Chapter 28 New York City, 1928—Bastien
The Chevrolet’s engine hissed as it cooled in the damp, acrid air of the alley garage.
It was almost nine o’clock, and the saloon’s muffled shouting throbbed through the open windows.
Kaitlyn cinched her coat tight, clutched her purse like a lifeline, and rapidly fluffed her hair in the alley’s flickering light.
“Are you ready?” she asked, her voice wobbling.
Bastien’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the secondhand saxophone case, its worn leather groaning under the vice-like pressure. The fear of facing Tony weighed more than the saxophone in its case. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he managed, forcing a weak chuckle that barely escaped his throat.
“Maybe Tony will challenge me to a boxing match instead of an interrogation.” He pictured the confrontation: the damp, musty air of the basement, the single buzzing light overhead. A shiver traced an icy line down his spine.
She kissed him. “I think Papa figured out there was something between us already. We won’t surprise him.”
“The last thing he said to me was that he hoped I’d respect you as much as Gabe respected his mother, or something like that.”
“You more than respected me. You held me in the highest esteem.” She laughed. “I’ll take that over respect any day. But don’t worry about Papa. If we’re happy, he’ll be happy.”
“Even if it means losing you?” Bastien grimaced after asking the question. It was only a supposition that help would arrive to take him home, and he still didn’t know if she was completely on board with the idea.
“It will hurt Papa for sure. But it won’t disappoint him if it means I’ll be with Grandma and Phin. He’s enjoyed my company for twenty-eight years. Now it’s their turn.”
Bastien had his doubts. Kaitlyn was Tony’s entire world, his legacy. Losing her would undo him. Bastien gripped the doorframe, focusing on the simple mechanics of walking through the opening without falling. The rest could wait.
Tony was pacing at the door. “Let me help you,” he offered, reaching for Bastien’s arm.
“Hold the door. I can walk. I’m just slow.”
Kaitlyn took the saxophone case, and Tony stepped aside, holding the door wide. “Do you still feel like playing?”
Bastien focused on his steps to avoid Tony’s gaze. “I always feel like playing.”
“Good, because my customers are about to start a riot.”
“We can’t let that happen.” Bastien took the sax from Kaitlyn. His thumb rubbed an easy circle over the back of her hand while he leaned closer, letting his warm breath tease her neck. “Are you staying down here or going upstairs?”
“I’m going upstairs to take a nap. I should have slept when you did.”
Grinning, Bastien said, “You worked hard today.”
“So did you. Now, go work for your supper and break a leg.” She covered her mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t—”
He chuckled. “I’m not superstitious.”
Tony’s gaze shifted from Kaitlyn to Bastien and back again, then he smiled.
“Come on. I’ll clear a path through this rowdy crowd.
” Tony picked up Remy’s drumsticks and didn’t just clear a path.
He carved one, the drumsticks sweeping wide as he shouldered his way to the stage. “Make way. Give the guy some room.”
“Are you going to play Remy’s drums?” a customer yelled.
“I might if you don’t give Bastien enough room to get to the stage,” Tony yelled.
Bastien smiled, thinking about Remy and how pleased he’d be knowing he had legendary status at McSorley’s. Bastien reached the stage and got comfortable on the barstool. “How’re you doing tonight?”
A customer yelled, “Tired of waiting for you to start!”
Had it been his first night, the smell of sweat, the low hum of the crowd’s murmurs, and the sea of wary eyes might have sent Bastien running.
But he knew the roar that would erupt after the first note, knew they’d clap until their palms stung, and that was all the welcome he needed. “I’m here now. Got any requests?”
“Play the songs you played last night.”
The crowd’s simple tastes made the setlist a breeze. Normally, when Bastien played at the same smoke-filled venue two or three nights in a row, he’d juggle the set, but here the patrons only cared about the music.
He shrugged out his damp jacket. The cool breeze blowing in through the window offered some relief.
He launched into “Black Bottom Stomp.” He didn’t stop playing until eleven thirty, when Tony came on stage and announced that Bastien was whisking Kaitlyn away for dinner but would be back the next night.
A chorus of shouts, whistles, and the dull thud of palms against his shoulder blades followed him as he waded through the dense crowd.
