Chapter 7 Chicago, 1928—Remy #3
“Whoever your future bride is,” Clay asserted, “she might be an entertainer. She commands the space as if she were born on a stage. She’s not moving with a model’s practiced strut for attention but with an innate, fluid grace.
And her hands—slim, elegant—could surely span a full octave on the piano with ease. ”
“She sways as if music is in her soul.” Remy steeled himself, breathing through his mouth as his eyes scanned her intently, like a mental frisking. “I’ve never seen her face on any of the old albums, and she’s got a face I’d remember.”
Heads turned, and conversations died as Capone guided the women on a deliberate, eye-grabbing walk to their table. Remy’s reaction to her wasn’t a thought. It was a primal, gut-wrenching jolt.
Clay sketched more quickly. “Don’t freak out over her like you did with Rachel.”
“I can’t promise anything.” Remy stretched to get a better view. “How am I supposed to get her attention?”
“It’s not her attention you need. It’s Marcelle’s, and the goons behind Capone won’t let you get too close.”
Remy lifted his hand to wave, but Clay jerked it down. “Don’t do that. If Marcelle sees you, she won’t believe it’s you, and Capone’s bodyguards will see you as a threat.”
Remy watched Clay sketch, using all his tools to tell a story. And his story was about two women and a gangster. “Would you rather write their story or show it?” Remy asked.
“Write a story for the newspaper?”
“Yeah.”
“If I were writing a story about Capone, I’d have to include the women, or it would just be another gangster headline.”
“That’s how we get close to them. Show Capone your sketches and ask for the names of his companions for an article you want to write on the Sunset Café.”
“That’s not a bad idea. It’s better than standing up and waving to Marcelle.” Clay turned the page and began another sketch.
Remy watched him. “Marcelle is beautiful, but the woman with her is a twenty on a ten-point scale.”
Clay flicked his pencil back and forth on the page. “Marcelle is twenty, and the other woman is fifteen.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” Remy grumbled. “Have you seen the movie White Christmas?”
“With Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye?”
“And Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen.”
“It’s a classic. Doesn’t everybody watch it at Christmas?”
“Everybody at Mallory Plantation. It’s part of the family tradition.”
“What made you think of the movie?” Clay asked, coloring the sequined peacock pattern on Marcelle’s dress.
“Clooney and Vera-Ellen played sisters in White Christmas. The male actors immediately knew which sister caught their interest. Bing Crosby liked Rosemary Clooney, and Danny Kaye liked Vera-Ellen.”
“Okay, so what makes the movie relevant right now?”
“You reacted to Marcelle, and I responded to the other woman. Just like in the movie.”
In the upper left corner of the page, Clay sketched a picture of a barn with two men standing next to the door. “Who are you? Crosby or Kaye?”
“I’ll be Crosby, and Clooney is the other woman with Capone.”
Clay kept drawing. “Am I Danny Kaye because I’m a better dancer?”
“You’re a smoother dancer than I am, but you’re smoother with everything. I’m a Cajun from Louisiana, and you’re old money from the Upper East Side.”
Clay sketched Remy with dancing feet. “You see that as a disadvantage. I don’t. You’ve also played college football and served in the Army. You have real-life experience.”
“Doan hold all that against me. You have something I’ll never have.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re a fucking alien.”
Clay’s nostrils flared. “You know that’s all a lie, don’t you?”
The pain in Clay’s eyes served as a reminder of how much Erik and Violet’s betrayal hurt them all. Remy lightly punched his friend’s upper arm. “I doan give a fuck where you came from. Stay alert. If that son of a bitch is here, we’ll tell him what the MacKlenna Clan thinks of him.”
“Somehow, I doubt he’ll care.” Clay returned to his sketch. “And for the record, Erik’s story is a lie.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Erik’s not an alien, and he’s not from the past, which means he’s from the future, and he staged his disappearance. I don’t know how he managed it, but I know he did.”
“A bear killed him in the Dakotas. He couldn’t stage that. I saw my share of mangled bodies in Afghanistan and Iraq. There was no magic that day. No lights, no essence, nothing. A bear killed Erik. End of story.”
“Yet he came back.”
“Are you arguing for or against Erik’s story?” Remy was even more determined to find Erik and confront him, even if Erik could snap Remy’s neck with a flick of his wrist.
Remy glanced at the sketch again. Clay had captured an emotion on Marcelle’s face that Remy recognized from Bastien’s. That detail turned the pastel drawing into a warning signal. “Marcelle is worried about Bastien?”
“How can you tell?”
“I’ve seen the same look you sketched on Marcelle’s face on Bastien’s more than once, which means she doesn’t know where he is.”
“Don’t people who get separated in the vortex connect within a few hours?”
