The Double Vice by Chris Holcombe

Author:Chris Holcombe [Holcombe, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781736445884
Publisher: Books Like Us
Published: 2021-03-22T22:00:00+00:00

17

At midnight on the dot, the cab dropped Dash off in front of Flo’s building. She stood there in an emerald-green dress with sparkling fringe. A yellow sunflower had been clipped to the side of her hair.

“Miss Russell,” Dash said as he walked up. “You look ravishing.”

Flo rolled her eyes. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

They walked to 135th and Seventh in silence, earning a few curious glances. A white downtowner and a black woman wasn’t an entirely unusual sight, but could, in some neighborhoods, get one or both of them physically assaulted. Luckily for them, this part of Harlem saw its fair share of downtowners.

The Harlem streets were teaming with people, all done up in dresses and hats and suits and ties. Laughter ricocheted off the sides of the brick buildings. Windows on the upper floors were wide open, and the sensuous sounds of jazz and blues floated down to the pavement, following them as they walked. The moaning vocals, the piercing cornets, the low boom of the bass blended in with the purr of motor cars and the brass of their horns. The marquee of the Cotton Club flashed its bright neon, making it almost as bright as day. To Dash, it felt like being in the center of a Christmas tree, all that glitter and tinsel and lighting surrounding them.

The foot traffic flowed as fast as the Hudson, an aggressive current of black citizens and a few white downtowners quickly moving across the blocks. Flo and Dash headed east at a clip.

While the Hot Cha was a new club to Dash, he knew of several in this neighborhood, thanks to some of his band members. There was Small’s Paradise, which featured café au lait girls and dancing waiters. Across the street was the Yeah Man!, a downstairs bar that always answered the question “Is there anything going on tonight?” (“Yeah, man!”). Nearby was the Log Cabin, a small, intimate space perfect for romance or its facsimile; Tillies, which his drummer Calvin claimed had some of the best fried chicken in Harlem; and the Theatrical Grill, which gave you Broadway performances without the inconvenience of having to go to Broadway. Dash had to admit that while the Village was a hopping spot, it couldn’t compare to the red-hot sizzle of Harlem.

Once Dash and Flo hit their cross street, they left the river of excitable, loud-talking young people.

Soon they descended the steps on the corner of 134th and Seventh towards the basement. The door of the Hot Cha had no sign, no marquee, no indication of what lay behind these walls. Flo rang the buzzer and they waited for the eye slot to open. It did with a bang. Brown eyes—and nothing else—stared back at them.

Flo said the code words: “I’m here to walk Clarence’s dog.”

“Step to the side,” said the voice, male and deep.

She did as instructed.

The eyes narrowed. “He with you?” the voice asked.

Flo replied, “Don’t mind him, he just the dog walker.”

The secret code for white downtowners.

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