Chapter 9 #2
Skye waved away Marcelle’s concern. “Mr. Samuel won’t think anything of it. He’s known me my entire life and even comes to the speakeasy to listen to me sing. He’s also helped me find housing and daytime work for new and rising artists.”
A petite woman in a black dress with a small, spotless white apron entered the room, carrying a fresh carafe of coffee. “Should I prepare lunch, Miss Skye?”
“Thank you, Anita. We’re going shopping and will eat at the Walnut Room, but we’ll be back for dinner before we go to the club tonight.”
“I’ll be happy to help in the kitchen,” Remy said. “I love to cook.”
Anita stared at Remy like a judge about to impose a death sentence before setting the coffeepot on the table. “You’re the drummer from New Orleans.”
He gave her a cheeky smile. “What gave me away? My pretty face?”
She took his hands, turning them palms up. “The calluses on your palms and the middle of your fingers. You’ve played a lot.”
“You know drummers?”
She released his hands. “I’ve known a few. They were all bad boys.”
He flashed another grin. “Doan worry. I’m not one of them.”
Anita tsk-tsked. Slowly. Deliberately. Then she turned and walked out of the room.
Remy let the moment pass. Then he took Skye’s hand, his thumb brushing hers. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” He led her to the French doors, opened them, and stepped out onto the balcony with her. “Look down there.”
She looked in the direction he was pointing and squealed. “You bought my car!”
Marcelle rushed over and squeezed between them. A shiny red Model A Ford sports coupe gleamed in front of the house.
“Clay and I were on the wrong trolley, and we saw J.A. Lavery Motors, a Ford dealership on Cottage Grove. We got off to see if they had the vehicle I wanted. They didn’t, but they had the one you wanted. The salesperson offered us a good deal, so we signed the paperwork and drove it off the lot.”
“I can’t believe you did that,” Skye said.
Marcelle glanced across the street, and the back of her neck itched. “Remy, look at those two men in overcoats loitering across the street.”
“Are you talking about the two overweight goons that look like they’d never laughed at a joke? I assume they’re Capone’s men.”
“It makes sense that he’s watching us. After investing five thousand dollars in my band, he wants to be sure we’re not leaving town with his money. But how’d he know where I lived?”
“He has a telephone, Skye,” Clay said. “All he had to do was ask, and someone got him the information.”
“If that’s the case, we could have taken the first taxi home last night,” she said.
“In hindsight, yes, but I followed my training. The gangsters outside weren’t there when Clay and I returned minutes ago, so it took Capone a few hours to find you. It proves he wants to know where you live and where we’re staying.” Remy escorted Skye and Marcelle back inside and closed the door.
“And now I’m working for him.” Skye crossed the room to a walnut desk with an impressive gold-framed mirror hanging above it. She glanced in the mirror and tossed her bob before picking up an envelope. “I have money to pay for the automobile.”
Remy waved his hand. “We’ll settle up later.”
“But I insist.”
He drummed his fingers on the side of his leg. “I know you do, but we’re staying at your house and eating your food, and Marcelle is wearing your clothes. At this rate, we’ll owe you money. We’ll settle up when we find Bastien. How’s that?”
“As long as you don’t leave town without telling me.”
“We woan.” Remy tried for reassurance in his tone, but his voice cracked.
Marcelle caught Remy’s eye, knowing he was thinking the same thing she was—leaving Skye behind and knowing she’d want to stay in touch with them.
Which meant they’d have to tell her the truth sooner rather than later.
Marcelle would have to find time to talk to Remy alone.
There were things she didn’t understand about the whole time-traveling business.
“I’ll hold you to it.” She put the envelope in the desk drawer. “Now, what about your car?”
“The sales agent who sold us your car is looking for another one in green. He said he’d call as soon as he found one. Now what’s the latest with your band? Did you tell them about Capone and playing at the Sunset Café?”
“I didn’t have to. Earl, my piano player, called. The guy who owns the bar told Earl he’d released us from our contract, and the Sunset Café expected us to perform there tonight.”
“What about the drunk trumpet player?” Remy asked.
“He got another gig and wasn’t interested in selling his trumpet.”
“Why didn’t the bar owner call you?”
“The owner told Earl that I already knew the details, and Earl wanted to know why I didn’t tell him.”
“Capone didn’t give you much of a chance. Did you tell Earl about the advance?”
“Yes, and he was happy about the money. He didn’t complain about the deal and thought it was a good move for us.”
