“Where did he go this time?”
“Slight variations on the same theme.” He began to take off his fake eyelashes one by one. “Just like yesterday, he saw The Big Parade at the Astor Theatre on Broadway at 45th, followed by an encore showing of Ben Hur on Broadway at 47th. I went inside with him this time. The galley fight and the chariot race were most thrilling, and the New Testament scenes were in color.”
Finn looked over at Dash.
“I expect to be reimbursed for it.”
He placed the eyelashes onto the bar and set about wiping his brow, which was beaded with sweat from the heat of the wig.
“A quick lunch at another café, then another movie at the German theatre, then the bank, and then home. As far as I can tell, the man does nothing for money.”
“And he never went to the Committee of Fourteen?”
“Not unless it’s hidden in Times Square.”
“It’s not,” Emmett said, setting a Gin Rickey in a teacup down in front of Finn. “Their headquarters is on East 22nd.”
Finn arched his brow. “There you go.”
Emmett flicked another look to Finn and retreated back to the kitchen.
Dash tapped his chin. “Do we think Walter ever worked there? Or just claimed he did?”
“How in the world would we find that out? I doubt the Committee would tell us. Moralists like their secrets, I find. And before you ask, under no circumstances are we walking in there ourselves. They are the lions, dearie, and neither one of us is David.”
“It’s almost beside the point anyway. He’s not presently working for the Committee, so now we have a different question to answer.”
“Which is?”
Dash looked at Finn. “How is he making his money?”
Dash left the Inn and returned to the Cherry Lane Playhouse to change for another night at Pinstripes. The box office was closed up, the doors shut, not a soul waiting outside. Another performance was in progress. As Dash walked towards the side door to get to his apartment, he heard his name called.
“Dash Parker?” The voice was monotone, completely void of humanity.
His heart stopped. He turned to see a nondescript man in a suit holding a gun. Instinctively his hands went up. In his peripheral vision, he noticed a car driving up to the curb. Black. Also nondescript.
The man asked, “Are you Dashiell Parker?”
“W-w-who wants to know?” Dash stammered.
The man waved the gun towards the black car. “Get in the car.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m not asking again.”
He heard a door open. The darkness inside the black Ford gave no indication of who waited inside.
Is this how it ends? he thought.
Who had sent them? Walter? Zora?
Fear momentarily froze Dash to the sidewalk until the man with the gun started walking towards him. Dash instinctively backed up, then turned around again to face the car. Hands trembling, knees buckling, he ducked his head and entered the backseat. There, in all his corpulent glory, sat Lowell Henley, Nicholas Fife’s henchman.
“Hello, Mr. Parker,” he wheezed. “I told ya I don’t like high hats like you.”
22
Dash couldn’t follow where the speeding car was going. All he knew was that they took a right, then a left, another right, another left, the crooked streets of the Village blurring together in streaks of streetlights and lit windowpanes.
The gunman sat in the front seat with the driver, both of them nonchalantly facing forward as they drove through the city. They didn’t seem to worry what Dash was doing in the backseat. And why should they? There were three of them and one of him. And Dash was pretty sure all of them had a weapon of some kind.
Dash kept his eyes on Lowell, who stared ahead with the same passive expression he had when he visited the Greenwich Village Inn a few days ago. Was he operating on Nicholas Fife’s orders? Or his own?
Foolish boy, his father’s voice said. Always engaging in such foolishness.
The silence inside the car was unbearable and he wanted to fill it. He tried to speak but his mouth was completely dry, his tongue too thick and heavy with fear. Besides, what would he say? If they were going to kill him, there was no reasoning with them. Killing was their job, just like pouring drinks was his. They might even take great pleasure in it.
Would they make it quick? Or would they make him suffer? And what would happen once he was released from this mortal coil? He never did much thinking about so-called spiritual matters. People said there was a heaven up there somewhere, but Dash didn’t figure it. He couldn’t see invisible souls rising up into the sky like lost balloons. Then again, maybe he should, for he was about to be released from the ground.
A bump jolted the car. He looked out the window and saw they were on a bridge. He looked back at the city. The shadowy buildings sprinkled with electric lights glowed in the night. So benign, so peaceful, so safe. They looked too far uptown for this to be the Brooklyn, which wouldn’t have made any sense anyway. The Brooklyn Bridge didn’t allow cars. One had to use the trolley to cross. Which meant this bridge was the Queensboro. They were taking him to Queens.
Born on the East Side, banished to Bohemia, only to die in Queens.
He felt giddy, like he did as a child when his best friends were coming over to play. That tingling, tickling feeling in his chest which begged to be scratched but couldn’t be reached. He even had to suppress a laugh when the car jolted again as they landed in the borough.
I’m going to be buried in a borough.
Was this what being hysterical meant?
They made a few sharp curves and pulled up in front of a massive brick warehouse, which stood at least two, three stories up. Long rectangular windows overlooked the East River, the lighting behind the dirty glass muted, like Lowell’s eyes. There was very
