Chapter 21
“I’m glad we don’t have to look for a parking space,” Marcelle said. “You probably couldn’t find one within a half mile.”
“Parking is a problem in the city,” Sean said.
“If you think it’s a problem now, come to the twenty-first century with us,” Marcelle said. “You can see firsthand that it will only get worse, even though a majority of New Yorkers use public transportation.”
“City planners should act now to prepare for that,” Eleanor said.
“Most city planners typically only prepare Master Plans for fifteen to twenty years ahead,” Clay said.
“They can’t envision what a hundred years in the future will look like.
” Though Archibald had described the future, Clay couldn’t form a mental image.
It was all a blur, which was okay with him unless he planned to write futuristic novels.
Their turn to disembark at the canopy arrived with the abruptness of a subway car halting at a station. Clay sprang out behind Sean, and they quickly assisted Marcelle and Eleanor. The two couples then fell into step, joining the queue to settle the cover charge and enter the club.
Clay whispered to Marcelle, “I just had the weirdest thought of you and Bastien waiting in line to present invitations to enter a gala.”
“If only I hadn’t purchased that brooch. None of this would have happened.”
Clay bit his lip before saying he couldn’t complain. Because of the brooch, he met her, reunited with his parents, met Sean and Eleanor, bonded with Remy, and heard some great jazz.
The crowd choked the wide staircase, a solid mass from the top step to the ground floor. Escape was impossible. The sheer density of bodies sealed off the exit. Clay pressed his hand at the curve of Marcelle’s lower back as she gathered her dress to clear the steps.
“Is it always this crowded?” Clay asked Sean.
“Every night,” Sean said. “I called this morning to get a reservation. If not for a cancellation, we wouldn’t have been able to get in.”
“I’m so glad you did. It gives me goose bumps to have the chance to hear Duke Ellington live and in person,” Marcelle said.
“If you could play any piece with him, what would it be?” Sean asked.
“‘East St. Louis Toodle-O’.” She pretended to hold a trumpet with one hand while lip-buzzing the song.
Sean and the others on the stairs laughed. “I’ve never heard anyone do that before.”
“Louis Armstrong is a lip buzzer.”
“It’s clever,” Eleanor said. “Play something else.”
Marcelle buzzed a few measures of “Sweet Little Papa,” “Skid-Dat-De-Dat,” “My Heart,” and “Alligator Crawl,” and the patrons on the stairs applauded. And because she was in a funky mood, she buzzed “Call to the Post,” finishing just as they reached the second-floor landing.
Clay leaned in and whispered, “I hope that didn’t draw the attention of another gangster.”
“If Bastien is here, it’ll draw his attention. Even if he’s not, the news will spread about a female lip-buzzing at The Cotton Club. It’s like dropping breadcrumbs.”
Clay couldn’t argue with that.
Sean presented his name to the ma?tre d’, who immediately instructed a waiter to conduct them to their table.
Clay gripped Marcelle’s elbow firmly, steering them on a circuitous path through the dense crowd.
He shadowed the MacKlennas closely, all the while discreetly observing the diners.
As actors frequently attended shows at The Cotton Club, Clay remained vigilant, determined not to miss an opportunity to sketch a famous person.
The owners had configured the dining room in a dramatic horseshoe shape, accommodating the audience on two distinct levels.
While some tables encircled the dance floor directly in front of the tiny proscenium stage, others occupied a raised area in the back.
Booths lined the walls, with small tables squeezed into every available space on both levels.
The room, easily capable of holding six hundred people, appeared to be operating at near capacity tonight.
They arrived at their table in front of the stage and took their seats. “Did you catch who was sitting at the table next to the dance floor?” Sean asked.
“Who?” Eleanor asked.
“Mae West.”
“Noooo.” Clay sprang to his feet to get a better look. Growing up in New York City, seeing movie stars strolling through Central Park, working out in gyms, and dining at local restaurants rarely impressed him. But this was an exception. Mae West was worth the effort to meet.
“Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” He grabbed his notebook and pencil, took a position beside one of the dozen lampposts strategically arranged around the dance floor, and began sketching the legendary actress.
Once he finished the drawing, he approached her table. “Miss West, would you mind autographing this for me?” He extended the notebook for her inspection.
She glanced at the drawing, looked up at him, and then back at the drawing, smiling. “You just drew this? It’s very good.” She took his pencil. “What’s your name?”
“Clay.”