Kaitlyn was waiting at the back door and took the saxophone and jacket from him. “You sounded great from upstairs. I looked out the window, and there were twice as many people outside as last night.”
“It’s a shame I can’t charge them,” Tony said.
“You wouldn’t charge them if you could, Papa.” Kaitlyn rose onto her toes and kissed Tony’s cheek, lingering just long enough to soften him.
Tony huffed a laugh. “Maybe a penny or two for a spot on the curb closest to the window.”
“You’ve gotten along great with the police department all these years. Don’t make them mad now.”
Tony handed Bastien a handful of bills. “Have a nice dinner,” he said, eyes flicking between them. “I’ll see you two tomorrow.”
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” Bastien said, hesitating.
Tony clapped him on the shoulder—firm, decisive. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
The door closed behind them. As soon as they were inside the car, Bastien let out a breath. “I suspect Tony knows about us.”
“He didn’t mention anything to me.”
“Maybe it was only me feeling guilty and projecting my feelings onto him. If you say he was okay, I’ll go with that.”
She eased the car to the end of the alley, paused, then checked for traffic. “You were incredible tonight, but I missed those passionate songs from your time.”
“Did you get any rest?”
She shook her head, eyes on the road. “No. I was reliving our afternoon.”
“Afternoon? How about the early evening? We were in the bathtub well after dark.”
Kaitlyn pulled out into the traffic. “That was a first for me.”
“But not the last, I hope.”
“Definitely not the last. Should we go home and try again?”
“Would you be too disappointed if I suggested we go to Ed Small’s first? I’m starving. And if you expect me to keep up with your marathon pace, I need sustenance.”
“My pace? You’re the one setting the pace, and I’m the one trying to keep up.”
Bastien laughed. “We see this differently.” He stroked her face and around her ear. “Truth be told, we’re perfectly matched. And you are the hottest woman I’ve ever met. I love every inch of you and will never tire of our mutual exploration.”
“Our needs are secondary to finding Marcelle.”
“And I will tell her how much I sacrificed to find her.”
Kaitlyn grabbed his arm and squeezed. “You wouldn’t dare.”
His gaze shifted to his forearm, where her fingers pressed gently over his skin, and he remembered the pleasure of her erotic touches and wanted more of them. “It depends on Marcelle’s state of mind. If she’s had a rough time, I won’t say anything.”
“With her knowledge of the city and musical experience, I bet she’s managed with aplomb.”
“I hope you’re right.” They rode in silence for several blocks until he remembered the MacKlennas. “Do you mind driving up Fifth Avenue? I’d like to see if the lights are on.”
“Sure. Are you planning to knock on the door at midnight?”
“No, I’m just curious.” The cool glass pressed against his temple as he closed his eyes, his breathing still ragged.
Weariness dragged at his limbs. Clearly, a several-hour marathon of lovemaking followed by a few hours playing the saxophone had pushed him past his limit.
But when was the last time he’d given himself permission to spend an entire afternoon with a beautiful woman?
The answer was a bitter memory, a shadow of a different life—back in the Army, a lifetime ago, before the blast had torn his world open and changed the pattern of his days.
“Bastien, we’re here.”
“Huh?” He sat straight and dry-scrubbed his face. “Sorry. I dozed off. Where are we?”
“In front of the MacKlenna mansion. Do you want to knock on the door? It looks like every light is on.”
He stared at the mansion. “No. There aren’t any cars, so they probably aren’t having a party. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“I’ve got to be up here for an appointment. You can go visit while I meet with my client.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
When they reached Small’s Paradise, they had to drive up a block to find a parking space. “This is too far for you. Let me drop you off at the front door.”
“No, it’ll take me a few days to adjust. Let’s go slow, and I’ll be fine.” As they walked down the street, he asked, “Do you work for Ed Small, too?”
“I do, but he’s not a gangster. He’s the only black nightclub owner in Harlem and the only one with an integrated club. Most Harlem clubs close between three and four, but Smalls is open all night and has a breakfast dance with a full floor show starting at six.”
“Do you plan to keep me out that late or that early?”
“Not at all. I’m thinking about having our dinner boxed up and going home to have a picnic in bed.”
They entered the building, the dull pulse of a bass line vibrating the floorboards.
Bastien slowly descended the stairs to the smoky basement nightclub, the air so thick it clung to his lungs.
