Chapter 22
The violent whirling and brutal push-and-pull inside the acrid fog ended when the brakes slammed down, dragging the runaway roller-coaster to a stop. The journey had been punishing—disorienting and utterly without thrill. There was no exhilaration at the end, only the hollow relief of survival.
Bastien stood motionless, forcing his breathing into a steady pace. When the fog cleared, it might be a fight for his life—and his sister’s. He swallowed the urge to call her name and reached out, blind, searching for anything solid. There was nothing. He stayed rooted, waiting.
Then the smells hit him—rank, greasy onion garbage—making his nose twitch. The jingle of horse traces followed, disorienting. A racetrack? A barn?
As he fought to focus, the fog carried voices—thick Irish brogue, the clipped cadence of German accents—snapping into clarity. Chicago was a melting pot, but these were fresh-off-the-boat voices, raw and unsoftened by time.
The fog thinned. Bastien thrust his hands forward, parting it like a velvet curtain—and recoiled at once, yanking them back as it closed again.
What the hell?
He tried once more.
What the fuck?
For a moment, he wondered if he’d landed in another war zone. But the silence argued otherwise—no gunfire, no explosions. Just emptiness. He moved forward, taking in the sagging buildings, the filth choking the streets. Was this a dream?
No, the grit beneath his boots was too real.
The fog finally burned away as the sun dipped low.
In the fading light, decay gave way to detail.
A street sign promised answers and delivered none: Third Avenue and East Seventh Street.
But where? No skyline he recognized. The cars on the road were wrong—vintage, unmistakably old. Not props. Not a show.
This wasn’t an antique rally. It wasn’t a set.
He abandoned the idea of fiction as gaunt figures shuffled past, their exhaustion too real for makeup. Whatever this place was, it was real—and he was in it.
A review of his last conscious moments yielded a fragmented memory.
The last clear image burned behind his eyes—Marcelle in her bedroom, staring at the cryptic inscription on her brooch. Then the fog, sudden and suffocating. He’d fought to tear her free, but the thing had held fast. Now he stood alone in this place, the woman he’d sworn to protect gone.
Maybe her passage was longer. Maybe it bent differently. If so, finding her would take time. Bastien accepted that. Staying put—becoming something she could locate—felt like the only choice. Sound might carry where sight could not. His name, shouted into the void, might help. Or better—
Thank God he still had his sax.
He set his embouchure by instinct, drew a deep breath, and let the first notes of “Stardust” spill into the air. If Marcelle were anywhere close, she’d recognize it. The melody unfurled, warm and aching, and people began to gather. Faces turned. Coins clinked. But Marcelle didn’t appear.
When the last note faded, and she was still gone, he didn’t stop. He slid into “Rhapsody in Blue,” then “Honeysuckle Rose,” then “Ain’t Misbehavin’.” The crowd thickened, applause rising between songs, urging him on. He played into the night, relying on early jazz he trusted.
To keep them—and buy her more time—he’d need something newer.
He was about to transition from early jazz into his 1930s and ’40s repertoire when a middle-aged man stepped out of the crowd.
“I own that saloon,” he said, his finger jabbing toward the establishment. “You’re keeping my customers out here where I can’t sell drinks. Move to another corner or go to that fancy party you’re all dressed up for.”
Bastien didn’t want to fight the big Irishman, but he couldn’t leave the corner until he found Marcelle. “Party’s over. I missed it. But I’m waiting for my sister. I can’t leave here.”
“Then come to my saloon and play for my customers inside. I had a singer booked for tonight who didn’t show up. I’ll pay you. Why give away your talent when you can get paid for it?”
If Bastien went with the Irishman, Marcelle could still hear him play through the open windows. Plus, he needed money for a hotel. “Do you sell food?”
“The best biscuits you’ve ever eaten, Mr.—”
“LeBlanc. Bastien LeBlanc. My sister Marcelle was supposed to meet me here.”
“As long as you keep playing, she’ll follow the music.” Then the Irishman told the audience, “Mr. LeBlanc will continue playing at the saloon. If you want to hear more, stop in for a glass of near beer.”
“Are you letting in ladies tonight?” a woman shouted.
“Not tonight, Sarah. Women don’t belong in a saloon.”
Bastien glanced up and down the street, and the Irishman clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll find her.”
“But you won’t let her in.”
The Irishman chuckled. “She can come in the back entrance.”