“Normally, but I bet she’s been here longer than a few hours. I mean, come on. She’s with Capone at two o’clock in the morning.”
“Is it that late? Crap. How does Marcelle look to you?”
Remy peeled his eyes off the other woman and studied Marcelle’s face and body language. “Her lips are slightly stiff at the corners, which tells me she’s been playing the trumpet tonight.”
“That’s observant.”
“What can I say? I’ve been around a lot of trumpet players.”
“I wonder where she’s playing?”
“Most likely a speakeasy owned by Capone, and he brought her here for dinner.” Capone’s table was a few feet away, with another table in between, obstructing Remy’s view. “I wonder how close I can get to her.”
“If you try to approach Capone, you’ll be looking down the barrel of a machine gun. Don’t try it. You need to go for subtlety, but that’s not your modus operandi.”
“I can do subtle.”
“You don’t even know what the word means. I’ll go.”
“But Marcelle is a stranger to you.”
“I can ask if she’s Marcelle LeBlanc, the trumpeter.”
“And if she says yes?”
“I’ll tell her my friend, Remy Benoit, bet me a hundred bucks it was her. Looks like he won the bet.”
“A hundred? That’s the best you can do?”
“We’re in 1928. A thousand would seem excessive.”
Remy scooted his chair to see over the couple sitting at the table between them and Marcelle. “What about mentioning Bastien?”
“Since she’s here, and he’s not, I’ll have to play it by ear.” Clay leaned back from the table but didn’t stand up. “On second thought, you go. If the bodyguards send me away, at least she’ll recognize you, but not me.”
“You’re right.” Remy reached for his drumsticks tucked into the waistband at the back of his trousers. “Wish me luck.”
“Don’t get yourself shot.” Clay tore out a page from the journal. “Take this and tell Capone a friend drew it and wants to meet Marcelle.”
Remy took the sketch of Capone, Marcelle, and the other woman and approached one of Capone’s bodyguards, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a prominent chin, who immediately assumed an aggressive stance. “Excuse me, is that Marcelle LeBlanc, the trumpeter, with Mr. Capone?”
“She’s a trumpet player. That’s all I know.”
Capone glared at Remy, and Remy saluted with his sticks. Capone gave the signal for his guards to proceed.
“Mr. Capone invited you to come to his table. Open your jacket and turn around.” The guard patted Remy down. “What are you wearing?”
“A safety vest.”
“For what?”
“If I fall into Lake Michigan, I woan drown.”
The bodyguard shook his head. “You gonna jump in the lake tonight?”
“Not planning to.”
The bodyguard pushed Remy toward Capone’s table. “If you make any sudden moves, you’ll regret it.”
Remy let his arms hang loosely at his sides, his sticks tapping softly against his leg. “Pardon my interruption, but I wanted to say hello to my best friend’s sister. Hi, Marcelle.”
“Do you know him?” Capone asked her.
She tilted her head, and a look of surprise quickly spread across her face, then shifted to a radiant smile. “Remy!” She leaped up and hugged him. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard you were in Chicago, so I came looking for you.”
“What’s on the piece of paper?” Capone asked.
Remy handed it over. “You and two beautiful women.” He smiled at Marcelle. “Let’s dance.” Remy placed his sticks on the table, cupped her elbow with his palm, and led her to the dance floor as the band started playing “Whispering.”
“Thank goodness it’s the Charleston. That’s the only 1920s dance I know,” she said.
Remy clasped her hand and spun her around. “Five, six, seven, eight.” Once they found their rhythm, he asked, “Where’s Bastien, and when did you get here?”
She swung her arms wide and twisted on the balls of her feet, letting the music pull her loose, skirts flaring with each turn. Remy fell into step beside her without thinking, matching her timing as if they’d always known the same dance. “Six hours ago.”
“Where’s Bastien?”
She faltered. Her foot slipped half a beat late, and she stumbled before catching herself, fingers brushing Remy’s sleeve for balance. It took her a moment to steady, breath quickening. “I don’t know.”
“We’ll find him.” His voice stayed even, grounding.
She resumed moving, though the carefree energy was gone now, replaced by restless motion. “How’d you find me? How’d you know I was here?”
“At the Sunset Café,” he said, turning with her, “or in Chicago in 1928?”
She laughed once, sharp and breathless, then spun in a tight circle, kicked one leg high, and tapped her foot with her hand in a playful flourish. “Both.”
Remy mirrored her exactly, step for step, eyes never leaving her face. “That’s a conversation we’ll have later,” he said lightly. “In private.”
“I have so many questions.” She lifted her arms again, waving them overhead, movement spilling out of her. “And so much to tell you.”
“I’m sure you do.”
She turned again, waving her arms. “I’m worried about Bastien, though.”