The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

was Sunday, August 15, approaching midnight, and they were standing in a room hidden behind a men’s tailor shop called Hartford & Sons on West Fourth Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. A secret knock was needed to enter the shop itself. Then once inside, one had to find the secret door in the back wall of the curtained-off changing area. An elaborate system. Pinstripes, like many clubs of its kind, was designed to be the very height of discretion. It had to be to avoid the raids. Now how did this outsider figure it all out?
More importantly, who was this outsider? A cop? A federal agent? A newshawk for a low-rent tabloid writing an expose of the “invert underworld”?
Unnerved, Dash turned to face the man. “My good sir, you are free to walk around to see if she is here. Many fine gentlemen such as yourself do the same when they come to a club.”
A scowl rippled across the outsider’s face as he straightened the lapels of his blue-gray suit. He did not want to venture any farther into this narrow, darkened room.
He is not one of us.
Dash brushed his misbehaving brown hair behind his ears while his hazel eyes measured this threat. They mirrored each other in some ways, he and the outsider. Their slim figures totaled up to the same height, roughly six feet, and they were about the same age; newly twenty-six on Dash’s part and the other appearing to be just past there. But whereas Dash’s features were warm and inviting, this outsider was all hard angles and warning signs. Clenched jaw and razor-blade cheekbones. Blazing blue eyes unwavering in their stare. Blond brow creased in anger.
Such incongruity, what with the joyous dancing on one side of them and the lively bar on the other.
“Very well,” Dash said to the lack of response, speaking in what his younger sister Sarah used to call his “Father Voice,” which was amusingly (at least to her) formal and old-fashioned. It often came out when a situation was going wrong . . . or about to. “May I ask who you are?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“Why are you here?”
“Also, not your concern.”
“Listen, my good man, if you’re here to start trouble, then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“You don’t have the authority.”
“Oh, but I do,” Dash said. “I’m the owner, and I’d very much like it if you left the premises.”
The moment the words were out of Dash’s mouth, he realized his mistake.
You dope. He’s not going to leave now until you tell him everything.
The outsider gave him a curious look. “You own this place? I should’ve realized sooner. You don’t look like the other men here.”
Dash gestured to his own black tuxedo and white silk shirt. “Because of this?”
“Yes. You have money.” A curt raise of his chin. “These men do not.”
The outsider wasn’t wrong. Most of the patrons here tonight couldn’t afford the finery Dash wore, not having been born into the privileged upper class like he was. Instead, they gathered what mismatched glad rags they could find to celebrate his birthday. In the case of the bell bottom standing next to them, he still wore his navy whites, albeit freshly laundered. Dash’s former uptown friends would’ve taken offense, but Dash was charmed by their efforts.
And now, now he must protect them.
“Be that as it may, my loyalty is to my patrons, something I should think a gentleman such as yourself would appreciate. And it is you, good sir, who clearly doesn’t belong.” Dash grabbed the man’s elbow. “Off you go.”
In response, the outsider quickly grasped Dash’s hand, the grip hot steel. “I am not leaving until I find this . . . this thing.”
The clipped accent became clearer and harsher, the consonants landing like bombs.
German. 
Dash stifled a grimace. He didn’t dare show the pain he felt in his crushed hand. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”
The outsider’s eyes blazed blue like hot flames. His lips twisted into a cold smile. “You do not want to make an enemy of me.”
Dash’s jaw tightened, his pulse pounding. “You are outnumbered in here.”
“I will find this pansy.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there isn’t one. Look around you!”
The outsider kept his eyes on Dash’s face for a few more seconds before relaxing his stare as well as his grip on Dash’s hand. The release in pressure sent a dizzying rush to Dash’s head. He took a few deep breaths, hoping he wouldn’t faint. He also hoped that what he said was true. He watched as the outsider took in the sights surrounding them.
At one end of the club was the band, a trio of drums, bass, and cornet played by two black men and one white. Scandalous and highly illegal. In the center was the busy dance floor, filled to the brim like a martini, men and their male partners threatening to slosh over the sides. Those men who weren’t dancing with one another leaned against the surrounding blue-painted walls or sat at wobbly wooden tables, smoking, drinking, laughing.
On the other end of the club was the bar, jammed so full you couldn’t even see the bartender. Dash watched as the outsider’s eyes took in the hunched shoulders, bent heads, and shirt backs with damp circles just above the trousers. No matter where the outsider looked, it was a sea of suit jackets, waistcoats, and suspenders. Not a dress in sight.
The two eventually faced each other again.
“There,” Dash said, his dry throat causing him to clear it. “She appears not to be here.”
The bell bottom standing next to them put his arm around a young man on a barstool, who was dressed in a sharp green suit. Loudly bragged tales of sexual conquests followed, as his dimpled cheeks spread into a grin. His young quarry looked up at him with lips parted in breathless anticipation. Their colognes, citrus and sawdust, intertwined with one another like their bodies would soon be.
The outsider flashed them a look of disgust, then said, “He is here.”
“What makes