is a nation of immigrants.”
“And look how well that’s turnin’ out for us. Violence in the streets. Neighborhoods being taken over. Jobs gettin’ harder to find. I swear, I walk down these streets, in New York, one of the first cities of America, and I hear everything but English. Enough, is what I say. We did our part in the war, thank you very much, now Europe can keep their scum and deal with their own problems.”
A cacophony of voices raised in protest followed while Dash searched for a seat in the crowd.
When the voices quieted down, the dissenter said, “Hey! Nothing wrong with asking people in our country to behave like they should.”
A male voice with a thick Irish brogue said, “And how, exactly, should they behave?”
“Speak English. Cut their hair. Have protestant names. And renounce their Pope.”
“Ya bloody super patriot!”
Dash expected a brawl to break out. Instead, everyone just yelled, which was equally pointless. He continued his search for an open seat. His eyes spied the Wall Street Ex-Pats in the darkened corners. True to form, they didn’t speak a word.
Do they ever go home? Dash wondered.
A man paid his tab and left the bar. Dash rushed over and claimed the seat as Emmett was pocketing the change the man left behind.
Emmett looked up when Dash sat down. “Can you believe this shit?”
“These are political times, Emmett.”
“If he don’t quit it, I’ll have to toss him. He’ll start a goddamn riot in here.”
As if on cue, the Super Patriot raised his voice. “As much fun as it is to debate with you fine gentlemen and ladies, I best be going.”
Encouragement followed.
“Get outta here, ya ignorant arse!”
“Why don’t ya go and continue licking Coolidge’s boots, ya mindless fuck!”
“Ya was an immigrant too once upon a time, you hypocrite!”
A man of about forty, grinning from ear to ear, dressed in a fine tuxedo and donning a black fedora passed by the bar.
Money, thought Dash. It was amazing how the surplus of dollars—or lack thereof—drove the majority of political opinion these days.
Emmett shook his head in disgust. “You need a drink? ’Cause I sure as hell do.”
“Yes, please.”
Dash watched as Emmett set about making two Gin Rickeys. He poured them into teacups and passed one to Dash, keeping the other for himself. They both raised their cups in a toast and sipped.
The front door groaned open, causing both of them to turn warily towards it. A matronly woman in a shapeless pale pink dress and purple cloche cap tottered in, her shoes clunking against the floorboards. Her gait was unsteady and uncertain. Was she drunk?
She stumbled towards the bar.
“Evening, miss,” Emmett called to her. “What can I get you?”
The woman replied, “A night of Rudy Valentino with a side of sailor.”
Emmett seemed perplexed by the response.
Dash recognized it. And the voice. “Hello, Finn.”
His friend removed the cloche hat and the gray wig. “Tah-dah!”
Emmett jumped, spilling some of his Rickey on his hand. “Jesus Christ!” His snowy brow jumped halfway up his forehead.
Dash said, “Emmett, meet my roommate, Finn Francis.”
Emmett’s mouth stayed gaped open, a reaction which caused Finn to laugh merrily. He tossed the gray wig onto the bar and looked down at himself.
“What do you think?”
The pink and purple worked wonders with the circles of rouge on his cheeks, one of which sported the black dot of a mole, and the dark, blood-red paint on his lips. Thin black lines traced his eyes and green and gold brush strokes rose upwards from his eyelids to his eyebrows. The dress, while shapeless, was very modern, as was the matching bag that hung from his right shoulder.
Dash remembered the missing costume from this afternoon and pointed to it. “That wouldn’t be Florence’s dress, would it?”
“Who?”
Dash shook his head. “You want dinner?”
“Yes, please. I’m absolutely starved.”
Dash held up two fingers. “Same order, Emmett?”
The older gentleman kept his eyes on Finn, nodding absentmindedly. “Coming right up.” One more moment staring at Finn, then he turned towards the kitchen.
Finn pulled out a barstool and collapsed onto it. “Dear goddesses, this costume, though clever, is a total terror to wear.” He reached down and undid the
