Chapter 7 Chicago, 1928—Remy
The roller coaster ride through the vortex jolted to a stop, and the sudden impact slammed Remy down hard. He gasped as pain flared in his tailbone.
The fog parted, revealing the shoreline. Wind whipped through knife-edged grasses, and gulls screeched overhead, clashing with the distant hum of freighters. The clamor grounded him, thrusting him into the relentless reality of his mission.
He was on a boardwalk, but where?
A wash of artificial light—streetlamps and building glow—spilled across the walkway and revealed a multi-story hotel ahead.
Waves lapped against the nearby dock. The air carried a pungent, earthy bite of water and shoreline.
Remy’s gaze locked on the Italian Renaissance–style facade—red brick and limestone detailing rising from the shore of Lake Michigan—and he knew he’d arrived in Chicago.
He rubbed his tailbone and shouldered his duffel.
Couples strolled along the boardwalk, but the striking absence of a single man among them sent a chilling certainty through Remy. Clay had landed somewhere else entirely.
Remy left the boardwalk, crossed the park, and entered the hotel through the main entrance.
The ground level bustled with a lively arcade, catering to every traveler’s whim.
He climbed a grand staircase and emerged into a lobby that felt more like a public hall than a reception area.
Marble columns rose toward crystal chandeliers.
Fresh flowers sweetened the air, threaded with high-end cigar smoke and expensive perfume.
Growing up, marble columns and chandeliers held little importance. That had changed when Remy started traveling with Elliott and Meredith. Their demand for five-star accommodations influenced him, and he’d developed expectations of his own.
The front desk was at the far end of the reception area. Remy adjusted the weight of his duffel and approached the desk with his usual swagger, discreetly patting his pockets for his pouches of gold and diamonds.
A smiling clerk stood ready to assist him. “Welcome to The Drake Hotel. How may I help you?”
“I’m meeting Clay MacIntyre here. Has he checked in?”
“Let me see.” The clerk stepped away from the window and came back a few minutes later. “I’m sorry. We don’t have any MacIntyres registered.”
Traveling with the brooch was always a strain, but Clay’s absence made Remy’s muscles clench tight.
Clay could handle himself. He’d already proven that.
Still, if he encountered a historical figure, he’d likely prioritize an interview over meeting Remy.
A lead on Bastien and Marcelle was an acceptable reason for delay.
But if he were simply pursuing a story out of personal interest and curiosity, it would piss Remy off.
“In that case, I need a suite with at least three bedrooms and two bathrooms.” Remy figured he’d need an extra bedroom for Bastien or Marcelle, so why not start with one?
“Let me see what we have, sir.” The clerk stepped away again and returned with a card. “We have a suite on the fourth floor with a view of the lake at a rate of twelve dollars a day for room and board included. How many guests are you expecting?”
“Three, and we’ll need the room for a week or longer.”
The clerk raised his eyebrows. “I see. What name should I put on the registration?”
“Remy Benoit and Clay MacIntyre. When Mr. MacIntyre arrives, will you send him to the room?”
“Certainly, Mr. Benoit.” The clerk rang a bell on the counter, and a bellhop appeared immediately. “Please take Mr. Benoit to room 412.”
Remy peeled a few dollars from his money clip, palmed two bills, and extended his hand toward the clerk. “Thank you for your help.”
The clerk shook hands and smoothly pocketed the cash. “If there’s anything else, my name is George.”
“George,” Remy said, putting the name to memory. “Are you here most days?”
George smiled. “I have Sundays off.”
The bellhop shouldered Remy’s duffel, and he paced beside the man to the elevator, then kept pace down the quiet fourth-floor corridor to the suite.
“This room boasts the most breathtaking views of Lake Michigan.” The bellhop unlocked the door and flipped the switch to turn on the light. “Where do you want your bag?”
“On the floor, please.”
“Is there anything you need, sir?”
Remy handed him a tip. “Some ice and glasses.”
“I’ll be happy to help with that.”
“And today’s newspaper. If one’s still available.”
“I believe I can find a copy.”
Remy stood before the window, fixing his gaze on the view outside.
The intensifying moonlight reflecting on the water mesmerized him.
He rarely indulged in such reflective moments, but since meeting Rachel hours earlier, the absence of a woman with whom to share the night sky or a sunrise weighed heavily on his heart.
He was ready to find his forever girl, a future he knew with certainty didn’t include Marcelle.
The bellhop returned with an ice bucket, glasses, and the evening paper.
Once the door clicked shut, Remy pulled the whisky bottle from his duffel and poured a generous drink.
