Chapter 21 #2
“You’re right. Capone would take his anger out on them.” Marcelle’s disappointment cut straight into Clay’s heart. “But—”
“There is no but, Marcelle. These men are killers. They shoot first and don’t ask questions.” Three pairs of eyes were relentless in their stares. He took a deep breath and slanted a look at her. “We can’t take a risk.”
“Clay’s right,” Sean said. “We’ll find Bastien, but we must be smart about it. I know Madden’s partner. He hires the talent here. I’ll talk to him. If a man looking for a job as a saxophonist has applied here, he’ll know.”
She sighed heavily. “Thanks.”
The waiter returned with menus that showcased an eclectic mix of cuisines.
Beyond the standard steak and lobster, the offerings spanned Chinese and Mexican dishes, fried chicken, and barbecued spareribs.
After placing their orders, hours melted away in a blur of food, laughter about the MacKlennas, and dancing.
Around midnight, Sean announced he was heading to the men’s room and would try to find his contact to ask about Bastien. Thirty minutes later, with Eleanor’s patience wearing thin, she sent Clay to find him.
He began his search in the men’s room before descending to the performers’ dressing rooms. Having been backstage at countless New York theaters, he was familiar with the labyrinthine network of spaces.
Rounding a corner, he nearly collided with Sean, who was sharing a cigar with Duke Ellington and another man.
“Whoa!” Sean said.
Clay eyed the unknown man, mentally running his face through his gangster bibliography and coming up blank. “Sorry. Eleanor sent me to find you. She wants to dance.”
Sean clapped Clay’s shoulder. “Okay, but first, I want you to meet Duke Ellington and George DeMange, Mr. Madden’s partner.
” DeMange was a slim, dapper man with a gentle smile and was probably a killer.
“Gentlemen, this is the young man I was telling you about. He’s a very talented musician.
” Sean pulled a cigar from his pocket and offered it to Clay, but he waved it away.
“Haven’t you picked the habit up from Elliott? ”
“It seems all the men in the family smoke cigars but me. I’m a mountain climber.
Smoking reduces oxygen capacity and increases the risk of altitude sickness.
” All three men looked at him like he was nuts, and he wasn’t sure if that was because he didn’t smoke cigars or because he liked mountain climbing.
“No point in wasting a good cigar on a man who doesn’t appreciate it. ”
George anchored the cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Artist, musician, and mountain climber. What instrument do you play?”
Clay gave the gangster a small smile. “Piano, guitar, flute, and double bass.”
“I heard you played trumpet.”
“My fiancée plays trumpet, but neither of us is looking for a job. We are looking for a saxophonist to play classical duets with her. Do you know anyone?”
“I don’t, but a young man was in here yesterday afternoon looking for a job with the band. He was carrying a saxophone,” George said. “Didn’t look like a chap who’d play classical.”
Clay pulled out his notebook again, this time to jot down notes. “Why? What’d he look like?”
“Your height and build, shaved and barbered, and impeccably dressed in a snappy wool three-piece, double-breasted suit.”
Clay quickly sketched Bastien’s face. “Did he look like this man?”
George eyed the sketch with suspicion before nodding. “Best I can remember. He had penetrating blue eyes that women probably find appealing.”
A whirl of shimmering costumes and dazzling smiles swept past Clay, their tap shoes a thunderous clatter and staccato click against the hardwood floor as they waved in unison.
Clay should talk to them now before missing his chance.
If Bastien had been here, the dancers would have gravitated toward him.
“Keep the racket down,” George hissed.
The dancers stared, mesmerized, at Clay. One woman, lost in the spectacle, bumped into him.
“Watch where you’re going,” George hissed again.
After the dancers swirled away, questions rolled off Clay’s tongue as if he’d meticulously scripted them. “Did the man ask if he could audition?”
“He did. Told him we weren’t interested.”
“Was he persistent?” While George answered questions, Clay sketched Duke Ellington for Marcelle.
“As persistent as you.”
“Sorry about that. I’m an investigative journalist. If I’m not persistent, I won’t get the story.”
“Are you writing one about The Cotton Club?”
Clay couldn’t tell if the idea pleased George, so he said, “I’m just looking for my friend.”
