Chapter 14 Chicago, 1928—Remy
“That’s a wrap, gang,” Clay announced as the final chord vibrated into silence. An ascending glissando followed, his hand slamming down on the final, triumphant note.
“Fuck yeah!” Remy said, swiveling off his drum throne and stretching slowly, the motion deliberate, controlled—like he was reining something in.
Trainer Ted’s meticulous regimen had become a habit.
Years without stretching were a distant memory, and Remy had to admit the routine improved his playing.
They had pounded away for over two hours.
As much as Remy could play drums all night, he recognized that Marcelle’s facial muscles, neck, shoulders, and arms were likely fatigued.
Skye’s voice also needed a break. Besides, he was ready to get up close and personal with the jet-black-haired vocalist.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Skye said, her gaze settling on Remy and not moving.
He raised his eyebrows, aware of exactly what he was hoping she meant—and how dangerous that hope felt. “What do you have in mind?”
Grinning, she glanced at her watch. “It’s five o’clock. If we go on stage at nine, we should be there by eight, meaning we should leave by seven thirty. “That gives us two and a half hours,” she said lightly. “To relax, eat, dress… or whatever.”
Remy flashed his eyebrows again—and Skye answered with a smile that felt like a dare.
“I’m ready to kick off my shoes, put my feet up, and enjoy a cocktail from Remy’s flask,” Marcelle said. “Hope you have enough for all of us.”
“Got a good stash of the stuff, but it woan last forever.”
“Give me a heads-up before you exhaust your supply,” Skye said. “I’ve got a cellar full of pre-prohibition whisky, which was the best available, but the contents of your flask are better. Plus, it gives me the creeps to go down there. I swear it’s haunted.”
“Remy and I grew up on bayou ghost stories. We’ll go down there,” Marcelle said.
“Have at it,” Skye said. “I’ll send help if you don’t come back.”
“As kids, Marcelle, Bastien, and I would take the canoe out and paddle around the muddy swamps. We never knew if we’d hear bellowing alligators or eerie silence. Add a touch of Spanish moss dropping on your head, and a kid could really freak out.”
“Not Remy, though,” Marcelle said. “You can’t fix stupid. We tried, but he’d get mad at the gators for ruining his boat ride and hit ’em in the eyes with a paddle.”
Skye gave a brief, shocked laugh. “You did?”
Remy shrugged. “Twice, but I had to do something. Marcelle was shaking so badly I thought she’d flip the canoe, and we’d all be gator bait.”
Marcelle gave him a backhanded tap to his belly. “That’s not funny, and I was never that scared.”
Remy nodded, mouthing to Skye, “Yes, she was.”
“While you guys are reminiscing about South Louisiana gators, I was wondering why Skye has all that whiskey. Are you a rum runner?” Clay asked.
“My father was an investor. When news spread of the proposed Eighteenth Amendment, he didn’t rage like most men at the idea of Prohibition.
He saw an opportunity and bought as much Wild Turkey Rye, Cyrus Nobel Bourbon Whisky, Knob Creek, Hudson Baby Bourbon, and Michter’s Straight Rye as he could find.
He believed America would one day wake up and repeal the amendment.
When that happened, he could make a lot of money selling whisky to legitimate businesses. ”
A single, chilling thought slammed into Remy. “Does Capone know about your stockpile? That could explain why those guards are outside?”
“There’s no way Capone could know.”
“But if he did or has heard rumors about two guys coming to town and staying at your house, he’d be suspicious.”
“And think I’m ready to move my whisky,” she said. “Capone’s bootleggers have a bloodhound’s sense of smell. If that’s why they’re guarding the house, they’ll pick up the scent.”
“If Capone caught a whiff of your whisky, your home would already be crawling with his men,” Remy said. “We have to keep him away from here. We’re musicians, not targets. He can never cross this threshold.”
“They won’t get an invitation from me,” Skye said. “But Capone wanted to give us protection, and we told him no. That’s probably all it is.”
Remy spun his drumsticks. “Out of curiosity. How many bottles do you have?”
“Probably a thousand.”
“Great. Just great.” Clay picked up the brown leather bag and started packing the double bass. “We’ve got to forget about the stash and focus on music. If Capone wants the whisky, he’ll take it and leave us to rot in the basement.”
“That thought terrifies me.” Skye gathered the sheet music for the songs they planned to sing and slipped the pages into a leather portfolio. “Since there’s no gumbo, I’ll ask Anita to fix a light supper before we go to the Sunset Café.”
“I was looking forward to the gumbo. Weren’t you, Skye?” Marcelle asked as she wiped down her trumpet and put it in the case.