A few sips in, he yanked at his tie and sank onto the sofa to read the paper.
He was halfway through his second glass when a hard knock stiffened his back and sent his hand to his Sig Sauer.
It should be Clay, but an hour’s absence felt too long.
Remy tensed, the alcohol’s warmth replaced by a cold coil of uncertainty.
Remy approached the door with the weapon behind his back. “Who is it?”
“It’s me.”
Remy opened the door, looked outside briefly, and stepped aside to let Clay in, holstering his weapon. “Another five minutes, and I would’ve gone looking for you. Where’d you land?”
Clay stepped into the room and dropped his duffel.
“Close to The Palmer House Hotel. It’s a brisk walk from here.
” He strolled through the suite, opening doors and inspecting the bedsprings.
“Nice rooms. We should go to the bank first thing in the morning to sell a few nuggets. We’ll need cash for expenses. ”
Remy refilled his glass and poured a drink for Clay. “After your experience with the banker in Buffalo, I’ll let you handle that.”
“What’s the date? It’s not 1929, is it?”
“The banks aren’t crashing this year.”
“Good.” Clay picked up the newspaper while sipping his whisky. “The Chicago Tribune, self-styled as the World’s Greatest Newspaper. Did you learn anything?”
“It’s mostly ads, but no one’s hiring sax and trumpet players. I’ll put an ad out for both tomorrow,” Remy said.
Clay sat and thumbed through the pages. “Not much news in here. But I see ads for the First National Bank of Chicago. I know where that is and will go there tomorrow.” He put the newspaper aside and finished his drink. “I’m hungry. Let’s go eat at a restaurant downstairs.”
“No, let’s go to that green place. What’s it called?”
“The Green Mill?”
“That’s it.” Remy straightened his tie and downed his drink. “The beating heart of Uptown’s entertainment district. Capone was a regular there.”
Clay folded the paper and returned his glass to the tray with the ice bucket. “Or we could go to the Sunset Café instead. Capone also has an interest in that club. You might see him there.”
“Either is fine.”
“If Capone is there, whatever you do, don’t stare. It’ll make his bodyguards nervous. Throw your killer smile around. If you’re not smiling, you’re intimidating. His bodyguards will perceive you as a threat.”
“Okay, I’ll try to smile.”
“Why don’t you carry your sticks instead of a gun? Capone might not shoot you if he believes you’re a musician.”
Remy cocked his head, thinking. Then he took off his holsters and guns and packed them in the duffel bag. He didn’t like this. But he didn’t want to tempt anyone with an itchy finger.
“Pack mine, too.” Clay handed over his weapon.
“I hope I doan regret this.” Remy tucked his drumsticks in the back of his waistband.
“Fill up the flask. The restaurant doesn’t serve alcohol with dinner.”
“Good idea.” Remy filled the flask and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Come on.”
A few minutes later, they stood in front of the hotel, waiting for a taxi. Remy noticed a flyer on the window and read it. “This might be the lead you were looking for.”
Clay joined him at the window to look at the flyer. “The Chicago Scots are hosting the Annual St. Andrew’s Day ‘Feast of the Haggis’ at the Palmer House Friday night.”
“You should go. If the Robertsons are in Chicago, you might find them there.”
“I’ll stop by the Palmer House tomorrow and ask about tickets. Do you want to go?”
“You’ve never met a stranger, so you’ll fit in easily. While you’re there, I’ll check out a few speakeasies to look for Bastien and Marcelle,” Remy said.
“Divide and conquer.”
“That’s the plan.” Remy waved at the taxi driver, who pulled up in front of the hotel. “Cool car. It’s a Ford Model A. I want to take one back with us.”
“Are you trying to get on Braham’s good side?”
“I doan need to. I didn’t go on the last adventure, so Braham can’t blame me for leaving the Oldsmobile Runabout in Buffalo.”
They scrambled in, and Clay slid open the partition between the front and back seats. “Take us to the Sunset Café on Thirty-Fifth Street and South Calumet Avenue.”
Remy fingered the upholstery. “What is this?”
“Mohair,” Clay said.
“Seriously?”
“It’s one of the world’s most durable fibers and is moisture resistant.”
“What about mohair allergies?”
“Do you have one?”
Remy shrugged. “Doan think so, but I’m sure people do.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it unless you start itching.”
The traffic was light, and they arrived at the Sunset Café a few minutes later. Clay paid the fare, and they got out.
Remy stepped away from the streetlight at the corner while watching both sides of the street. His neck itched, and he couldn’t blame it on the mohair. A group of men wearing long winter coats in late spring guarded a green Cadillac.