Chapter 24 New York City, 1928—Bastien
Bastien and Tony emerged from the upscale halls of Bergdorf Goodman, trailed by two porters laden with their haul.
Bastien felt a transformation. He swaggered, even with a cane.
The cane was a demand from Tony. But given that Tony had essentially pulled Bastien back from the brink, he’d oblige any request from his newfound friend.
Catching his reflection in the car window, Bastien paused, adjusting the knot of his patterned tie, a perfect match for his three-piece, double-breasted wool suit. He looked like a mobster, but what the hell. As the saying goes, when in Rome… right?
Tony piled into the driver’s seat. “We have just enough time to get to Sardi’s. I don’t want Kaitlyn to arrive first and have to wait on us.”
Bastien closed the passenger side door. “I’ve been to restaurants all over this city, but never to Sardi’s. I heard there are hundreds of caricatures hanging on the walls.”
“There aren’t that many. Maybe a dozen.” Tony stopped at a stop sign to let pedestrians cross, then drove through the intersection. “If the restaurant has that many caricatures in the future, then it’ll survive for many years to come. Mr. Sardi would be happy to know that.”
“But we can’t tell him.”
“I know.”
“If Mr. Sardi is there, I’d like to meet him. Since I’ve never been to the restaurant, meeting him there would be a true New York experience.”
“He’s always there. Alex Gard, the caricaturist, is usually there, too. He and Mr. Sardi signed a contract that provided Gard with one free meal a day in return for his caricatures.”
“Sounds like a good deal to me.”
“The agreement also stipulated that Mr. Sardi couldn’t complain about the caricatures and Mr. Gard couldn’t complain about the food.”
Bastien laughed. “Do you know whose caricature Gard drew first?”
“Ted Healy.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s a bandleader and comedian. He brought the Three Stooges together. Have you heard of them?”
“Larry, Moe, and Curly? Sure?”
“Here’s a funny story.” Tony chuckled. “Three dirty cops approached Remy and Patrick in the alley behind the saloon one night and tried to extort protection money from them. Patrick called them Larry, Moe, and Curly. The cops wanted to show Remy and Patrick that they meant business and started a fight. It didn’t go well for the cops. ”
“Guess they didn’t know Remy and Patrick were boxers.”
“They didn’t, or the man Remy named Curley wouldn’t have accepted Remy’s challenge to a boxing match.”
“That’s the fight in the newspaper article?”
“The saloon has a boxing ring in the basement. I have monthly boxing matches down there. That’s where Remy fought Curly. In the fifth round, Remy’s soft tap to the jaw finished him, sending him to the mat.”
“That’s a great story. I’d love to hear Remy tell it someday.”
Tony reached over and tapped Bastien under the chin.
“You will.” Then Tony laughed again. “I haven’t relived that fight in thirty-two years.
I was irresponsible then. A dumbass boxer who wasn’t fighting smart and was getting beaten up regularly.
All that changed when I met Patrick and Remy.
When they left, they sold me the bar for a dollar.
I knew I had a lot to prove, even if they never knew their investment in me had paid off.
I got an education, fell in love, got married, had a child, invested my money, and gave back to my community. Lillian Wald helped me do all that.”
“Who’s she?”
“A public health nurse, founder of the Henry Street Settlement, and a humanitarian. Elliott Fraser helped her financially, and it paid off.”
“Sounds like the MacKlenna Clan affected New York City and its people in more ways than one.”
“They sure did, and they had faith in me.”
“Knowing Remy, he saw your good heart.”
Tony blushed. “They believed in what I could be, not what I was then.”
“You showed me compassion last night. You asked me to go to another corner or come to your saloon to entertain your customers instead of beating the shit out of me for encroaching on your territory.”
“My customers would have beaten me up if I’d stopped the entertainment. You gave my neighbors and customers an evening they’ll never forget.”
“I wish I could’ve played some music from my time.”
“Go ahead. Remy did, and most of my customers didn’t understand Kenzie’s jokes, but they laughed at her delivery. She asked the customers to laugh at one joke, and she’d bring back the singer, but they told her to tell a funny one.”
“Did McBain play his sax?”
Tony nodded. “My customers loved it.”
They rode in silence for a couple of blocks until Bastien said, “After lunch, I’d like to take a taxi to Harlem and interview with a few clubs for a job as a saxophone player.
I’ll start with The Cotton Club and then The Savoy.
Marcelle is familiar with those two. Maybe she’s been there looking for a job. ”
“I’ll drive you up there.”
“You need to get back to the saloon. I’ll take a taxi and be back tonight to entertain your customers.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but I want to. Besides, I enjoyed it last night. Your customers don’t care what I play.”