“Before he left, he asked if we’d recently hired a female trumpeter.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I told him no. He walked away, but before he left the building, he played a saxophone riff that was undiluted seduction. The place went dead silent, listening to a clarion call for sex, unlike anything I’ve ever heard.”
“If the music was so good, why didn’t you hire him?”
“He was gone before I could react. I ran out onto the street just as a black Chevrolet peeled away with him in it. That riff is still playing in my brain. Do you know what it was?”
“No idea.” The top three saxophone songs listeners considered pure seduction were “Careless Whisper,” “Smooth Operator,” and “Just the Two of Us.” Clay’s money was on “Careless Whisper.” Clay jotted down some notes and asked Duke Ellington, “Did you hear the riff?”
“I wasn’t here.”
That was a fortunate turn of events. Had Ellington heard the piece, he almost certainly would have composed his own interpretation. Despite the stylistic differences, an Ellington rendition would have likely eclipsed George Michael’s work, denying him due recognition.
“If you find your friend, tell him to come back and play that song. Our audience will be fucking on the tables,” George said.
“I’ll tell him. Do you know where he would have gone next in his job search?”
“Try Connie’s Inn and Ed Small’s Paradise. Those two and The Cotton Club are the three most popular nightclubs in Harlem.”
Clay made a quick note of the names and considered what he knew and what he didn’t. “If they’re only a few blocks away, why didn’t he walk?”
“Maybe he couldn’t walk that far.”
“What do you mean?” Clay suspected Bastien was limping, but wanted to hear it from George.
“He was carrying a cane and had a stiff gait,” George said. “Figured it was a war injury and didn’t give it another thought.”
Clay nodded, taking a moment to think of other questions, but came up blank. “You’ve been very helpful. Thanks.” He put his notebook away and shook hands with both men.
Sean and Clay took the stairs to the main floor. “Thanks for finding them,” Clay said. “Marcelle will be relieved we got a lead.”
“Do you know what song he played?”
“Probably ‘Careless Whisper.’ George Michael wrote it in the 1980s while riding a bus to a gig in London. It’s one of the best-selling songs of all time.”
“I’d like to hear it. Can Marcelle play it on the trumpet?”
“I’m sure she can, but it’s not the same. The sax is warm, expressive, and mellow, and the trumpet is bright, powerful, and sometimes piercing. It’s the saxophone’s tone that makes the song so evocative.”
“I’ll ask her,” Sean said.
When Clay and Sean returned to the table, they found Marcelle and Eleanor deep in a hushed, intense conversation, heads nearly touching. The moment they sat down, the two women abruptly pulled apart.
Marcelle’s brow lifted hopefully. “Any luck?”
“Bastien was here yesterday.”
Marcelle crossed her hands over her heart. “Thank God. We have a lead. How’d he look?”
“He asked for a job and information about you. They turned him down and said they hadn’t heard of a female trumpeter. They suggested a couple of places to check out next.”
“But how was he?” Panic hemmed her voice.
“Shaved, barbered, and well-dressed.”
She shook Clay’s arm as if he were withholding information, and she could shake it loose. “His leg. How was his leg? Did anyone comment on his gait?”
“He was using a cane and had a slight limp, but when he left, he climbed into a black Chevrolet, not a taxi.”
“He was with somebody. That’s good news. I want to go talk to whoever saw him.” She tried to stand, but Clay grasped her hand. “We’re close to finding him, Clay.”
“Let’s make a plan first. During World War I, thousands of soldiers suffered devastating injuries, so it’s not unusual to see a man limping.”
“You just referred to the Great War as World War I. That implies there will be another. When?” Sean asked.
Clay cringed. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
Sean leaned forward. “But you did. Tell me.”
“It’s from 1939 to 1945, but America doesn’t enter until 1941.”
Sean refilled their glasses from the champagne bottle. “Do we win?”
“We do.” Clay sighed. “It’s a bloody conflict and the largest war in history.”
Marcelle sipped her drink. “Can we talk about Bastien instead of war? Did he have his saxophone?”
“Yes, and he played a song on the way out that had everyone abuzz. Do you know which one he would’ve played that could’ve sent an audience into a frenzy?”
She thought for a moment. “Only one song could cause that kind of reaction. It had to be ‘Careless Whisper.’ The song is a dive into love, betrayal, and heartbreak. The sax makes it soulful and unforgettable.”
“That’s what I thought. Sean wants to hear you play it on the trumpet.”