The atmosphere was a potent blend of stale cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and the cloying, sour aroma of sweat that seemed to cling to every surface.
At the entrance, the ma?tre d’ beamed, recognizing Kaitlyn.
He swiftly guided her and Bastien to their prime table next to the ornate railing that bordered the dimly lit dance floor.
As Bastien cautiously eased himself into a worn velvet chair across the table from her, a frown barely concealed, he asked, “Are you well-known in all the clubs in Harlem, or just the ones I’ve visited? ”
“I know several of the owners. I was fortunate to get my foot in the door early in my career, and I’ve pleased them with my contract work. They’ve recommended me to their associates.”
A man stopped at their table. “I heard you were coming tonight, Kaitlyn,” he said.
“Thank you for making room for us.”
“You’ll always have a table here.”
“Ed, I want you to meet my friend Bastien LeBlanc. He’s a saxophone player from New Orleans and the best I’ve ever heard.”
Bastien stood and shook hands. “Glad to meet you, sir.”
“Bastien is looking for his sister, Marcelle. She’s a trumpeter on par with Louis Armstrong.”
“I’m always looking for new talent. Stop by tomorrow for an audition. Maybe we can work something out. If your sister shows up, I’ll tell her you were here. Can I find you through Kaitlyn’s office?”
“That would be great,” Kaitlyn said.
Ed retreated to visit other customers, and a waiter materialized beside their table, a chilled bottle of champagne and an elegant menu—starkly different from Connie’s elaborate choices.
They savored the smoky richness of their steaks, the champagne’s tiny bubbles tickling their noses, and the velvet-smooth jazz until almost three o’clock.
When the setlist faded into quiet jazz, Kaitlyn yawned.
“Are you ready to go home?” he asked.
She nodded, the weight of the day pulling her eyelids closed for a beat too long.
Beneath the amber glow of the chandeliers, he pulled out her chair. With a gentle hand on the small of her back, he guided her out of the dinner club. “Do you want to take a taxi and come back for the car tomorrow?”
“I can drive.” She cranked the Chevy’s window down, sucking in the cool air as it blasted her face.
They drifted past the illuminated facade of the MacKlenna mansion, the soft hum of the motor the only sound on the avenue. A yellow taxi lurked at the curb. A man with sun-bleached hair was carefully unfolding a woman from the backseat, his hand a careful weight at her elbow.
“Do you want to stop?” Kaitlyn asked.
“I’ll come back tomorrow. Right now, my fingers are itching to strip you naked and make love till daylight.”
“Maybe you should play for me. You know… Keep your fingers busy until they find something more interesting.”
For the next few blocks, he unleashed soulful melodies that thrummed against the interior and vibrated through the floorboards of the Chevrolet and shredded the silence of the early morning air on Fifth Avenue.
“Here’s one you haven’t heard before.”
The saxophone’s smoky, velvet-edged tone offered a haunting, soul-stirring rendition of Queen’s powerful ballad, “Who Wants to Live Forever.” Each note hung in the air, heavy with unspoken yearning.
The emotional intensity always raised goose bumps along his arms as the sax conveyed the song’s poignant, somber mood with a rich, singing tone that felt both fragile and eternal.
The last note of the song faded just as Kaitlyn killed the engine.
They tumbled from the car, breathless and uncoordinated, and stumbled through the doorway, fumbling with the lock.
The instant they were inside, they collided, a desperate, gasping entanglement.
The air in the apartment instantly thickened, heavy with the raw musk of their shared heat.
Two hours later, tangled in damp linen, their chests rising and falling in ragged unison, Bastien drew her back against him and buried his face in the curve of her neck.
The salty tang of their shared sweat filled his senses.
He squeezed his eyes shut, fingers digging into her hips, a silent, desperate plea forming in his mind: let this moment never end.
“Tell me about the song,” she said in a breathy voice that barely stirred the air.
He never sang, not really, but now he felt compelled to sing this song, a primal throb in his chest that echoed the ballad’s tempo. It was less a want than a need, a gnawing ache deep within his gut, urging him to wrench the unspoken meaning from the ballad…
“There’s no time for us / There’s no place for us / What is this thing that builds our dreams / Yet tips ’em way from us / Who wants to live forever? / Who wants to live forever?”