“I’m sure he appreciates your discretion.”
Lowell didn’t take the bait on that one, so Dash sat back and looked out the side window. The lights of Manhattan had been replaced by the inky void of the East River. During the day, it was noisy and crowded with ships, boats, yachts, sea planes, and anything else mankind invented to get from point A to point B. At night, the river was empty, its earlier activity replaced with a sudden darkness and a profound silence.
How many secrets does this river hold?
And then, a terrifying thought: Will I be one of them one day?
Given what he and Fife shared, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.
How certain are you that you’re not being driven to your death?
Cold sweat flashed across his palms. His stomach began boiling with tension. Fife’s world thrived on secrecy, as did Dash’s. Yet Dash’s four a.m. decision one night had blown that secrecy sky high with big, bold newspaper headlines and column after column of newshawks ruminating, insinuating, and, in some cases, flat out lying. Given who she was, though, how could they have possibly avoided the press frenzy? It was inevitable!
He wanted the body at the bottom of the Hudson.
Dash swallowed a large lump of fear. His reluctance to let her family suffer indefinitely over her disappearance had angered Fife. Dash had argued it didn’t matter. A disappearance or a death would’ve inspired the same breathless prose so favored by newspapermen. Fife eventually had agreed with him. Or seemed to. Had the mercurial man changed his mind?
The car landed on the other side of the bridge with a thud, jolting Dash out of his head and back into his body. The driver careened around sharp curves, throwing him against the door of the Stutz. It felt like they were driving in circles with all of the right-hand turns, but soon they pulled up to an average-looking riverfront warehouse.
Lowell exited the luxury car, assuming Dash would follow. Stepping outside, Dash’s nose was overtaken by the smell of pungent salt and sour decay. The East River in all her glory. He looked up at the warehouse expecting to see the familiar sign of Fife’s cover business saying queens furniture, furniture fit for royalty!
Or at least it had.
Now it said danziger paper.
Dash looked to the fleet of delivery trucks surrounding them with the new moniker and a new tag line to go along with it: the classiest of salutations with the best of regards. Even the trucks themselves had been repainted, a pale blue with the new text in a rosy pink.
Dash pointed to the fleet. “New business?” His voice was only slightly shaking.
“New business,” Lowell echoed.
Dash arched an eyebrow, trying to be nonchalant. “Gotta stay up on the latest trends.”
The driver said with a proud smile, “Danziger’s the name of a girl I go with. She’s thrilled.”
“I bet.”
“Sal,” Lowell said, “keep your trap shut.”
Sal, properly chastened, replied “Yes, sir.”
“Stay here. You,” Lowell pointed at Dash, “come with me.”
Dash nodded. “Right.”
He looked to Sal. The driver’s face was blank. No worry. No pity. Not even excitement. He gave no indication whatsoever as to what was in store for Dash.
“Mr. Parker!”
Dash looked up to see Lowell halfway to the warehouse. The large man beckoned with his hand.
Never let them see you sweat, his older brother Maximillian used to say. Even if you’re scared out of your wits, never let the other man see it.
One of the few pieces of familial advice Dash still recited to himself. He took a deep breath and hurried after Lowell, who bypassed the warehouse’s main two doors and instead went to a side entrance.
They entered a narrow hallway with jaundiced lighting. The smoky smell of exhaust, the tarry bitterness of oil, and the earthy dampness of mold was overwhelming and oppressive. Exposed pipes ran above their heads, the joints emitting little droplets of water that fell to the uneven concrete floor below, their splashes tinkling in the puddles polka-dotting the narrow hallway. Dash avoided them but Lowell walked straight through, not caring what the water—or whatever it was—did to his shoes.
At the end of the hallway, Lowell turned and knocked on a closed door. A muffled voice responded on the other side. Lowell nodded to himself once, then turned the knob and entered.
Dash hesitated for a moment, thinking, should I run? Give myself a fighting chance?
A Dumb Dora idea. He was in the middle of nowhere. Where could he go for safety? And no matter how fast he ran, Lowell’s bullets were undoubtedly faster.
The bald head peeked out from the room he just entered. “You coming?”
Dash saw in his eyes the torpedo was hoping Dash would be resistant, be difficult, so he could engage in his well-practiced violence.
You’re not getting that satisfaction tonight, you big lug.
Dash forced a smile. “On my way.”
Afterword
This fictional work stands on the shoulders of many researchers, whose work helped to inspire (and correct) many of the characters, scenes, and plot twists of The Double Vice. Specifically, George Chauncey’s Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Making of the Gay World 1890-1940; James F. Wilson’s Bulldaggers, Pansies, and Chocolate Babies: Performance, Race, and Sexuality in the Harlem Renaissance; Frederick Lewis Allen’s Only Yesterday; An Informal History of the 1920s; Deborah Blum’s The Poisoner’s Handbook; and Joshua Zeitz’s Flapper.
To help with capturing the queer slang of the times, Mae West’s three plays: Sex, The Drag, and The Pleasure Man proved to be quite fascinating (and entertaining!). Cab Calloway’s Hepster’s Dictionary helped guide the dialogue of those in Harlem’s cabaret world.
The archives of The New York Times and The New Yorker provided context for what was happening elsewhere in the city beyond my characters’ plight.
The character of El Train is an inspired mashup of Gladys Bentley, who also performed in men’s tuxedoes (sometimes backed by a chorus of drag queens), and Lucille Bogan, who was famous for songs such as “B.D. Women” and
