Finn gasped. “That is despicable. Utterly vile.”
“Aye,” Joe said, “we knew Walter was bad. But Karl?” He looked at Dash. “I’m sorry, lassie. I know ya took a likin’ to him.”
Dash shook his head. “I’m not so sure he was a willing accomplice. Look at us. We’re doing Walter’s bidding, to a point, and we’re not in cahoots with him. I got the sense Paula was trying too hard to make Karl the villain. I think in actuality Karl was forced into it.”
“Explains why he wanted to leave,” muttered Finn.
“Exactly. And why he wanted a new name. He wanted to get out of that hell, to start over, to get clean of it, to begin anew. Only . . .” Dash sighed, surprised at the sudden pain that pierced his chest. “. . . only he never got the chance.”
Joe rubbed Dash’s shoulder. “Ya alright, lassie?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Finn asked, “What do you think it was that Tyler stole from Walter?”
“Not sure, but my money is on evidence of some kind.”
Joe said, “Can it be used in court if it’s stolen?”
Finn rolled his eyes again. “You haven’t seen a trial in a while. Nobody’s asking where the evidence comes from, especially if it confirms the popular verdict.”
Joe smacked the bar. “Well, how is he gettin’ the bloody money? You’ve been following Walter for days and all he’s been doin’ is spending money, not collecting it. Goin’ to shows, the cinema, and the like.”
Finn shrugged. “Maybe his victims mail the money?”
Dash shook his head. “Too easy for a mail carrier to swipe.” He scratched his head while he thought. “Finn, he always went to the bank afterwards?”
“Everyday.”
Dash smiled. “Ah ha! I know how he’s doing it. Or, I should say, where he’s doing it.”
“How?!”
“He’s meeting his blackmail victims. In the darkness of the cinema and the theater—maybe in the WC—but that’s where the transactions are taking place. It’s why he’s seeing the same films every day.”
Dash looked at Joe.
“He’s not spending money there; he’s collecting it there.” He then looked at Finn. “And then he goes to the bank to deposit his earnings.”
Joe shook his head and poured them all drinks. “Slimy bastard. What do we do now, lads?”
Dash rubbed his face and said, “I think we need to return to Harlem and have another chat with Zora Mae. Let’s not forget, gents, Karl was closest to her in location than any of our other suspects.”
Joe set the three glasses in front of them. “How did she even know he was there?”
“He called somebody from Leslie’s office. Maybe it was her.”
Finn piped up. “Karl said she didn’t take in strays. He said it right in our water closet. Why would he change his mind?”
“Desperate?” Even to Dash’s own ears, it sounded weak and circumstantial. “I’ll concede the point.” He thought some more. “What if the person he was trying to reach would’ve gone to Zora? And he went there to intercept them somehow?”
Joe scratched behind his ears. “Who would tha’ have been?”
Dash shrugged. “Any one of them. We know Pru, Tyler, and Paula went to the Hot Cha.”
Joe looked over at Dash. “Ya think Zora would admit anything to ya?”
“Worth a shot. Her heaven and hell party is this coming Sunday night, and we do have Karl’s entry card.”
“I’m going with ya.”
“No, you’re not,” Finn said. “If anyone is going to that party, it is moi.”
“She’s not some society lady, Finney. She’s a mobster, sure as I’m sittin’ here.”
“Once again, I have to prove myself to you. I am not some frilly little yearling who doesn’t know the ways of the world, O’Shaughnessy.”
“Enough!” Dash said. He looked at Joe. “I understand your concern, but we’ll be fine. Zora is not going to ‘off us’ at a party. Besides, I’ve already promised him the night off.”
“Exactly, you brute,” Finn replied.
Joe ran a frustrated hand through his thick, tangled hair. “I can’t win this argument, so I’m not gonna try. Just be careful, the both of ya’s.”
Finn raised his glass. “Yes sir, missus sir, yes sir.”
25
Sunday, August 22, couldn’t come fast enough. Before Dash left Pinstripes that Friday night, he enlisted the aid of Atty in trying to find a suit for Fife. He handed his doorman Fife’s measurements and said, “Don’t steal it, Atty. We’re already breaking enough laws as it is.”
Saturday just crawled by. The only event of note was Saturday afternoon when Atty stopped by Hartford & Sons to tell Dash he had found a suit to alter for Nicholas Fife.
“It’s a beauty,” Atty said. “The finest materials. I never seen a sharper suit. And the best part is, it didn’t cost too much sugar.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Man the suit was made for died suddenly.”
“A lot of that going around.”
“One man’s bad fortune is another man’s blessing. I’m working on it tonight.”
Dash smiled. “Thank you, Atty.”
“Anytime, Boss. You, uh, still having problems with that Walter fella?”
Dash sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Atty reached into his pocket and pulled out his Smith & Wesson, inadvertently aiming the barrel straight at Dash’s stomach. “Youse want to borrow my gun?”
Dash put his hand up to lightly push way the barrel away from him. “That won’t be necessary.”
“You sure? It’s a nice piece. The sights are a little off, so I just aim to the far right.”
“That . . . explains a lot, Atty. Thank you, but I’ll do just fine on my own.”
“Whatever you say, Boss.”
Eventually Sunday night descended upon them, and Dash found himself dressed to the nines with Finn in a cab heading uptown to the address on Karl’s blue card, to the corner of 150th Street and St. Nicholas. To Sugar Hill.
When they exited their cab, Finn whistled at the sight. “We are definitely not in the Village anymore.”
Dash, equally impressed by the sight before them, replied, “You got that right, Finn.”
Even though Dash knew what kind of grandeur they’d find up here, it still shocked him. Many whites, especially in Dash’s former circles, assumed the black part of Harlem
