Chapter 12 #2
“If Remy asks,” he said, already edging away, “tell him I went for a walk around the block. I’m sure one of Capone’s men will follow me.”
Her mouth tightened. “What about your leg—where the piece of glass hit it? Don’t you need to clean it?”
He glanced down, then back at her. “It can wait a few more minutes.”
“All right.” She reached for his sleeve, holding him just long enough to make her point. “I’ll be watching the street.” She rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek, light but deliberate. “Be safe.”
He would have burned off his tension another way if he’d known she planned to kiss him.
Who was he kidding? Hitting on Marcelle was out of the question.
Flirting and having meaningful conversations?
Absolutely. But escalating things to include physical intimacy?
He simply couldn’t do it. How would they ever discern if their feelings were genuine?
And if he caused her any pain, Remy wouldn’t just kick his ass.
He’d likely kick him back to the twenty-first century.
Clay strode across the street toward Capone’s men.
The first to shoot him a killer glare was a gap-toothed man in his forties with dirty brown hair and a torso struggling within an ill-fitting, off-the-rack blue suit.
His partner, a stocky asshole with a gut that spilled over his belt, had a cauliflower ear.
Clearly, Capone was overfeeding his crew.
“I’m going for a walk around the block.”
Gap Tooth snapped his cigarette at Clay’s feet. “Maybe I’ll walk across the street and chat up the trumpet player.” The S-sound hissed through the gap in his front teeth, sounding cartoonish. “If she wants to kiss me, I won’t walk away. I’ll take her up on it.”
Clay wanted to wipe that slimy grin off Gap Tooth’s face, but he wouldn’t give the asshole what he wanted—to put a bullet in Clay’s brain.
“You can try, but her ex-husband schooled her in boxing, and she boxed his cheating ears. Now they look like your friend’s.
” Clay fixed his gaze on the burning cigarette and obliterated it, grinding it into the sidewalk.
“She hasn’t been in the ring for several days and wouldn’t mind going a couple of rounds with one of Capone’s men. ”
Gap Tooth sparked another cigarette. “No need to get the trumpet player riled up. She’s got a gig tonight. Mr. Capone wants her at the Sunset Café in mint condition, like the singer’s new car. Go on. Beat it.” Gap Tooth pointed at his partner. “Follow him.”
Clay gave Cauliflower Ear a steely eye. “I won’t wait for you.
So, keep pace.” He bolted down the street, trying to clear his mind, letting negative thoughts shatter on the sidewalk where he stomped on them.
The vision replayed on a loop. Was this vision an outlier, or could he expect others to be as intense or more so?
He had no way of knowing, but maybe he’d be more prepared.
He almost laughed. How could he prepare for that?
He trekked ten blocks, hooked a right, and strode to the next corner before turning right again.
Then he covered ten more blocks back to Skye’s.
He could go farther, but a sudden urge to get back to Marcelle before she got worried made him quicken his pace.
As he reached the last corner, he saw Skye’s house across the street and Gap Tooth still standing under the lamppost.
“Hey, asshole. What’d you do with my partner?” Gap Tooth asked.
“He’s a little slow. Unless he has a heart attack, he’ll be here in five. Remind me not to invite either of you next time.” Clay stepped off the curb, but Gap Tooth shoved an arm against his chest.
“You’re not going anywhere until my buddy shows up. You might try to pull a fast one.”
Clay laughed at how ignorant the gangster sounded. Was he imitating life, or a poorly made motion picture?
“You laughing at me?”
“I wouldn’t think of it. But look over there.” Clay pointed with his chin. “Here comes your partner now.” Cauliflower Ear turned the corner, wheezing. Clay pushed Gap Tooth’s arm out of the way. “I’m going across the street. Have a nice day.”
“What the hell took you so long?” Gap Tooth yelled.
“Next time, you follow him,” Cauliflower Ear said. “He walks too fast.”
Clay paused at the curb, performing a quick gut check. Was he better or worse? Better. But only marginally.
His hand closed around the doorknob. Before twisting it, he inhaled a deep yoga breath, forcing calm through his nose, chest, and belly. As composed as he could manage, he pushed the door open, eager to see Marcelle.
A deep, hearty laugh, instantly recognizable, echoed through the foyer.
Archibald had settled on the living room sofa, legs crossed, holding a coffee mug almost certainly fortified with whisky.
His eyes gleamed with mischief. Yes, he was already drinking.
Marcelle stood by a sunlit window—a natural spotlight—appearing almost ethereal.
Though only minutes had passed since Clay last saw her, her demeanor had transformed.
