Chapter 6 Chicago, 1928—Marcelle #2
Skye tugged on Marcelle’s hand again, and they kept walking through the alley. “It’s like this. My parents told me that a stranger might show up one day and change my life. So, every chance I get, I befriend someone who needs a friend. And you looked like you needed one.”
“I did.” Marcelle squeezed Skye’s hand. “I doubt I’ll ever change your life, but I’ll be forever grateful for your help tonight.”
“I was right behind you and did exactly what you did. You didn’t flinch. You just ducked and took cover. Because of that, no one saw us, and we won’t have to hide from the gunmen.”
Tears welled up in Marcelle’s eyes. She didn’t want to cry. Tears wouldn’t help the situation. “My brother told me what to do.”
“Smart brother.” Skye stopped and pointed at a plain door. “We’re here.”
“A speakeasy?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.”
“I sing in a band here. I hope you like jazz.” Skye knocked, a small slot opened, and a pair of eyes peered out. “Let us in, Billy.”
“Who’s the dame?”
“A friend. Open the door.” Skye didn’t let go of Marcelle’s hand as she led her down a rickety staircase to a small, restaurant-sized room filled with well-dressed patrons sitting at square tables with white tablecloths.
At least Marcelle didn’t look out of place in her flapper attire.
If anything, she was overdressed. A narrow staircase in a dimly lit corner led upstairs to a row of slot machines lining the wall.
This was all so surreal.
She should be at the gala with her brother, not alone in a speakeasy.
Maybe if she closed her eyes and slept, she’d wake up at home.
Was there a chance of that? No, not without the brooch that started this madness, which meant that she and Bastien would never go home?
Her stomach clenched at that thought. She had to believe they would find a way.
A man with a mouth full of cigar smoke and a wild shock of hair the shade of copper pennies stepped into her personal space and barked at Skye, “You’re late.”
Skye stepped around him, waving away the smoke. “There was a delay on the street.”
He deliberately blew smoke in her face. “I don’t care. You go on in five minutes.”
Skye plucked the cigar from his mouth, flicked it on the floor, and stomped on it, provoking a belligerent expression from the man. Skye said they’d be safe here, but this confrontation didn’t seem safe to Marcelle. She looked back at the steps and considered leaving.
“I told you never to do that again, Frank. It hurts my voice,” Skye hissed.
Frank gripped Skye’s bicep. “And I told you never to grab my cigar.”
Skye peeled his fingers off her arm, one at a time. “Touch me again, and I’ll use you for a punching bag, and you know I can.” No anxiety or uncertainty flickered in her eyes. Skye had guts. Bastien would like her.
Frank stepped back, raising his hands. “Calm down. There’s no call for violence.”
“Good. I’m glad we see eye-to-eye. Is the rest of the band here?”
“Yeah, even that drunk trumpet player. He’s sleeping it off backstage. You better get his ass up, or the boss will beat the shit out of him and dock everybody’s pay.”
Skye opened the door for Marcelle. “We’re going this way.” As they walked down a hallway behind the stage, she asked. “I don’t suppose you play the trumpet by any chance?”
“I do, but I don’t have one with me. So what happened back there?”
“Frank’s a jerk who overestimates his power. One day, I was shadowboxing in my dressing room when he walked in. He’s been scared I’ll punch him ever since.”
“How’d you learn to box?”
“My dad taught me. He wanted to be sure I could take care of myself.”
“I’m surprised that jerk wanted to pick a fight with you, knowing you could box his ears.”
“He forgets and needs to be reminded.” Skye looked at Marcelle suspiciously. “Back up a minute. Did you say you could play the trumpet?”
“I never joke about the trumpet.”
“I don’t even care if you’re good or not. You’ll look and sound a thousand times better than Sidney.”
“Since I haven’t heard him play, I can’t say. How many are in the band?”
“Eddie on guitar, Earl on piano, Tim on saxophone, Warren on drums, and Sidney on trumpet.”
“With all those instruments, you could get by without a trumpet for one night.”
“Boss would still beat the crap out of Sidney. I can’t let that happen.”
“Has Sidney done this before?”
Skye palmed her forehead and took a deep breath, possibly wishing she didn’t have to deal with this situation. “He’s been drunk twice this week, and he’s not dependable.”
Marcelle remembered how upset Bastien was because his trumpet player wanted to be with his wife and new baby, leaving him little time to find a replacement. If the gig hadn’t been in New Orleans, she wouldn’t have agreed to substitute.
“Band members depend on each other to be present and ready to play, or everyone suffers. What are you going to do? Let him go?” Marcelle asked.
