Chapter 7 Chicago, 1928—Remy #4
“He’s a war hero,” Remy said, guiding her into another turn. “He’ll be fine—if he can charge his bionic leg.”
“Bastien didn’t have a charger with him, and even if he did, where would he plug it in? I doubt the power outlets could support a twenty-first-century device. If it’s not charged, the ankle won’t bend, making walking awkward but not impossible.”
“We’ve got about twenty hours to find him and get home.” Remy eased them closer as the song wound down. “Clay and I will start looking for him tomorrow.”
“Who’s Clay?”
The music ended. Applause rose around them, but they stood still now, breathless on the dance floor. “A friend. You’ll meet him later. Where are you staying?”
“I met Skye—”
“Is she the woman with you?” The question came too quickly. Remy’s chest tightened before he could stop it.
“Yes. I met her shortly after I arrived and played in her band tonight. She said I could stay with her. She’s an incredible jazz singer. Wait till you hear her.”
“She must be,” he said, unable to hide the edge in his voice, “if you’re raving about her.”
She stopped moving altogether and stared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He took Marcelle’s arm and escorted her back to the table. “According to Bastien, you’re particular about jazz musicians and singers, and that’s why you weren’t sure you wanted to play with our band.”
“That makes me sound like a snob.”
“It makes you sound like a perfectionist, and I doan have a problem with that. If musicians aren’t willing to dedicate themselves to continually improving their craft, I doan want to play with them.”
“Bastien said the same thing. That’s why I agreed to play in New Orleans.”
“Until we find him, stay with us at The Drake Hotel. We have a three-bedroom suite and can keep you safe.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“We do and will have more tomorrow when the bank opens. You probably want to go shopping again. Clay and I need a few things, too.” His voice hovered between a statement and a question, giving her space to react to his intrusion into her townhome.
“Again?” she asked.
“We found the sales receipt for the brooch. That’s how we figured out where you were.” From the look she gave him, he knew her list of questions was growing by the second. “I’ll answer all your questions later.”
They reached the table, and Skye tilted her head curiously while she fingered an Art Nouveau locket hanging on a gold chain. “Introduce me to your friend, Marcelle.”
Her voice—rich, dark amber—poured over him, thick and intoxicating.
And her eyes, twin pools of espresso, held his gaze, forging a connection that ignited an urgent, almost painful need to touch her.
His hand shot out in an instinctive gesture.
“Remy Sebastien Benoit.” He hadn’t used his full name in decades, but he wanted his mystery woman to know him, including his full name.
She shook his hand. “I’m Skye Marshall. How do you know Marcelle?”
The brush of Skye’s soft skin short-circuited his brain. “We… met… through her brother,” he stuttered. Fireworks exploded all around him, or at least he thought so. He tore his eyes away from her, turning to Marcelle to regain composure. “I first met you when you were what? Eight?”
“Ten.”
He frowned. “Are you sure?”
She frowned back at him, her hands on her hips. “You and Bastien were fifteen. I was ten. You didn’t want me to be at your jam sessions. You called me a pest. I played my trumpet in the hallway to annoy you.”
Skye laughed. “I’ve only known Marcelle for a few hours, but I can see her doing that.”
Remy smacked his forehead in comic relief. “Oh, I remember now. We were too cool and didn’t want you hanging around us.”
“So cool. You both had pimply faces.”
Remy’s cheeks heated. He remembered that god-awful stage. Even playing football and drums didn’t give him enough confidence to chase after the girl of his wet dreams.
“Mr. Benoit, join us,” Capone said. “I noticed your drumsticks. Where are you performing?”
Remy sat across from Skye. “I always carry my sticks and doan have a gig right now. I’m considering forming a band. Now that I’ve reconnected with Marcelle, I hope I can convince her to play with me.”
Capone picked up a drumstick and examined it. “‘Remy Benoit. Best Drummer This Side of the Mississippi.’ Is that true?” Capone’s eyes turned cold, his face serious. Remy recognized the look. He’d seen Elliott with the same expression.
“Hell, yeah.”
“How do you play differently from other drummers?”
“I doan use the blocks as much and play the hi-hat more with my sticks and less with the pedal.”
Capone nodded. “I want to hear you.”
“As soon as I get a gig, I’ll let you know.”
“Marcelle and Skye have agreed to play at one of my establishments. I’d like you to join them,” Capone said.
“I’m not sure if our styles will blend, but we can jam sometime and see how it works out.” Remy didn’t plan to stay long enough to jam with anyone. He gently squeezed Marcelle’s arm. “Are you performing here? I’d like to see your show.”