“Enough said. Whatever you do, we’ve got your back,” Remy said.
Skye ran her hand up Remy’s arm and batted her eyelashes. “Does that mean you’ll play drums tonight?”
Remy hissed. “Keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and I’ll play all night every night.”
“I couldn’t resist doing that to see what would happen.”
He met her flirtatious gaze with one of his own, turning up the heat. “You sing sexy songs in a nightclub. What’d you think would happen?”
Skye blushed. “You’re different, so I wasn’t sure.”
Marcelle watched the two with interest. They were so cute together. “We need to go, or we’ll never accomplish everything on our list.”
“I agree. But here’s the thing, Skye. We’ll do what we can to help you. But if we find Bastien tomorrow, we’re going home. I doan want Capone to take his disappointment out on you,” Remy said.
Skye flicked her hair. “I can manage him.”
“Capone’s a murderer. You can’t manage a man like that.”
“Then don’t leave.”
Remy’s face immediately tightened with a worried look. “I bet you’ll be ready to kick us out before we’re ready to leave.”
“We can talk about this later.” Marcelle linked her arm with Skye’s. “Let’s go spend Remy’s money.”
“We need to buy you a trumpet,” Remy said.
“The owner of the Chicago Musical Instrument Company on Wabash Avenue was a good friend of my father’s. Mr. Mac will have everything you need,” Skye said.
“What about the men outside?” Marcelle asked.
“I’ll tell them we’re going shopping and out for lunch but will return later this afternoon,” Remy said.
“Why would you do that?”
“To fuck with ’em. That’s what those men are doing to us.”
As Marcelle reached for her borrowed coat, scarf, purse, and bell-shaped hat, she had a lightbulb moment about Bastien that sent a fresh rush of panic coursing through her veins. “Remy! You screwed up.”
He jerked. “Fuck, Marcelle. Get in line and take a ticket. Whatever I’ve done woan be the first time.”
“Your ad! We got the focus wrong. Bastien won’t go looking for bands needing sax players. He’ll go looking for bands needing trumpeters.”
“Ah, shit,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re right. If I were home, I’d call the newspaper, but I’d better fix this in person. I’ll stop by the newspaper office and redo the ad.”
“Here’s an idea,” Skye interjected. “Why not include Marcelle’s favorite song featuring a trumpet in the ad? Wouldn’t that signal Bastien that she placed it?”
Marcelle thought about that for a minute. “I think so.”
“Bastien went to Chicago for your concert last fall. He told me you played a duet. What song was that?” Remy asked.
“A Vivaldi Concerto for Two Trumpets. It would be perfect for the ad. Advertise for a trumpeter who can play that concerto. Bastien will know it’s me.”
“You play both jazz and classical? That’s rare.” Skye slipped on a coat, secured her hat with a hatpin, and wrapped a fringed scarf around her neck. “How’d you get interested in classical?”
“I studied it in college, but jazz was my first passion.”
Skye took Marcelle’s arm. “Where’d you attend college?”
“Northwestern.”
“So did I. Why didn’t we meet before?”
Marcelle thought she was older than Skye, so they wouldn’t have been students together, even if they lived in the same century. “I was in the music department. What about you?”
“My parents wanted me to be a teacher in case I couldn’t make a living as a singer.”
“That was smart.”
“I guess. Seems like I wasted four years. I’ll never teach school. Did Bastien go to Northwestern?”
“He went to the University of Alabama.”
“The most storied and decorated football program in the country,” Remy said.
“Where’d you go?”
“The University of Kentucky. The football program isn’t as storied, but its basketball program is. Clay and I have a close friend who played basketball there.”
“Who?” Marcelle asked.
“Austin O’Grady.”
“The power forward for the Nuggets?”
“What are the Nuggets?” Skye asked.
Marcelle raised her eyebrows at Remy.
“A basketball team.”
“Basketball is safer than football.”
“I get that,” Remy said, “but real men play football.”
Skye chuckled. “I’m teasing—but I have one more question. Is Bastien more handsome than Remy?”
Marcelle winked at him. “Yes, and more personable, too.”
“At least you didn’t ask if Bastien was more talented.” Remy followed the women down the stairs. “I’d object to that.”
Skye glanced back at him, smiling.
“I’d say it’s a toss-up,” Marcelle said. “It depends on which instrument you prefer to listen to.”
“Music is my life. I love to listen to it all, especially Remy’s drums,” Skye said.