“I don’t have a choice. There are other speakeasies and other bands. Sidney will land on his feet.”
“Skye!” a man hollered above the din. “You go on in two minutes.”
“I need five, Alan, so stall.” She rushed into the dressing room, peeling off her coat, and then popped her head out the door. “Hey, Alan. Bring me Sidney’s trumpet. Marcelle here says she can play.” Skye slipped behind a dressing screen.
Alan handed Marcelle a trumpet. “You mess up… It’s my neck, too.”
Marcelle’s heart pounded as she held a gold-plated Bach Stradivarius—dream horn.
Alan walked away, shaking his head. “A dame playing a trumpet. I hope you don’t get booed off the stage.”
Being booed had never happened before, but it was a possibility since Marcelle was playing a trumpet that might have mechanical flaws. She rubbed her finger along the lead pipe and pressed down on the well-maintained valve pistons. Then she removed and cleaned the mouthpiece.
Skye stepped out from behind the folding screen, zipping up her dress with one clean motion. The sequins along the bodice caught the light, flashing gold. “Can you play it?” she asked, turning toward Marcelle.
Marcelle adjusted the trumpet’s valves with steady fingers. “Sure.”
“Sidney won that horn in a poker game,” Skye said, checking her reflection in the mirror. “It sounds good when he’s not too drunk to play it.”
Marcelle lifted the mouthpiece to her lips and buzzed a few notes. The sound was raw but clean—alive.
Alan burst through the doorway, flushed and out of breath. “The audience is getting restless.”
“Okay, we’re coming.” Skye turned to Marcelle, her voice dropping a register. “If you have any doubts, don’t go out there.”
Marcelle straightened, the trumpet gleaming in her hand. “I’ve been playing since I was a kid,” she said evenly. “I have an extensive jazz repertoire from 1918 until… well, now, but you might have a song on your setlist that I’m not familiar with.”
“We’ll tell you what we’re going to play, and if you don’t know it, shake it off, and we’ll play another song.”
“Sounds fair. I should be okay, but just in case, I’d appreciate a heads-up.”
“After the way you handled yourself on the street, I know you’ll be just fine.”
“Thanks for asking me to play. I need to lose myself in music right now.” Marcelle had played in twenty-first-century New York City speakeasies that offered a 1920s experience. But this was the real deal, and gangsters were in the house.
Skye leaned toward the mirror and swept another line of kohl along her lashes, deepening her dark-brown doe-shaped eyes until they looked almost black.
She ran a brush through her sleek bob, the blunt ends glinting under the weak dressing room light.
In heels, she stood about five-foot-six—too slender by most standards, but in the 1920s, her frame was perfect.
Marcelle didn’t fit the era’s silhouette. She had curves—soft, defiant—and she would sooner walk off stage than let anyone tell her to bind her chest flat.
Skye reached for Marcelle’s arm. “You pull this off, and I’ll be forever in your debt.”
They stepped onto the stage, and Skye quickly introduced Marcelle to the other band members. The loud conversations in the smoky bar, the shuffle of chairs, and the clinking of glasses would drown out the band playing without microphones. Perhaps they would quiet down once the music started.
Earl, the pianist, gave Marcelle a quick, assessing glance over the top of the piano.
He looked to be in his early forties—dark-eyed, impeccably dressed in a crisp suit, his hair smoothed to perfection.
But what made him striking wasn’t polish or posture.
It was the playful smile that lingered at the corners of his mouth.
“You want to do this without a rehearsal?” he asked, turning to Skye, one brow lifted in disbelief.
“If Marcelle doesn’t play, the boss will have the crap beaten out of Sidney. I don’t want that to happen to him. Let’s start with ‘Bye Bye Blackbird,’ then ‘Honeysuckle Rose,’ ‘Ain’t Misbehavin,’ and ‘Stardust.’ If you can’t keep up, Marcelle, slip off the stage between numbers,” Skye said.
“Just play. I’ll jump in.” Marcelle had perfected the trumpet before turning twenty. Her range was impressive, and she could wail with the best. Her control in the upper register was precise, and when she returned to the instrument’s middle range, her tone was full and rich.
Although slightly nervous, it only took about fifteen seconds before she forgot about her horn or the visceral feel of her lips and fingers.
It became an extension of her body and didn’t require conscious thought.
The music didn’t just surround her. It became her, a wave of vibration that washed through her entire being.
It was easy to channel her best Louis Armstrong, smiling when she could and playing with passion. Any initial audience skepticism vanished with the first few notes she played, and they quickly responded with a storm of applause.