Chapter 7 Chicago, 1928—Remy #2
“I wonder if that’s Capone’s car,” Clay said. “He has a green, 1928, bulletproof Cadillac.”
“If it’s not Capone’s, it must belong to another mob boss. I bet those men have machine guns under their coats, and all I’ve got are fucking drumsticks. I shouldn’t have left my Sig behind.”
“Should we not go in?”
“If we back down now, suspicious-looking assholes will control what we do from now on. I doan want them to have that much power over us. A pointed gun is one thing. A threat is another.”
“Then lead the way.”
Remy yanked open the restaurant door, his enhanced senses instantly flaring with intense caution. The ma?tre d’, a middle-aged man immaculate in his tuxedo, greeted them with a cool, appraising gaze. “Good evening, gentlemen. Do you have a reservation?”
“No, do you have anything available?” Remy asked.
The ma?tre d’ looked at his reservation book while Remy slipped five dollars into his hand. “This might help find a table.”
The ma?tre d’ raised an eyebrow as he pocketed the bribe. “I believe we have an open table. Follow me.”
He maneuvered them through the crowd to a table on the left side of a massive, bustling room featuring a bandstand, a spacious dance floor, and two imposing rows of columns running down its center.
Surveying the scene, Remy quickly counted the aisles and estimated roughly one hundred four-person tables, with scarcely a handful unoccupied.
“Will this do?” the ma?tre d’ asked.
“Perfect. Who’s playing tonight?”
“Caroll Dickerson’s Sunset Syncopated Orchestra just finished. The orchestra’s bass, saxophone, piano, trumpet, and drums will be out soon.” He placed the menus on the table and took their coffee order, along with a request for two short tumblers.
When the server delivered the glasses, Remy filled them with whisky, a swift, practiced motion designed to go unnoticed. One more and his thoughts wouldn’t just swirl—they’d drown. It had to be his last.
Clay scanned the room. “I wonder if the Robertsons or Bastien and Marcelle are here?”
“Unless we walk around the room, which I doan intend to do, we woan know.”
They placed their dinner order as the five-piece band swung into a jazzy groove.
Horns blared, a steady rhythm thrummed through the floorboards, and the room swirled with the energy of dancing couples.
Remy’s hands involuntarily twitched in his lap, his fingers itching to grab his sticks and join the beat.
“There are a few single women over there. Do you want to ask one of them to dance?”
Remy shook his head. “I’m fine right where I am.” That was a lie. He felt a visceral need to hijack the stage and absolutely punish those kiddie drums. His gaze fixed on the undersized kit, a mixture of contempt and yearning.
The server delivered the first of four courses. They watched people and listened to music while enjoying Blue Point oysters, lobster, and prime rib, and finished the meal with a frozen éclair surprise.
Remy sipped his coffee, his gaze sweeping over the crowd as a palpable current of excitement rippled through the room.
He sensed that someone famous had arrived.
Initially, the newcomer was obscured, but as the crowd parted, a man emerged, flanked by a striking woman on each arm.
Remy leaned forward instinctively, blinking rapidly as his mind raced to place the familiar faces.
“Fuck!”
Clay’s head shot up. “What is it?”
“Al Capone.”
Clay’s head swiveled. “Where?”
Remy pointed with his whiskered chin. “He’s walking toward us with two women, and one is Marcelle.” Despite his gnawing unease about her association with Capone, seeing her look so stunning offered a distraction and a reprieve that momentarily eclipsed his anxiety.
“Are you sure?”
“That it’s Marcelle, or that the man is Capone?”
“Both.” Clay quickly took out a small journal, pencils, and a box of pastel chalks from his jacket pockets, opening the journal to the first page to sketch the newcomers.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Who’s the other woman?”
“I doan recognize her.”
Remy’s gaze zeroed in on the woman’s striking features: a sleek, dark bob that framed high cheekbones and an alluring, full, red mouth.
He felt an instinctive certainty that his life was about to take an irreversible turn.
The how remained a mystery, but the what—a seismic shift in his world—was undeniably clear.
“Wish I had a camera with a zoom lens,” he said.
“You won’t need one in a minute or two. Capone’s probably heading to the table behind us, where he can keep his back to the wall. What about Marcelle? How does she look?”
“Exactly like the picture on her phone—same dress, same hair. Is it possible she just arrived and connected with Capone? The probability seems incredibly low. She’s out of place, out of time, and clinging to the arm of a notorious gangster.
