Chapter 29
Sunlight streamed through the leaded glass windows, warming the mahogany expanse of the formal dining room table.
Clay was methodically working his way through a stack of buttermilk pancakes, the air thick with the aroma of coffee and maple syrup.
Sean, hunched across the table from him, rustled the pages of the morning paper.
Dressed in a starched collar, Marcus materialized in the doorway.
He offered no greeting, his face a mask of practiced calm, his gaze unreadable.
“Mr. MacKlenna,” Marcus began, his voice a low, measured tone, “I must apologize for the oversight. An incident occurred the day before you arrived, I neglected to mention.”
Clay paused, his fork hovering.
Sean looked up over the rim of the newspaper, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
“Edward reported that a young man stopped by, asking if the owner was in residence. He informed the visitor that you wouldn’t be arriving for another day or two. When Edward asked him to leave a card, he declined, simply stating he would call again.”
Clay set his fork down with a soft clink against the porcelain. “A young man? Did Edward provide a description?”
“No, but I’ll ask him.”
“Thank you, Marcus. Consider it a reporter’s curiosity,” Clay said.
Sean sat back, holding his coffee cup. “Do you think it was Bastien?”
“Remy might have mentioned that the MacKlennas owned a mansion on Fifth Avenue. Next time I talk to him, I’ll ask.”
A few minutes later, Edward stepped into the room.
“Excuse me, sir. Marcus asked me to give you a description of the man who came by two days ago. He was with a woman driving a Chevrolet. He was tall, standing at least six feet, well-built, with dark-brown hair, carrying a cane, but didn’t appear to need it.
Well-dressed, with a Southern accent. Very polite.
I asked him to leave his card, but he said he’d come back. ”
“Did he ask for me?” Sean said.
“Not by name. He referred to you as the owner, but I said Mr. MacKlenna would be here in a day or two.”
“If he returns, I’d like to talk to him.” Then, Sean asked Clay, “Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of.” Edward left, and Clay returned to his breakfast. “I’m curious now. I’m going to call Remy and find out if Bastien knew about this house.”
“Does the description match Bastien’s?”
“It’s a general description, but it could be him.
I don’t want to wait for an unknown man to stop by in a Chevrolet driven by a woman.
I’m going to call Remy.” Clay pushed away from the table and headed to the telephone.
While waiting for the call to connect, he reviewed his list of items to discuss with Remy.
Remy answered the phone. “Marshall residence.”
“It’s Clay.”
“Do you have news?”
“A man stopped by here two days ago. The doorman’s description could match Bastien’s, but how did he know to come here? Did you ever mention the MacKlennas owning a mansion across the street from the Met?”
“No. I didn’t. Did the man say he’d come back?”
“Yes, and if he follows up, he should be here today.”
“Then wait and see, or let Marcelle stay there and wait, and you visit other clubs and speakeasies. There’s no reason to waste a day on a possibility.”
“I’ll do that.”
Remy said nothing for several seconds, and then he said, “Since you have free time today, stop by McSorley’s Old Ale House on East Seventh Street.”
“I’ve been there. It’s a unique saloon. Didn’t you and Patrick hold boxing matches there?”
“Yeah, and Patrick deeded the saloon to Roisin’s son, Tony. Meredith hasn’t mentioned any genealogy work on the McSorley family, so I doan know if Tony’s still alive. Check it out. Hopefully, you’ll have good news for Roisin. And while you’re down there, you can ask about saxophone players.”
“If Tony’s there, what do I say?”
“Introduce yourself and tell him how Roisin and Phin are doing. It’s been thirty-two years since Tony saw them. Find out how he’s doing and if he needs cash. He’s hot-tempered with an attitude, but he’s a good guy. I hope he still has the saloon.”
“I’ll let you know what I find. How are things there?”
“I’ll catch you up to speed later, but we’re okay for twenty-four hours. You need to be here by then. Capone might send out an APB on Marcelle if she’s not back on stage.”
“We’ll be there.” Clay hung up the phone and checked the time.
Sean entered the room holding a cup of coffee and the newspaper. “What’d Remy say?”
“He’s never mentioned the mansion to Bastien. While I’ve got extra time, he wants me to check out McSorley’s on the Lower East Side. Two McSorleys went home with the family in 1896. Remy wants to know how the son who stayed behind is doing.”
“There’s nothing on my schedule. I’ll go with you.”
“That’s not necessary. I know my way around the city. I’ll be fine.”
After checking on Marcelle and finding her still asleep, Clay slipped out the door.