She signed it with a distinctive, stylized “Mae West.” The M and W were large and bold, and the entire name had a unique cursive style. She returned it to him. “I’d like a sketch of me to take home. Would you mind drawing another one?”
“If anyone has a fountain pen, I’ll draw your picture on a napkin or the tablecloth.”
The man beside her produced the pen he requested, while someone else efficiently cleared the dishes. She spun, and he captured her entire figure, head-to-toe, across the makeshift canvas of the tablecloth. He signed it with a flourish: CA MacIntyre. He knew he shouldn’t, but he did anyway.
“There you go. Enjoy your evening. And if you ever need another drawing, I’d love to come up and see you sometime.” Clay shot the actress a cheeky wink and swaggered away.
Marcelle was grinning when he sat beside her. “I bet you signed your name with a request to come up and see her sometime.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Really? You think I’m that shallow?”
“Is that an inside joke?” Sean asked.
“It’s a famous line from ‘She Done Him Wrong,’ a 1933 movie Miss West will star in.”
“We’ll have to remember to see the movie when it comes out,” Eleanor said.
“Does she have a Broadway show now? Is that why she’s here?” Marcelle asked.
“Her boyfriend and protector owns The Cotton Club.”
Then it clicked for Clay. “Owney Madden? He’s a notorious gangster who grew up in Hell’s Kitchen and rose to become the leader of the Gophers, the area’s most violent gang.
Madden amassed a fortune through illegal activities and commands an underworld empire with interests spanning real estate, boxing, gambling, bootlegging, and entertainment. ”
“Did you memorize his entire bio?” Marcelle asked.
“The history of New York City gangsters was part of my background research for the Russian oligarch series. I wanted to follow the development of organized crime from the early nineteenth to the twenty-first centuries. I had a particular interest in the jazz era.”
A waiter dressed in a red tuxedo brought a bottle of champagne to the table. “Compliments of the house.”
“How nice. Who can we thank for this?” If this came from Mae West, Clay intended to keep the bottle of G.H. Mumm as a souvenir. He glanced around to see if he could catch the sender’s eye and give a friendly salute with his champagne glass.
“Mr. Madden liked the drawing of Miss West and wanted to show his appreciation.” With a panache, the waiter uncorked the bottle with a loud pop.
The cork flew high, drawing attention to their table, which was the point.
The waiter filled four coupe glasses and placed the bottle in a silver bucket.
“This is the best bottle in Mr. Madden’s private collection. He hopes you’ll enjoy it.”
When the server was out of earshot, Marcelle asked, “How does he get away with being so brazen? Champagne is illegal.”
“Political connections allow the club to conduct illicit business without interference. Most of the people here tonight are wealthy Manhattanites, celebrities, and even other gangsters. They have expectations, and Mr. Madden takes care of them and charges exorbitant prices for illegal alcohol,” Sean said.
They were sipping champagne when a short, well-dressed man, followed by two bodyguards, approached the table. Clay scrolled through a mental collection of mobsters and was almost positive the man was a younger version of the Owney Madden photograph he’d seen.
“Good evening. I hope you’re enjoying the champagne. I wanted to meet the artist and the trumpeter.” He extended his hand to Clay. “I assume you’re the trumpeter.”
“I’m the artist. Marcelle is the trumpet player.”
Madden peered at Marcelle. “Do you play a real trumpet or just make sounds?”
She curved her right hand in front of her face and pressed imaginary buttons. “I play the real thing.”
“Are you as talented as Dolly Jones?”
“Since she’s the first female trumpeter to record a jazz record, I’d say she’s a step ahead of me.”
“Come backstage later tonight, and I’ll introduce you to Duke Ellington.”
“We’ll do that. And thanks again for the champagne.” Clay watched Madden walk away. “We’re not getting mixed up with another gangster. It’s not worth it.”
Marcelle glared at Clay. “You just met Mae West, and I can’t meet Duke Ellington? That’s not fair.”
“How about I go backstage and ask if anyone has seen Bastien? If I meet Duke, I’ll tell him you love his music and would like to meet him without mentioning that you play the trumpet. That way, you won’t get involved in another dicey situation.”
“Just because that happened in Chicago doesn’t mean it will happen here.”
“Are you kidding? If Duke Ellington asked you to play with his band, you’d do it in a heartbeat.
The audience will love you, and Madden will pressure you to perform again.
” Clay captured her hand. “Do you want Capone to hear you’re playing with Duke Ellington in New York City?
What do you think he’d do to Remy and Skye? ”