They reached the bar on the ground floor of a red-brick tenement. “Are your patrons mostly Irish?” Bastien asked.
“And German workingmen from the neighborhood.”
The Irishman opened the door, and the smell of a lumberyard smacked Bastien in the nose. “After you.”
The men in the crowd followed them in, and the women sat on the curb to listen.
The saloon quickly filled, its bar sagging like an old mattress, soon slick with sloshing beer.
Thick cobwebs hung from the corners of the ceiling, and a potbelly stove radiated heat into the stale air.
The sawdust-covered floor seemed to shrink the space further under the multiple shadows cast by electric lights.
Yellowed articles from The New York Times plastered every wall, a collection he intended to read before he left.
A copy of the day’s paper lay on the sticky bar top, distinct from the historical clippings waiting for their turn on the wall.
The date jumped out at him—March 1928. What the fuck? How was it possible? Did it matter? Did how, why, or when matter? He was here in New York City, and Marcelle wasn’t.
That’s what mattered.
A jasper-studded brooch bearing a magical inscription was his sole salvation.
Then, the realization struck. Bastien and Marcelle had discarded the brooch back in her bedroom, sacrificing any hope of ever returning home.
But that was a mere prelude to the more devastating truth that slammed into him with the force of a freight train.
His new reality as an amputee, stranded in a primitive world devoid of the advantages he once took for granted.
He would never again run. Never again scale a mountain.
And when his prosthesis inevitably failed, there would be no modern VA prosthetics clinic to offer repair or replacement.
He was fucked.
But hold on one goddamn minute.
Bastien, never one for self-pity, refused to start now. He forcefully shook off his fear, focusing his entire being on the present and his music.
Off to one side was a small stage, holding the oldest, most dilapidated drum kit Bastien had ever laid eyes on. The sound, he instantly concluded, must be utterly atrocious. A sharp thought of Remy flashed through his mind—what the hell would Remy say about that monstrosity?
The Irishman handed him a mug. “Pretend it’s a beer.”
Bastien sipped the drink—whisky. Its aroma, a complex blend of chocolate and cedar, was instantly recognizable. He’d bet his last dollar it was an Old Forester label. “So, where are the biscuits?”
“You play. I’ll feed you.”
Bastien inched through the packed room and took the stage, standing next to the kiddie drums and a metal-frame bar stool with a wooden seat. “Shout out your requests!” he encouraged. “If I don’t know it, I’ll improvise.”
As soon as he finished one song, a customer hollered a request, and then another, and another, until Bastien lost track of time and how many songs he’d played. Every so often, he stopped for a drink or a bite of a biscuit, but kept performing, losing himself in his music.
He was in his happy place, but he missed his bandmates. The gig became a marathon session, and he didn’t want it to end. If Marcelle was out there, he wanted her to hear him.
Finally, the Irishman killed the lights, and while the customers grumbled, they headed toward the door. Bastien remained behind to read a few of the newspaper articles.
The Irishman handed him twenty bucks. “We never agreed on a fee, but you more than earned this.”
“Thanks.” Bastien tucked the money into a pocket.
“Where’s your home?”
“Virginia. Marcelle and I came up here to play some gigs.”
“If you need a place to stay the night, you’re welcome to the sofa in my back room. It’s not much, but it’s not the floor either.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He then realized he would have a decent place to sleep while Marcelle might not. The thought sliced through his gut like the piece of shrapnel that claimed his leg.
The Irishman pressed his nail into one of the brittle newspapers plastered on the wall above the drums. “That was one hell of a night. Best fight I’ve ever seen.
Customers packed the place. You couldn’t walk through here.
My partner, Patrick Mallory, took on this big German fella named Kraus.
In the tenth round, Patrick threw one punch after another.
Kraus hit the ropes and stood there dazed.
Patrick finished with a powerful uppercut that sent Kraus to the mat, covered in blood. ”
Bastien shivered and tried to warn himself not to jump to a far-fetched conclusion. The day had been so fucked up that anything was possible. But not this. “I know a guy with that name.” Bastien squinted at the photograph. “What does he look like?”
“Best I remember after all these years, he was tall, over six feet, probably a hundred eighty pounds, muscular with blue eyes and a firm jaw. He was also a lawyer. I thought he was smart until he got into the ring with that German.”
Bastien’s brain flip-flopped from total surprise to what-the-fuck. “Sounds like my friend.” He was almost afraid to ask his next question, but he did. “Where does he live?”