“It’s been a while since I heard him play John Bonham’s ‘Moby Dick,’ Ginger Baker’s ‘Toad,’ Ringo Starr’s ‘The End,’ Art Blakey’s ‘A Night in Tunisia,’ or Mitch Mitchell’s ‘Fire,’ but if you heard him, you’d know how talented he is,” Marcelle said.
“I already know he’s talented. But I’m not familiar with those songs. Will you play them?”
“Depends on what kind of kit I can assemble,” Remy said. “In all honesty, my drumming style isn’t dependent on the equipment. My talent stems from my jazz-influenced technique and improvisational skill. I’ll gripe about it, but as long as I have a bass drum, snare, cymbals, and toms, I’ll be fine.”
“I bet I could buy a drum kit this morning and be able to play a simple song by lunchtime,” Skye said.
Remy gasped. “Tell me you didn’t say that.”
Clay laughed. “A drummer’s role, Skye, extends beyond keeping tempo. They’re essential to shaping a song’s feel and structure. Drummers like Ringo Starr revolutionized the perception of their instrument by introducing unique, innovative beats that were integral to a band’s signature sound.”
Skye cocked her head. “Ringo?”
“He’s a legend. I’ll tell you about him later.” Remy held the door, and they all left the house. “Take these.” He handed Skye the car keys.
Her eyes widened. “I get to drive?”
“It’s your car.”
Skye kissed his cheek before rushing toward the vehicle. “Is there enough room for all of us?” She scrambled into the driver’s seat.
“Clay and I can sit in the rumble seat.” Marcelle looked at him. “Is that okay?”
Clay eyed the rumble seat and grinned. “You’ll have to sit on my lap. Is that okay?”
“Hmmm.” She put her hands on the outside of his shoulders as if taking a measurement. Then she pivoted toward the car and pantomimed measuring the seat with the width of her hands. “You might be right. Why don’t you get in first, and we’ll see how much room I’ll have?”
He settled into the seat. “This is my lucky day. Looks like your options are to sit on my lap or we’ll walk.”
Marcelle put her finger on her cheek and tapped it. “Sorry, mister. I’ll sit in the front seat with Skye.”
Clay dramatically threw back his head. “You’re killing me, Celle.”
Remy pulled her toward the passenger seat door. “Stay right here. If there’s trouble, run back inside.” He glanced at Clay and pointed with his chin. “I’ll be right back.” Remy walked in front of the car and crossed the street.
“What’s he doing?” Marcelle asked.
Clay hopped out and stood close to Marcelle. “He’s going to chat with Capone’s men. If I tell you to run, go back inside. And don’t ask questions.”
“What should I do?” Skye asked.
“You won’t have time to get out. Hit the gas pedal, drive to the rear entrance, and we’ll meet you inside.”
“You’re overreacting,” Skye said.
“Those are Capone’s men, and we know what he’s capable of, and Remy might say something that pisses them off.”
“If Skye drives off, you and Remy won’t have any cover,” Marcelle said.
“I’ll dive into the rumble seat.”
“What about Remy?”
“He won’t need it.”
“But—”
“Shush!” Clay snapped, his gaze drilling into Remy across the street.
Marcelle flinched. The swift dismissal felt like a slap. “Twice in twelve hours.”
Clay’s focus remained locked until a minute later, when a wave of harsh laughter from Capone’s men signaled that the immediate danger had passed. When Remy swaggered back toward the car, Clay finally turned to her, his expression tight. “I’m sorry, Marcelle. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
“Why did you?”
“I was frantically running scenarios in my mind,” he admitted, his gaze intense. “Trying to figure out how to keep you safe if this whole damned street erupted.”
“What the hell was that about?” Clay demanded when Remy slid into the front seat of the Ford.
“Get in. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Clay heaved Marcelle into the rumble seat and vaulted in beside her. “Go!”
Marcelle’s anger evaporated as she glared back at the men, the grim realization settling in. The scene was a stark reminder of the previous night’s shooting and how much closer to death they’d just been. Her pride was still bleeding, but she no longer resented Clay’s demand.
Clay’s arm tightened around her shoulder. “I was terrified for you after the trouble you had last night.”
She appreciated his concern and vowed that if this ever happened again, she’d be armed and ready to fight back.
Skye floored the Ford, sending it roaring down the street, her scarf a fringed banner whipping in the wind—the perfect picture of a dangerous femme fatale.