Tony drove down Fifth Avenue to Forty-Fourth Street. “If I can’t find a parking space in front of Sardi’s, do you want me to drop you off?”
“I can walk there.” Tony didn’t make a big to-do about Bastien walking, which he appreciated.
Tony found a spot a block away, and they arrived just in time for their one o’clock reservation. Only a few black-framed caricatures hung on the walls, and Bastien didn’t recognize the distorted faces.
“I heard Gard told his subjects he only drew people he was fond of, so they accepted his sage versions of their faces good-naturedly.”
“It’s hard to believe women didn’t complain,” Bastien said.
“Katharine Cornell protested when he drew a cigarette drooping from her mouth. Mrs. Sardi intervened, and Gard made the change while snarling about meddling women.”
Bastien laughed, thanking his good fortune for never having come to the restaurant in his time. Seeing it now had more meaning. He would never see it any other way.
They checked their hats and stepped into the dining room.
Dark-paneled walls, chandeliers, and mahogany tables gave the space a Parisian elegance.
A ma?tre d’ guided them to their table. Chairs scraped softly against the floor as they sat, menus unfolding in their hands—then a flash of light caught Bastien’s eye.
Everything else receded, leaving a single, breathless moment—a woman with a cinnamon-colored bob and enormous green eyes catching the light as she smiled.
It wasn’t just her beauty. It was the force of her presence, breaking the restaurant’s cool hush and cracking the ice he’d sealed around his heart—armor forged against women who recoiled at the sight of his leg.
In that instant, beyond reason or restraint, Bastien knew one thing with absolute certainty—he would marry her.
She stopped at their table. “Hi, Papa.”
Tony stood and kissed her cheek.
She flicked Tony’s lapels, testing the fabric with her fingertips. “New suit. You look very dapper.” Her musical voice carried a husky warmth, threaded with the faintest Irish brogue.
Bastien rose, and for a heartbeat, he could almost feel her skin against his lips—warm, imagined, perilous.
She turned toward him. Her pupils widened just a fraction. “I’m Kaitlyn McSorley.” She extended her hand, arm graceful and unhurried.
For an instant, Bastien was afraid to touch her, half-convinced he’d go up in smoke. Then he took her hand. The contact grounded him—and he knew he’d never want to let go.
“I’m Bastien LeBlanc.”
“French?” Her head tilted, curious.
“French Acadian.”
A smile tugged at her mouth. “You sound like I always imagined Papa’s old friend from New Orleans sounded.”
“I hope that’s a good thing,” Bastien said, steadying his voice.
Tony pulled out a chair for her.
“Oh, it is,” she said, dropping into the seat with a devilish grin meant just for Bastien.
“I met Bastien last night,” Tony said. “He was playing sax on the corner. Every customer in my bar walked out to listen. I hired him just to get them back.”
She laughed softly and looked up at Bastien. “How funny. So—where are you from, Mr. LeBlanc?”
“New Orleans.” He hesitated, then smiled. “And please call me Bastien. I live in Richmond now.”
“I’ve never been.” She folded her hands on the table. “I’ve heard it’s lovely and have always wanted to go.”
“Maybe you’ll have the chance someday.” When we’re married.
Her brows lifted. “What do you do there? Play music?”
“I’m in a band,” he said. “I also own a security business.”
Her eyes sharpened with interest. “Like Prink’s?”
“I don’t provide armored car transport. Other companies are more efficient.
I have international clients and offer services to protect individuals, businesses, and organizations from threats, like physical security, travel risk management, and cyber,” he stopped, realizing she wouldn’t know what he was talking about.
“Mostly, I tailor solutions to the client’s needs. ”
“What is cyber?”
Man, she’s quick. “A way of gathering information.”
“And you travel abroad to do that?” she asked, genuinely curious now.
“I keep several employees busy,” Bastien said. “Usually I travel, but sometimes I send someone else in my place.” He shrugged lightly. “Depends on what we’re working on.”
“That sounds very cosmopolitan.”
“And you sound like a lawyer.”
She smiled at him—and his heart misfired. Then skipped again. And again. He held his breath for a fraction too long, absurdly wondering if this was how cardiac arrest began.
“Good,” she said. “Because I am one.”
“I should’ve guessed.” He leaned back, studying her with open admiration. “I bet you’re very effective at questioning witnesses in court.”
“Most of the time,” she said, calm and confident, “I get the information I want.”
Bastien grinned, heat sparking low in his chest. “I’d enjoy watching you shred a witness’s testimony.”