Chapter 26 New York City, 1928—Bastien
When Bastien and Kaitlyn entered the saloon through the back door, Tony glared at him, then at Kaitlyn, then back at Bastien, making his heart lurch into his throat. Tony adopted a father’s formidable scowl. The type that made teenage boys shake in fear—and even worked on hard-ass vets.
Tony shot his hands to his hips and rocked back on his heels. “Should I be worried about my daughter?” he asked in a more pronounced Irish brogue.
Kaitlyn mimicked his body language. “That posture has never scared me.”
He dropped his hands, and his lips twisted into the beginning of a smile. “It did when you were a little girl.”
“That was a long time ago, Papa.”
He huffed, conceding defeat with a reluctant, “I guess you’re right.” Then his tone sharpened as he pivoted to interrogation: “So why are you late?”
“We’re on time. It’s nine o’clock.”
“You know that means eight forty-five, right?”
She tossed her wrap and purse onto the sofa. “Bastien slept longer than I thought he would, and I didn’t have the heart to wake him.”
“Is that so?” Tony held her at arm’s length. “Looks like it gave you extra time to dress up. You look beautiful. Are you going to Harlem later?”
“We have a reservation at Connie’s Inn for a late dinner. Your biscuits won’t hold Bastien over until breakfast,” she said.
“That’s a good place to search for Marcelle. For a trumpeter, Armstrong will be too enticing to miss.” Tony put his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t want to act like an overprotective father, but Bastien will leave as soon as Remy arrives. I don’t want him to break your heart.”
Bastien desperately needed to reassure Tony he’d never hurt her, yet doubt gnawed at him, making that promise feel increasingly uncertain. He knew without question that he couldn’t live in the past with her—if he weren’t an amputee, maybe, but that would mean losing Marcelle.
“Papa, you taught me how to box. I can take care of myself.”
Bastien looked at her in blatant disbelief. “You’re a boxer?” If an opponent had ever punched her in the jaw or cheek, they’d never left a mark. Her skin was flawless, and the structure of her face was pure perfection, including her classic, elegant nose.
She cocked an eyebrow with an effortless grace that spoke volumes. “Is that a problem?”
Fuck! Kaitlyn was one badass woman! “No. I think it’s sexy as hell.”
Tony cleared his throat and pointed at Bastien. “You’re talking about my daughter.”
“And you raised her right. Boxing? Really? I didn’t see that coming. If I had a running blade—my athletic prosthesis—I’d get in the ring with you.” He blinked playfully at her.
“What’s a running blade?” she asked.
“It’s a special prosthesis designed for amputees to engage in athletic activities.”
“McSorley!” a man yelled from the saloon. “Where’s that saxophone player?”
A chorus of “Bring him out” rang through the saloon.
“That’s my call.” Bastien put the saxophone’s mouthpiece in his mouth and played the first few notes of “I Found a Girl!” He continued playing the song through the parted crowd as he made his way to the platform holding Remy’s drum kit.
Time blurred, and for the next two and a half hours, he played nonstop.
At eleven thirty, he put the sax down. “I’d love to keep playing, but I have a dinner date with the beautiful, intelligent, and extraordinary daughter of Tony McSorley.”
What followed Bastien’s announcement was a chorus of “Kaitlyn! Kaitlyn! Kaitlyn!”
Bastien extended a commanding arm, summoning her to the stage, but she adamantly shook her head. Undeterred, he fueled the audience’s cheers, urging them to call her out. He then launched into the iconic, soaring saxophone solo of “I’ll Always Love You.”
The music proved irresistible. Kaitlyn emerged from the shadows of the back room, offering a hesitant wave.
Bastien, still playing, masterfully navigated through the crowd toward her, closing the distance between them.
He seized her hand, waved triumphantly to the crowd, and together they made a swift, dramatic exit from the saloon.
Tony met them at the door to the alley. “Keep the car in Midtown tonight. Bastien can drive it here in the morning. And Bastien, I expect you to show Kaitlyn the same respect Gabe showed my mother.”
Kaitlyn kissed Tony’s cheek. “Good night, Papa.”
Bastien shook his hand. “I wouldn’t do any less. Thanks for tonight, Tony.”
Tony handed him a wad of bills. “Take this. You earned it.”
“I don’t want to take more of your money.”
“This is what we got from the cover charge. I made twice as much from near beer sales. Take it and pay for dinner.”
Bastien pocketed the cash, determined to reimburse Tony. “See you tomorrow.”