“It’s not the same, but it’s close enough that the listener gets the gist of it,” she said.
“I’m looking forward to it.” Then Sean asked Eleanor, “What were you two talking about while we were gone?”
“Just women’s stuff,” Eleanor said.
It could be women’s stuff, but Clay sensed it was something more. Would Marcelle tell him if he asked? Maybe, but instead of asking, he’d wait to see if she volunteered the information.
“If Bastien went to clubs nearby looking for a job, he might play at one of them tonight,” Marcelle said. “Let’s go check them out. It’s still early.”
“Are you sure?” Clay asked. “It’s been a long day, and we need to pace ourselves.” Clay could go a few days without sleep, but Marcelle was under enough stress without piling on exhaustion.
“It’s been a long day. I’m tired, but I don’t want to miss out on a chance to find him.”
“Then we’ll go.” To Sean and Eleanor, he said, “Do you two want to go with us?”
“What would you like to do, Ellie?” Sean asked, deferring to his wife.
“If you don’t mind, I’m ready to go home. It would be easier for the two of you to search for your brother without worrying about us.”
“You’re no worry, but I completely understand.” Marcelle checked her watch. “It’s almost one o’clock. Let’s set a time limit.”
“How about two hours?” Clay asked. “We’ll go to Connie’s Inn for a drink and then call it quits for tonight.”
“We can look at a map tomorrow and make a plan to hit as many speakeasies as possible,” Sean said.
Clay stood and pulled out Marcelle’s chair. “I’ll pick up the tab.”
“It’s taken care of,” Sean said. “Mr. Madden paid for dinner.”
On the way out, Mae West stopped Clay and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for the drawing. I’ll cherish it.”
“Sketching you is a highlight of my life.” He thought Marcelle would tease him about the kiss, but she was too focused on Bastien to react.
Once outside, Sean said, “If you get leads and need my help, call, and I’ll join you.”
“It would have to be an emergency to do that, but if Remy calls, let him know what we’re doing and leave me a note. I’ll call him back.”
“Won’t it be too late?” Marcelle asked.
“He’d rather hear from me than not.” Unless he were in bed with Skye, and then he’d beat the hell out of Clay for messing with his evening. But Clay didn’t care.
Clay and Marcelle waited on the sidewalk with the MacKlennas until their driver pulled up to take them home.
Eleanor hugged Marcelle. “Please be careful.”
“Always,” Marcelle said.
Clay and Sean shook hands. “If you get into trouble and have to use the brooch to get out of it, please send me a message,” Sean said.
“If we have to leave in an emergency, I’ll leave a message in the bookcase at the farm.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that. But if you aren’t at the mansion in the morning, I’ll call the farm and have my son look in the hiding place.” Sean and Eleanor settled into the vehicle and waved goodbye.
“What’s with the bookcase?” Marcelle asked.
“There’s a secret compartment in the bookcase in Sean’s office on MacKlenna Farm. The family has used it to leave messages between the past and the present.”
“I can’t wait to hear those stories.”
“And you will. Come on, let’s go barhopping.” He clasped her hand, and they strolled down Lenox Avenue.
“Do you think we’ll find him?”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted to the street ahead, steps slowing just a fraction. “If we don’t,” he said carefully, “there’s a purpose we don’t understand.”
She glanced at him. “Why do you say that?”
“Based on what the clan knows about the brooches,” he continued, turning the idea over as he spoke, “we should find Bastien quickly—now that we know where he landed.”
She frowned. “Maybe the rules for my brooch are different.”
He stopped and faced her. “We didn’t travel with yours.”
“But I did,” she said, meeting his eyes, “and so did Bastien.”
“That’s true, but with all the brooches, finding the stranded traveler has never taken long. Even in London in 1944, David found Kenzie within hours. Their adventure went downhill afterward, but it turned out okay.”
“Are you saying we could find him tonight, but complications could screw up our return? If so, let’s grab him and get out of here.”
Clay had a vision of running through the bayou with Bastien, mirroring the earlier one with Archibald and Violet.
But Clay didn’t trust any of his visions right now.
A deep, unsettling chill took root beneath his skin.
He hoped his inner turmoil wouldn’t surface, causing Marcelle to worry or, worse, to lose faith in him.
If she did, he knew with absolute certainty that his own would shatter, too.