Bastien would go nuts. And where is he anyway?
” Remy was poised to jump out of his chair, desperate to rectify the situation.
“I don’t see him, and you don’t need to worry about what Bastien would do because you’re already doing it.”
“I’m not twisting Capone’s neck, and that’s what Bastien would be doing.”
Remy sought a distraction by watching Clay draw simple charcoal lines and geometric shapes.
The shapes rapidly transformed into expressive faces and dynamic features.
This routine mesmerized Remy every time he watched Clay draw.
It differed from the way Sophia sketched.
She was more methodical, planning to create a masterpiece.
Clay used his sketchpad to create images for the evening’s news or the morning’s front page that illustrated an important story and the characters involved.
Remy sat back, crossing his arms, his gaze unwavering as if sheer willpower could alter reality. Capone swaggered unapologetically, drinking in the envious looks of the male diners, wives, and girlfriends whose attention he commanded.
“What about the other woman? Any thoughts?” Clay lowered his head and sketched more of the unknown woman before glancing up at Capone and the women again. “It’s her dark, thick lashes. They frame her eyes, making them look larger. They’re striking.”
Remy tapped on the table in time with Clay’s drawing hand. The shapes of the women’s noses and the texture of their hair came alive on the page. The sketch began as simple ovals, and after adding features, it developed into two beautiful women.
“How could clothing styles change so much that women hide their breasts?” Remy asked. “They prefer androgynous, masculine clothes that are so unbecoming. Look around the room. All the women here are flat-chested. They should make liquor legal and breast binding illegal.”
“You won’t get an argument from me. Do you know why the fad started?”
“Yeah,” Remy grumbled. “A bunch of assholes ruined it for the rest of us. Women wanted to keep their male co-workers from ogling them.”
Clay chuckled. “Typical of you to drill down to the lowest common denominator.”
Remy’s gaze flicked between Clay’s sketch and the mysterious woman to confirm he had captured her accurately. “The woman on Capone’s left is beautiful.”
“Coming from you, that says a lot about her. You usually call a woman hot or use some other word with a sexual connotation.”
Clay slightly turned in his chair to watch Capone and the women walk toward their table as he blended shades, built layers, and added highlights.
Twice, Remy wanted to point out something Clay missed, but before he said anything, Clay added the missing detail.
The sketch made the flamboyant kingpin look big, round, and larger than life, wearing a suit in a bold shade of blue that Remy wouldn’t wear to a costume party.
Clay’s drawing conveyed an air of menace looming before Capone and lingering behind him.
“What’s Marcelle doing with that asshole?” Remy asked.
“She arrived with nothing but the clothes she’s wearing. It could be a matter of survival. She looks amazing, though,” Clay said. “I bet she hasn’t been here long. She still has a twenty-first-century vibe about her.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It’s in her eyes, her brows.” A woman’s body appeared on a new page as if emerging through a mist. An egg-shaped head hatched into a face, with eyes filling the outlines of empty sockets, and shoulders extending into arms, which grew hands and fingers.
“Women in the 1920s,” Clay continued, “have thin, long, and sloping brows, with the tail drooping downward on the face. It’s sophisticated and highly dramatic.
” He glanced up. “Look at Marcelle’s. Her brows are lifted, full, glossy, and sleek.
Then, look at the other woman. Do you see the difference? ”
Remy’s gaze sharpened intensely as he studied, then fell into the other woman’s dark, liquid eyes. He hissed sharply and quickly pulled back, snatching his attention toward the women forming in Clay’s sketch. “I see the difference, and I’m going to marry her. Whoever she is.”
Clay’s pencil scratched across the page. He smirked at Remy, his lips twitching. “Say that again so I can record it. Nobody will believe me. You? Married? Because you like her eyebrows?”
“Forget I said that.” Remy should’ve known better than to blurt out how he felt about a woman. The MacKlenna men could be assholes with their good-natured teasing.
Clay erased the line but smudged part of the sketch. “I won’t forget, and don’t be so tetchy.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Clay stuck his finger in his ear. “There’s an echo in this room. And as for the word, look it up.”
Remy’s eyes tracked from the subjects to the paper and back to the women. Like Clay, Remy assessed the precise tilt of their heads and how their bobbed hair swayed against their cheeks as they strolled down the aisle toward a nearby table.