Morning traffic carried him toward the Lower East Side, the familiar electric hum of the chase buzzing in his veins.
He left the relative bustle of Third Avenue for the quieter, grittier canyon of Seventh Street and grabbed the first parking space he spotted.
McSorley’s was a short walk up the block on the left.
When he reached the saloon, he found it shuttered—an impenetrable front of aged wood, with no sign of life or posted opening time. He scanned the street, a narrow slice of urban life composed of dour tenements and a single, silent storefront, all offering no help.
Clay shaded his eyes against the weak sun and peered through the streaked window, trying to reconcile this sleeping structure with the noisy landmark he knew it would become.
Inside, relegated to a dusty corner, was an ancient drum set.
A mosaic of yellowing newspaper clippings covered the walls, probably the same ones he’d read during his last visit.
The metallic clack-click of a deadbolt shattered the stillness. Clay flung his head toward the sound, eyes narrowing on a man’s hand twisting the brass handle. The door creaked open. “We don’t open until noon,” he said.
Clay quickly cataloged the man: mid-fifties, a comfortable paunch straining his shirt, and the crow’s feet fanning from his eyes were not scars of worry, but the carefully drawn lines of a life well-fought and won.
The man paused with the door half open, one hand still on the frame as he gave Clay a measuring look. “I am.” His gaze flicked down, then back up. “Who are you? You’re not from around here.”
“No, sir.” Clay kept his tone respectful. “But if you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
Tony’s brows lifted slightly. “Are you a reporter?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tony studied him for another second, then snorted softly. “You look like one.” He stepped aside and gestured with his chin. “Come in.”
Clay crossed the threshold, the smells of wood, smoke, and old liquor settling around him. His eyes moved automatically, cataloging the room—the bar, the tables, the corners worn smooth by years of use. His attention snagged on a drum kit near the wall.
“Man,” he said, drifting closer, “those are old drums.” He lifted the sticks, turning them until he saw the name burned into the wood.
Tony watched him closely. “You thinking of writing a story about the saloon?”
Clay straightened and held out his hand. “Clay MacIntyre.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “And I’m thinking about it.”
Tony took his hand, grip firm.
“Is it true that this Irish workingman’s saloon has been in the McSorley family since John McSorley arrived here from Liverpool in 1854?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s a long time ago.” Clay took it all in, from the ceiling to the sawdust-strewn floor. History poured out as freely as the illegal ale sold from the back room. “Where are the cats? I heard there’s always a smattering of cats in here.”
“Are you going to put that in the newspaper article?”
“Along with the names of ex-presidents, society figureheads, entertainers, poets, artists, and musicians. I heard there’s an original wanted poster for Abe Lincoln’s assassin.”
Tony pointed to the wall behind the bar. “It’s over there.”
“I also heard there’s a Babe Ruth farewell photo from Yankee Stadium.”
Tony gave him a quizzical look. “The Babe’s not ready to hang up his bat yet.”
“I know. That won’t happen until 1935.”
Tony gave him a curious look, tilting his head slightly. “How could you know that?” A beat passed. Then his expression shifted—slow recognition settling in—as a smile creased deep grooves on either side of his mouth. “You’re finally here.”
Clay stiffened. “I’m not sure who you’re referring to.”
“I’ve been expecting you.” Tony’s gaze stayed fixed, intent now.
“Me?” Clay asked, careful to keep his voice even.
“Not exactly you, but—” Tony broke off, the smile lingering.
Clay held his ground. “Who were you expecting?”
“Remy, Patrick, or Gabe.” Tony’s expression changed from a grin to a frown. “How about a glass of lemonade?” He walked around to the other side of the bar and filled two glasses. “I figured somebody from your time would be here today, tomorrow, or the next day.”
The knot in Clay’s chest loosened, a wave of relief washing down into his gut and settling the nausea. The ice in his glass clinked a nervous rattle against the rim. “If you’ve been expecting us, then you’ve seen Bastien. Where is he?”
Tony sat on a barstool and used his fingernail to trace the cracks in the sloping wooden bar. “Patrick and I made a deal over this bar all those years ago.”
“I know.”
“Thought you did. But there’s a lot you don’t know now, and I need to make a deal with you.”
“I’ve got too much at stake to make a deal without knowing all the terms. If you won’t tell me where Bastien is… tell me how he’s doing?” Clay asked.
“Do you know where Marcelle is?”
“I do.”
“Is she okay?”
“McSorley, we’ve got some horse trading to do. But I need to know if this is a shakedown. Do you need money?”