She wore a cool, captivating mask of a seasoned jazz performer.
“You seem captivated, Archibald,” Clay stated, his tone sharper than intended.
“I am.” Archibald set his cup aside with a deliberate motion, rising to his feet and resting a light hand on her shoulder.
Clay’s gaze lingered on the gesture, observing the line of Archibald’s fingers against the slope of her neck and shoulder. Clay’s thoughts moved along her silhouette before he pulled them back.
“Marcelle is extraordinary,” Archibald continued, unaware of Clay’s thoughts. “I can’t wait to hear her on stage.”
Clay firmly dismissed the erotic imagery, forcing his attention back to the conversation instead of Archibald’s hand, which seemed welded to her shoulder.
He gazed into Marcelle’s expressive eyes, which burrowed straight through the crap and into his soul, laying bare his vulnerability.
With her, he wouldn’t mind settling down.
She wouldn’t expect him to work a nine-to-five job behind a desk.
Neither would she mind if he chased after stories.
Rather, she’d encourage him to feed his boundless imagination.
“She is a mesmerizing presence.” An unwelcome weed of jealousy sprang up in Clay’s heart, causing stinging sensations in his fingertips. If he tried to sketch right now, his lines would be furious, scraggly scratches on paper.
Marcelle’s gaze flickered from Clay to Archibald. Surely, she sensed the tension in the room and was wise enough not to comment on it. Instead, she raised her new trumpet to her mouth, and the polished brass caught the glow of nature’s spotlight. It was a moment of beauty and visual elegance.
The movement of her arms compelled Archibald to drop his hand from her shoulder. Then she surprised Clay by playing the first three notes of “Taps.”
The music was disarming. Archibald returned to the sofa. “Beautiful, but now, how about some jazz?”
“If you join me on the piano, I’ll play ‘What a Wonderful World,’” Marcelle said.
“I’ll do it,” Clay said, surprised by how much he wanted to impress her.
She gave him an incredulous stare. “If you can play that, you downplayed your talent.”
“Don’t tell Remy.”
“Clay is a prodigy with perfect pitch. To him, the sound of a specific note is as recognizable as the color red or the taste of salt,” Archibald said.
“I’m no prodigy,” Clay replied, “but I can play a few different instruments by ear, just not well enough to play in a serious band.” Clay sat at the grand piano and played the intro, a cascade of notes that filled the room.
“Come on, Archibald,” he urged, his voice a low hum.
“Don’t be shy. Give us your best Armstrong. ”
Archibald cleared his throat and then sang, his voice a gritty tenor…
“I see trees of green / Red roses too / I see them bloom / For me and ye / And I think to myself / What a wonderful world.”
Clay’s fingers danced, weaving intricate keyboard embellishments into the melody before ending the song with a complex, dizzying riff.
Marcelle lowered her trumpet. “You,” she said, her eyes fixed on Archibald, “have a gritty tenor vocal range, just like Armstrong. And you, Clay, are a far better pianist than you wanted us to believe.” She returned the trumpet to its velvet-lined case.
“Have you ever met Armstrong?” she asked Archibald.
“A few times in the late 1940s and early 1950s.”
“My dream is to play a duet with him.”
“I’d pay money to see that. In the meantime, I’m looking forward to hearing you both play with the band. Although yer donkey, elephant, wah-wah, fanfare, wobble, and horse sounds on the trumpet are entertaining, the way ye played ‘What a Wonderful World’ is better than Armstrong’s.”
Marcelle’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Thanks, but that’s blasphemy.”
“I agree with Archibald,” Clay said. “Now, how about sharing your flask?”
Archibald handed over the flask, and Clay offered it to Marcelle first. She declined, so he took a swig and offered it to her again. “This is The Macallan. You’ll like it.”
She shrugged, took a drink, and her eyes widened. “Hmm. You’re right. It’s very good.” She handed the flask back.
“Did ye work out what was bothering ye?” Archibald asked.
“No, but this helps,” Clay said, taking another fortifying drink. “I saw Violet twice at the department store. Is that who you came here to see?”
Archibald snatched the flask back and returned to the sofa. “I don’t know who ye’re talking about.”
“Violet Davidson,” Clay pressed, ready to risk his future. “Your ex-wife. My birth mother.”
Archibald’s face went slack, his skin turning to ash. “I still don’t know who ye’re talking about.”
“Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it.” Clay leaned in. “I saw her, and the smile she gave me said she knew who I was. How’s that possible unless she’s been popping in and out of my life to see how I’m doing?”
“I don’t know what yer father told ye—”