The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel Chris Holcombe (top 10 best books of all time .txt) 📖

Dash replied, hanging up his own jacket on the coatrack in the back corner.

“The Holy Ghost then?”

Dash smiled. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my short little life, but ‘holy’ has never been one of them.” He rolled up his sleeves. “Now, how can I help you today? You mentioned a new jacket?”

If he didn’t ask about, or suggest, pinstripes, then he was not in the know. And if he wasn’t in the know, then he was either an innocent walking in here or something else. Dash heard of undercover federal agents carefully entrapping speak owners and their patrons. He wondered if this man could be one of them.

“Yes,” the man replied, “I have a dinner party coming up. A white jacket type of affair. And unfortunately, my current one doesn’t seem to fit anymore.” He patted his midsection. “Too much rich food these days.”

He’s not one of us, Dash surmised. But could he be the Feds?

He appraised the man’s frame. When he moved, Dash could see a thickness around the middle, but it wasn’t overbearing nor unattractive. His height helped. That alone could’ve meant cop, but there was also a sense of wealth about him. Dash’s own privileged childhood taught him their calling cards—or as they’d say in the gin joints with illegal poker games, their tells. The way they carried themselves, the style and fit of their clothing, the clear pronunciation of their words. The wealthy had a distinct air.

“I take it the old coat is too tight when buttoned?” Dash asked.

The man nodded.

“Let’s see what we can do about that. Take off your jacket, please.”

The man gave him a sideways look, but then did as instructed. Dash took the boater jacket, folded it neatly, and draped it over his desk chair.

“Where should I stand?” the man asked.

Dash pointed to the center of the room. The man complied, his back to the front windows. Dash grabbed the tape measure from the side of the floor length mirror and came up behind him. “Hold your arms out,” he said.

When the man did, Dash wrapped the tape measure around the upper part of the man’s chest. Subtle cologne with a citrus fragrance tickled Dash’s nose. He thought he knew the brand. The elegant lavender, rosemary, and jasmine was balanced by a light musk. It made him want to get closer to the long neck, which led upwards to small ears that dared to be nibbled.

He’s dangerous, Dash old boy. Resist temptation!

Dash announced, “Forty inches around the chest.”

“Comes from rowing.”

Dash dropped the tape measure and then focused on the man’s arms. The muscle definition was apparent as he laid the tape from shoulder to wrist. Could these muscles have come from military training? “Which university?”

“Princeton. I still do it, you know. A man has to have exercise to keep from becoming a complete blob.”

“I don’t see any threat of that with you. Sleeve is thirty-four. Would you need pants as well?”

That little smirk again. “Very well. If the jacket doesn’t fit, why should the pants?”

Most certainly not in the know. Who are you, sir? Why are you here?

Dash took the tape measure again and wrapped it around the man’s midsection. “Thirty-four and a half.”

The man sighed. “I remember when I was thirty. The waist, not the age. I guess there’s no coming back to that, is there?”

“You look fit and healthy to me, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Parker.”

“Please, call me Dash.”

“Alright.”

Dash dropped to his knees. “Now your inseam. Do you mind?” He held up the tape for the man to hold.

Instead, the man replied, “Not at all.”

He made no move to take the higher end of the tape from Dash and place it on the inside of his thigh. Many of Dash’s customers did this because they weren’t necessarily comfortable with the proximity between Dash’s hand and their delicates. This man was apparently comfortable with the thought. Was he an invert as well? Everything about this man was just slightly askew, a millimeter off-balance.

Who are you?

Dash kept his face blank and continued with his work. He placed one end of the tape near the man’s ankle and the other high on the upper inside thigh. “Thirty-two. You’re a tall man, mister.”

“I’ve been told once or twice like a beanstalk.”

Still on his knees, he asked, “And what will be the name on the account, sir?”

There was a slight pause. Then the pleasing, sensual voice said, “Surname is Fife.”

16

Dash froze.

He misheard. He must have misheard. This cannot be the notorious gangster who sent Lowell Henley to approach him.

“First name?” Dash managed to ask.

“Nicholas. Although some in the newspaper business call me ‘Slick Nick.’”

Dash lowered the tape and looked up at the man, who no longer seemed handsome nor playful. There was a darkness to his eyes, a menace to his lips. Fife’s face hadn’t exactly changed expression, per se, but like Adam taking a bite of the apple, Dash felt the innocence fall away from his eyes and saw the world take on a new tint. Down on his knees, his throat within grabbing distance of this killer’s hands, he felt beyond vulnerable. He felt naked.

Fife said, “I would’ve been here sooner, but a man of my position is rather busy.”

Dash’s throat was suddenly dry, his mouth mealy with fear. He concentrated on keeping the shakes from his voice as he lowered the tape measure. “I can understand that.”

“You sent away one of my associates. Was the contract not agreeable to you?” The voice was maddeningly calm, flat seas in contrast to Dash’s roiling ocean.

“I don’t like to sign contracts without further investigation.”

Fife nodded. “I see you’re a savvy businessman. I’m a savvy businessman too. And savvy businessmen don’t like to negotiate with an associate.”

“I just wanted to try the merchandise first.”

“You’re a bar owner, you need to know what will be behind your bar. A bar that could be protected from . . . let’s say . . . legal nuisances.”

“Your associate did mention that.”

“Yet you seemed unimpressed.”

Dash gave what