He later learned from the afternoon paper editions of a sad suicide in the new Germantown. After Dash had left Mother Müller—whose real name was Helga—to go racing to Paul Avery’s apartment, she had taken a bunch of sleeping pills with several glasses of bootlegged vodka. She died before the sun rose the next morning.
Too much death, Dash thought. Far too much death.
He pretended to go about his schedule as normal. Breakfast and lunch at the Greenwich Village Inn, where Emmett watched him with concern. “You’re as silent as The Ex-Pats,” he said Thursday morning, nodding to the traumatized former Wall Street traders.
Dash only shrugged. “I think we’ve all seen some things we wished we hadn’t.”
Soon the globe of Cullen McElroy walked into the Inn, leaning against the bar as Emmett paid his weekly bribe.
“Thank you kindly,” the rotund officer said, pocketing Emmett’s hard-earned money.
Dash was so exhausted, he couldn’t muster the energy to be disgusted by the man. He kept his eyes downcast.
McElroy noticed. “Mr. Parker, are you well? You don’t seem your usual smart self.”
“Late night,” he managed to say.
McElroy chuckled. “You young ones. Never a dull minute.”
You speak the truth.
“Whatever happened to the blond kraut fella?”
Dash’s eyes flashed up. He almost said “Walter?” but managed to stop himself. “I couldn’t say.”
McElroy grinned. “You paid me to keep quiet about you.”
“But you gave him my address anyway, didn’t you?”
McElroy shrugged. “He paid me more. Did he find ya?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What did he want?”
“The name of an honest cop.”
McElroy stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed and shook his finger at Dash. “You young ones. You’ve got sass for days.” He looked at Dash once more, then nodded at Emmett. “I best be goin’. Thank you both for your contributions!”
Emmett glared after him, muttering under his breath.
“Easy, Emmett,” Dash said. “Last thing we need is him causing trouble.”
Thursday night, Dash met with El at a Harlem speak after her set at the Oyster House. She said, “Les is still upset with you. Not sure when he’s going to let up.” She gave him a pointed look. “Not the smartest move accusing him of murder.”
“The clues were pointing towards him.”
“Uh huh. Clues have a way of pointing in the wrong direction sometimes. What ended up happening anyway? Did you find out who did it?”
Dash recounted for her the last few days.
When he finished, El could only say, “Good Lord, Dash. You’ve been one cursed downtowner.”
“That about sums it up,” Dash replied. “At least I fulfilled Zora’s favor, even if I didn’t pull the trigger.”
Just like what happened to Leslie.
El nodded. “Be thankful for that. You’re not a killer, Dash.”
“I’m not so sure of that. My actions caused the deaths of several people, El. How am I going to live with that?”
“Don’t make me slap some sense into your fool head,” El warned. “People will do what they’re going to do. Karl? He could’ve stayed put, could’ve done what you told him, and he’d be alive. Yeah, he overheard Les, but Les wouldn’t have done anything. He talks a big game but he’s no killer, same as you. He made a choice. A bad one. Then you were forced to make choices, some bad—like Zora Mae—and some good, like helping your friends. That’s all life is, making choices and hoping for the best. There’s no sense in reliving it because it doesn’t change anything. Are you listening to me?”
Dash nodded. He knew what she was saying was right, but he couldn’t shake the regret pressing down on him like the August heat.
Friday morning, Paul Avery was apprehended at the shipyards trying to board a boat to Europe. It turned out Pru had turned him in to the authorities. Under her advice, Paul confessed to the murder of Tyler Smith, claiming temporary insanity, for a reduced sentence.
Now here it was, Friday night, and Dash wanted the swagger of his youth to return.
My youth. Ha! Twenty-six and already a Father Time.
He shrugged the thought aside and strolled up Jones Street, whistling a popular tune, trying to get into the mood. He decided to go inside Hartford & Sons to pick up a hat to replace his that was lost in the rainstorm of Tuesday.
Look sharp, feel sharp.
It wasn’t yet opening time for Pinstripes, so Atty wasn’t at his usual post. Dash unlocked the shop doors and went inside, turning on a lamp and opening the wardrobe. He pulled out a few options. Satisfied with a gray-blue one, he went to his desk to notate the inventory “loss.” Just as he sat down at his desk, there was a creak from the back of his shop. He froze. He turned his head to see Nicholas Fife exit the curtained-off changing area and walk towards him.
“I hope you don’t mind my letting myself in,” he said, “but I’m in need of my suit. And I must say, it looks exquisite.”
Yes, Atty did a fine job.
“Good evening, Mr. Fife,” Dash stammered.
Fife went to the opened wardrobe and ran his fingers through the silk ties on display. “You’ve had a very interesting week.”
“I have?”
He picked up one of the silk ties. “Oh yes. My men had a helluva time keeping up with you. Uptown, then downtown, then uptown again. You were very, very busy.”
Panic flooded Dash’s chest. How much did Fife’s men see? “Mr. Fife—”
The gangster held up a hand, silencing Dash. He turned around, the silk tie now between both of his hands.
“Running around, asking people questions. To them, it looked like you were playing detective. And I said, that couldn’t be true. You are a speak owner. Why, if you are a detective, then knowing the location of my warehouse and the work of my chemist would make you a . .