“Go ahead. Give me a hard time. I might never make it now.”
Skye wrapped her arm around his waist, pulling him just close enough that stepping away would have been noticeable.
“You’ll cook for me,” she said—not quite a question.
“I’ll do whatever you want me to do, dollface.”
She stretched to reach him, her lips brushing his cheek.
He gazed down at her smiling face. It took all the restraint he had not to kiss her—properly—right then. “What was that for?”
“It was a thank-you kiss.”
“Do I get to give you one?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
She turned her face and tapped her cheek with her index finger.
He bowed his head and lingered—long enough to make the restraint unmistakable. If they’d been alone, the rules he lived by would already be unraveling. Their much-too-short kiss had promised she could kiss like she authored the how-to book for women.
Clay cleared his throat. Remy shot him a look that promised retribution later.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Clay said. “We should probably carry the instruments to the front room to grab on our way out.”
“Leave everything here. I’ll pull the car up to the back door,” Skye said, already deciding for all of them.
“What about your drums? How long will it take to disassemble the kit?” Clay asked.
“I ordered two of everything. Mr. Mac was delivering the other set to the Sunset Café. After putting this one together, the other one shouldn’t take long.”
“Why don’t you take the car and the instruments to the restaurant? The girls and I will take a taxi,” Clay said.
“Why doan you? It’s your double bass and guitar keeping us from going in one vehicle.” There was no reason to be testy, but Remy was. They had little time, and he wanted to spend it with Skye. Alone!
“Stop being pissy,” Marcelle said.
He held her gaze, defensively daring her to criticize him again.
“I’ll go find Anita and ask her to prepare a tray of appetizers. We’ll eat in the upstairs library. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll meet you there.” Skye grabbed her portfolio and smiled at Remy on her way out.
Marcelle led the way toward the front of the house. “Knowing Skye has all that whisky downstairs makes me nervous.”
“Me too, but we can’t worry about it. We’ve got too much to do,” Clay said.
Before they reached the stairs, a sharp knock on the door froze them in place. Alarm prickled Remy’s scalp—but his attention flicked once, instinctively, to Skye. He hissed the question through clenched teeth, “Are we expecting company?”
“You open it, Remy,” Marcelle said.
He reached down for the Sig strapped to his ankle and held it behind his back. “Go to the living room and check the street. Be careful and doan let anyone see you.”
A few seconds later, Marcelle called out, “It’s Archibald.”
Remy opened the door and noticed Capone’s men staring at the front of the house. He stepped aside and nodded. “Come on in.”
Archibald gazed back across the street. “Should I wave to yer guards?”
“Yeah,” Remy said, fighting the impulse to produce the weapon from behind his back. He wanted nothing more than to point it at the gangsters and tell them to go fuck themselves.
“Where’s Violet?” Clay asked.
Archibald’s posture slumped, and the set of his shoulders screamed rejection. “I couldn’t find her, which means she left.” He held out an envelope. “This was in the door addressed to ye, Clay.”
“Must be the paperwork and key for the car. Did you see a shiny blue Model A Ford sports coupe with a rumble seat outside? I told the salesman at the dealership that if we weren’t home, they could leave the documentation and key at the door.”
“It’s parked in front of the house behind a red one.”
Clay opened the door and stepped out onto the stoop to see the car. “She’s a beauty. Nobody will have to ride in the chilly rumble seat tonight.” He went back inside and asked Archibald, “How do you know Violet left?”
A sheen glazed Archibald’s eyes, a vulnerability he fiercely blinked back. “If Violet were here, I’d track her down in a heartbeat.” A listless shrug followed. “I might have seen her with someone else.”
Clay’s hand landed heavily on Archibald’s shoulder, a silent brace. “Who?”
“I’m not sure.”
Remy spotted the muscle jump in Clay’s jaw and realized Clay didn’t trust a word of Archibald’s story. Only one other person made sense as a companion for Violet’s exit. It had to be Erik.
Skye met them in the foyer. “Archibald! So nice to see you again.”
“I’m taking ye up on yer offer. If that’s okay.”
Skye hooked her arm around his elbow, grounding herself there. “Of course it is. We were just going upstairs for cocktails.”
He tapped the leather portfolio she was carrying. “Is that yer song list for tonight?”
“It is. We need to put the songs in order so the band will know what’s coming next. You can review the list, and if you see a song you’d like to sing, we’d love to have you on stage with us.”
“The offer is tempting, but I’ll sit in the audience tonight.”
They climbed to the second floor, and Clay took Archibald’s suitcase. “You can share a room with me.”