“Kill Walter Müller, yes, that is correct.”
He shook his head. “I am not a killer, Miss Mae.”
“Nor am I, yet you’re convinced I could be one.”
“Miss Mae—”
Her voice turned hard. “You would do well to listen to what I say. I don’t ask for favors. I demand them. You will do it. If you don’t, I will make your life so miserable, you will wish you were dead.”
She slid out of the booth.
“Good evening, Mr. Parker.” She glanced at Sonya, whose face was still dark with rage. “Be careful as you leave. I’d hate for anything bad to happen to you.”
The Baroness then slinked off into the darkness.
Dash’s lower back and armpits were damp, his breath short. He needed to find Finn and get them both out of here.
26
Dash left the booth as El finished her song. She caught his eye and motioned him over to her piano.
When he got there, she said, “What are you doing talking to Zora?”
“I found out what Karl Müller was running from.”
Her reaction to the blackmail scheme was one of resigned disgust. “I tell you,” she said, “these bluenoses are the reason we got so much crime and bullshit.” She lightly smacked his arm. “Now what were you thinking threatening her like that?”
“I didn’t threaten her!”
“You most certainly did when you accused her of murder. And not only that, you accused her moll, too! Didn’t you hear anything I said to you? This is not the world you’re used to, downtowner. This is a world of shadows and shivs, and you’re skipping through it like Little Red-goddamn-Riding Hood!”
He felt his cheeks burn with a blush.
She’s not wrong. And now you’re on the hook for killing a man.
“I just asked a question.” He didn’t like how meek his voice sounded.
“Sometimes asking a question does more than just state curiosity, Dash.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. She didn’t know Karl was even in Harlem.” He sighed. “Karl left to go somewhere and wherever he went—and whomever he saw—that’s the answer to who killed him.”
“Why do you care who killed him? You got what you need to get Walter off your back. Blackmail, a drunken mother, and a drag-wearing dead father? Seems to me your problem is solved.”
Dash shook his head, glancing down at his shoes. “It would take too long to explain.”
And he still didn’t know how Tyler Smith’s murder fit into all this.
When he brought his gaze up, he saw two figures in the foreground. He squinted, his vision clearing. “Is that . . .?”
El turned to look behind her. “Oh yeah. That’s Les.”
There he was, Leslie Charles, plain as day, wearing a gray pinstriped suit with fedora in hand.
Dash said, “But he’s talking with Zora Mae?”
The enigmatic woman and the sapphire-eyed man were in a deep, intense conversation.
“Of course he is! How’d you think I got this gig here?”
“Does he know her?”
“They go way back. Grew up in the same neighborhood, I believe. How’d you think I knew so much about her?”
Dash watched as the two of them bent their heads together, their faces partially hidden by the dim light of the room. A possibility entered Dash’s thoughts. If Zora found out about Karl—and she most certainly would have if Pru told her what was going on—then Leslie Charles would’ve heard about it as well. And if Leslie put two and two together that Sunday night . . .
Wait a moment. Didn’t Horace say he had something to say to me?
The night El took him to meet Flo Russell. Tuesday. Horace mentioned it was about the woman he was going to meet. Zora Mae. El was in a hurry to make the introductions to her friend Flo Russell in between sets, and, given all that had transpired, Dash never went back to the Oyster House.
“Maybe,” Dash breathed.
El turned and looked at him. “What?”
“Maybe Karl wasn’t the only one who made a phone call that night.” He brought his eyes up to El’s.
She immediately began shaking her head from side to side. “No, Dash. I’m telling you right now, drop this. Nothing good is going to come from it.”
“El, Karl was a victim of Walter’s too! Why should his death go unpunished?”
“That’s too simple a view of life.”
“Sometimes life is simple, El!” Dash looked around. “Where’s Finn?”
He found his friend at the bar chatting up a beautiful, tall black man in a tuxedo.
“We’ve got to go. Thank you, El. I promise I’ll be careful.”
“Dash!”
But he didn’t wait to hear the rest of her response. He quickly walked up to Finn.
“Excuse me,” he said to the tall black man and turned to Finn. “We’ve got to leave.”
Finn was incensed. “Excuse me, but I was having the most lovely conversation with . . . ?”
The black man replied, “Chester.” His voice was deep, full of granite.
“Chester! And I would appreciate it if you let us be for a few moments.”
Dash smiled for the sake of Chester. “Normally I would but we have an emergency to deal with. Chester? Pleasure meeting you. Love that tuxedo. Very nice fit.”
Chester looked down at himself. “Thank you, sir.”
Dash grabbed Finn’s arm and pulled him away. His friend muttered indignities until they were outside.
Once they left the mansion, Finn said, “What the hell has gotten into you?”
“I’ll explain on the way.”
“On the way where?”
The line outside the Oyster House was as long as ever. Dash and Finn bypassed it and walked right up to Horace, who was welcoming a black couple to the club. When Horace saw them, his face lit up.
“Mr. Parker! So glad to see you.” His eyes then narrowed. “What’s wrong? You look like a man who’s being chased.”
“I feel like it sometimes, Horace.”
Finn cleared his throat.
“Oh, excuse me, where are my manners? Horace, this is Finn Francis. He’s a partner of my club.”
Finn extended his hand like a royal debutante. “Charmed.”
Horace didn’t know how to respond, as he was expecting a regular handshake. He glanced over at Dash, who nodded slightly,