“Not here. Skye and I are currently performing at a speakeasy a few blocks away. You should come to our show tomorrow night.”
Remy was so familiar with Elliott and David’s hand signals that he instantly recognized the subtle gesture Capone made to his bodyguard. Within moments, one of his men approached.
“Take Mr. Benoit backstage. As soon as the band finishes this number, he can play drums for the next one,” Capone said.
Remy wasn’t going anywhere with one of Capone’s goons. “I’d never play another drummer’s kit without practice. Maybe another time.”
Capone didn’t reply but raised one brow, his eyes unblinking.
Marcelle noticed Capone’s menacing glare and jumped in with an offer. “I’ll go with you, Remy, and borrow a trumpet. We can play ‘It’s Sleepytime Down South’.”
Remy nearly met Capone’s glare but heard David’s warning. Remy was leading this mission. Its success or failure depended on his doing the right and safe thing, even if that meant playing baby drums for nearly four hundred people and a gangster.
Remy swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away from Capone’s intense glare as David’s sharp warning cut through the tension.
Remy was in charge, the leader of this mission.
The entire operation’s success hinged on his next move, on his ability to make the right decision—even if that decision meant swallowing his pride and playing baby drums for a room full of people and a notorious gangster.
“Let’s do it,” Remy said with a shrug and little enthusiasm.
“I’m going with you,” Skye said. “You need a singer and a pianist. I can do both.”
Remy signaled to Clay, who walked over to them. Capone’s bodyguard stopped and patted him down before Clay reached the table. “This is Clay MacIntyre. He plays the guitar and flute. Clay, this is Skye Marshall, Marcelle LeBlanc, and Mr. Capone.”
Capone waved the picture lazily between two fingers, the paper snapping once as he flicked his wrist. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes never left Clay’s face. “Did you draw this?”
Clay kept his posture easy, shoulders loose, hands visible at his sides. “Yes, sir. I started as a courtroom sketch artist before becoming an investigative journalist.”
“What types of stories do you investigate?”
“Anything the public would find interesting.” Clay offered a polite half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Capone tilted his head, studying him with curiosity. “Have I read anything you’ve written?”
Clay shook his head. “I travel around, and I haven’t sold an article to a Chicago newspaper.”
Before Capone could press further, Remy stepped forward, placing himself half a pace between them. His movements were casual, but deliberate. “Mr. Capone wants to hear me play drums,” he said evenly. “So we’re all going backstage.”
Clay’s brows shot up as he turned toward Remy, disbelief flickering across his face. “You never play without hours of practice,” he said under his breath. “And now you intend to play someone else’s drums?”
Remy didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed locked on Capone as he answered, voice gravel-edged. “I couldn’t say no.”
The words carried more than obedience.
They carried calculation.
And Capone, watching them both, smiled as if he’d just been given exactly what he wanted.
The bodyguard escorted them backstage, where he informed the band that Mr. Capone insisted on a replacement act. He produced a thick wad of bills and paid off the band members, who readily accepted the cash and scrambled from the stage.
“We need a plan,” Remy said, “before we go out there.”
“I need a trumpet,” Marcelle said.
“Use whatever’s out there,” the bodyguard said.
“Let’s do ‘Chicago, That Todd’ling Town’ first. Skye and I did it earlier tonight, and it sounded great. Are you okay with that?” Marcelle asked Remy.
“Sure,” Remy said. “What about you, Clay?”
They strode out onto the stage, greeted by a swell of applause. Clay grabbed a guitar and unleashed a few blistering chords to make sure it was in tune. “I’ll follow along.”
Skye sat on the piano bench. “Does anyone need sheet music?”
“I play by ear.” Then Clay asked, “Where’s Bastien?”
“Marcelle arrived a few hours ago and hasn’t seen him,” Remy said.
While Skye did a quick warm-up on the piano, Marcelle whispered to Remy, “You came after me, and you knew you’d be stuck here? That wasn’t smart.”
“We traveled with a dependable brooch. As soon as we find Bastien, we can go home,” Remy whispered back.
Marcelle let out a relieved breath. “That’s the best news I’ve heard tonight.”
Skye glanced over her shoulder at Remy. “I hope you play drums as well as you say you can.”
He cocked a smile. “I hope you sing as well as I play drums.”
She smiled back, and his heart raced in his chest. He barely kept his wits about him as he examined the drums. His mind snapped into focus when he saw a 1928 Ludwig Deluxe Drum Kit with a bass drum, snare drum, and two cymbals.
“Can you play it?” Marcelle asked.
“Can I what?”
“Play it.”