They reached Connie’s Inn on Seventh Avenue and 131st Street with five minutes to spare and found a parking space on the street. “Are you going to tell me who your connection is?” Bastien asked.
They exited the vehicle. “I’ll tell you, but you can’t mention it, especially to Papa.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “My connection is Connie.”
“A gangster? Are you kidding me?”
She put her finger to her lips. “Shhh. Papa would be irate to find out I’m accepting favors from him. But he’s the most likable man in or out of the speakeasy rackets.”
“I’ll be irate in Tony’s place. It’s never a good idea to accept favors from someone who will expect them in return. How’d you get hooked up with him?”
“I provided legal services for him when he opened Connie’s.”
“Did you get him out of jail?”
“No. It wasn’t anything like that. Connie owns the restaurant with his brothers, George and Louie.
They book famous artists who also perform on Broadway.
Connie needed help with his contracts. I told him I’d help with that.
But I wouldn’t represent him if he got arrested for bootlegging activities, and that included his shady clientele of gangsters, molls, rumrunners, and bathtub bootleggers. ”
They descended into the heart of the structure, drawn by the signs guiding them down a stairwell into the smoke-choked basement.
The air was an intoxicating cloud of liquor.
A potent hum of pre-show energy vibrated through the space, an almost visceral sound that reminded Bastien of a deafening swarm of cicadas buzzing on a warm evening in the bayou.
When they reached the ma?tre d’, he beamed with genuine delight, as if welcoming a long-lost friend to his own home. “Good evening, Miss McSorley. I have your favorite table waiting.”
Bastien leaned in close and whispered, “Even the ma?tre d’ knows your name.”
A bottle of champagne icing in a silver bucket was waiting at their table. “Compliments of Connie.”
Kaitlyn slid into the chair the ma?tre d’ pulled out for her. “Is he here?”
“He said he’d stop by. He has two contracts for you to review.” The ma?tre d’ reached for the champagne bottle.
“I’ll take care of that. Thank you,” Bastien said.
The ma?tre d’ gave a dismissive nod toward Bastien and moved off, making it clear Bastien had denied him the pleasure of serving Kaitlyn. Bastien pulled out a chair and sat diagonally across from her. “I realize in this era that working for gangsters is profitable but also dangerous.”
“If Marcelle wants to play in a band, it will be at a gangster-owned speakeasy. That’s the only way to get the best gigs and a record deal.”
That struck fear in him. “One more reason to find her and get out of here as soon as possible.” The look Kaitlyn delivered sent a raw shiver shooting through his body. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.”
She gave him a level look, then said tightly, “It came out exactly as you intended.”
It took an immense test of his will to withstand her penetrating glare and sharp comments.
He knew that a response would escalate their spat and ruin the evening.
Instead, he made a deliberate choice. He reached for the champagne and used the wine key to strip the foil away.
With practiced control, he loosened the wire cage, gently twisting the bottle as he applied pressure to the cork, and it released with a quiet fizz rather than an abrasive pop.
He filled their glasses, set the bottle down, and neatly wrapped the hand towel around its neck.
She watched with interest. “You must have worked at a saloon.”
He rang his glass against hers. “Remy refined my skills. He can be the suavest man in the room, but only if he deigns to be. Most of the time, he enjoys being surly, entrenched in a corner, shunning everyone, and keeping an iron grip on the remote control.”
“What’s that?”
“Being surly?” he teased.
She pushed her lips into a flawless, deliberate pout. “A remote control.”
“It’s a piece of plastic with buttons that you point at a television. Do you know what that is?”
“I’ve only read about them. It’s a box that plays moving images.”
“It’s more advanced in my time, and Remy likes to control what we watch.”
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?”
“I think so. Remy’s my height, muscular, with a scruffy face, baritone voice, killer smile, and scars on his knuckles. He’s one lean, mean fighting machine.”
Bastien’s sip was a fleeting pause, a mere thirty seconds dedicated to absorbing the restaurant’s opulence—plush velvet, sparkling chandeliers, and intricate plasterwork all vying for attention in the packed basement.
The band roared directly before them, a presence felt more than seen, lost in a sea of customers that obscured the performers on the dance floor.
He gauged the crowd at approximately five hundred souls, a swirling anonymity where not a single face was familiar.
He turned his full attention to Kaitlyn. “I need to explain what I meant about getting Marcelle home.”
“I’m listening,” she bit out, her voice tight.