Chapter 29 #3
“Can’t she handle the truth?”
Clay hesitated, eyes dropping to his sketchbook. “I don’t know.”
“Are you staying at the MacKlenna Mansion on Fifth Avenue?”
“Yeah.”
“Bastien was going by there today.”
Clay’s jaw tightened. “I’d better call Sean. Can I use your phone again?”
Tony nodded and slid the phone across the bar.
Clay dialed, tapping his thumb against the counter as it rang. Once. Twice. Finally—“Hello,” Sean said.
“Sean, it’s Clay,” he said quietly. “If Marcelle’s anywhere nearby, don’t mention my name.”
A brief pause crackled over the line. “Marcelle’s still in her room.”
“Good. I found Bastien, or rather, I have news of him. I’m with Tony McSorley.
Bastien landed on his corner and has been playing in his saloon for the last three nights.
There are newspaper articles about Remy and Patrick on the wall.
Bastien made the connection and believes Remy is coming for him in a few days. ”
“So it was Bastien who came by here.”
“Yes, but we have a problem. Tony has a daughter who is a lawyer.”
“Kaitlyn McSorley?”
“How’d you know?”
“She does contract work for most of the actors and actresses on Broadway and has an excellent reputation. Someone recommended her to me a year ago, but I ended up not needing a lawyer.”
“Well, Bastien has fallen for her, and Tony wants to give them a few more days to figure out what they want to do. He doesn’t want to rush them into making a life-changing decision.”
“Like where to live and when?”
“Exactly.”
“Did you tell him that whatever they decide doesn’t have to be permanent?”
“The problem is that you don’t know how many years will pass between visits. It’s been thirty-two years since Remy and Patrick were here with Tony, but it’s only been a couple of months for Remy and the others. It gets wonky. We can’t depend on a brooch to return them on the same day.”
“I see the problem. What are you going to tell Marcelle?”
“What do you advise?”
“Don’t lie to her. Tell her what you know and what you plan to do. You should be honest with her. If Bastien is going to be there tonight, she can go down there to see him and listen to him play.”
“They don’t allow women in here.”
“The women sit on the sidewalk and listen to the music. She could sit with them,” Tony said.
“Tony said she could sit outside with the neighborhood women and listen to the music.”
“Eleanor and I will go with her. Are you coming back now?”
“I think I’ll stay here with Tony for a while. I know his mother will have a hundred questions, and I’d better have answers.” Clay hung up and sat down at the piano. “What’s Bastien been playing? Has he sneaked in any songs from our time?”
“I’ve recognized most of them, so I don’t think so. But I have a question. Why is Remy staying in Chicago?”
Clay swiveled on the piano stool. “The first night Marcelle was there, she met a woman who sang in a band. Marcelle took the trumpeter’s place that night, and Al Capone was in the house.
Marcelle captured his attention. He offered the band a job at one of his clubs.
He wasn’t happy that Marcelle wasn’t at the performance last night. But my father showed up—”
“Your father?”
“That’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it later. But Archibald and Skye sang duets that pleased Capone. He wants them to do the same show tonight. But Marcelle has to go back to Chicago, or he’ll take his anger out on Remy and Skye.”
“Why doesn’t he bring her here?”
“She doesn’t know where we’re from. Also, there’s a couple who disappeared from Scotland in 1972. We believe they’re in Chicago. We have to find them before we can go home.”
“This sounds as complicated as what happened in 1896.”
“You’re right, but instead of a violent Viking, we’re trying to outsmart gangsters.
” Clay glanced around the saloon one more time.
“Would you believe the first time I came here was to celebrate with a group of friends from high school? Women were allowed by then, but we weren’t old enough to drink ale.
The owner let us stay. I guess it was too much trouble to kick a dozen teenagers out of the place.
I’ll never forget it. It was a fun time. ”
Tony shook his head. “Women in McSorley’s!”
“The important thing to remember is that McSorley’s will still be there in my time.”
“I guess you’re right.” Tony put the lemonade glasses in the washtub and locked the front door. “Let’s go upstairs. I have pictures of my late wife and Kaitlyn to show you.”
Dust motes danced in the sunbeam slanting across the brittle newsprint above the drum set. Clay paused, his gaze fixed on the articles bearing Remy and Patrick’s names. He snapped frame after frame with his phone, the stark flash momentarily illuminating the faded ink.
As Clay followed Tony’s shadow up the narrow staircase, he asked, “What’s Kaitlyn’s full name?”
“Kaitlyn Kenzie McSorley.”
Clay smiled to himself. “Did you name her after Kenzie McBain?”
Tony’s footsteps slowed. “Sure did.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Do you think she’ll mind?”
“Not a bit.”
They stepped into the apartment. Tony crossed to a side table and lifted a framed photograph, his thumb brushing the glass. “This is my late wife—with Kaitlyn.”
Clay leaned in. “Two beautiful women. What was your wife’s name?”
“Carla Fitzpatrick.” Tony cleared his throat. “She came over from Donegal.”
“Isn’t your family from there?”
“Yes,” Tony said, nodding. “But Carla and I didn’t know each other before we met here.”
Clay studied the photo again. “Does Kaitlyn have your red hair?”
Tony nodded, a small smile breaking through. “And big green eyes.” His voice caught as he looked back at the photograph. “Just like her mother.” He swallowed. “I’m so proud of her.”
They settled at the chipped laminate kitchen table. Tony flicked the gas burner to life with a hiss, setting an old, dented aluminum teapot on the grates. A sleek brown tabby cat wove around Clay’s ankle, mewing with an insistent trill. He lifted her onto his lap and stroked her back.
“Does Kaitlyn play a musical instrument?”
“No, but she can hit a baseball out of the park.”
Clay chuckled. “To some, that’s more important than making music.”
The phone rang, and Tony answered. “Hello, yes… Hi, Bastien… Now? Sure… I’ll see you soon.” Tony hung up. “Bastien is on his way here. I wasn’t expecting him until this afternoon. But before he left last night, he said he wanted to talk to me about something. Do you suppose it’s about Kaitlyn?”
“Maybe. If it’s about her, what will you tell him?”
“That I want to talk to her first.”
Clay nodded slowly. “Did he say why he wasn’t out looking for Marcelle? Or why he wasn’t going by the MacKlennas?”
“No.” Tony shook his head. “I assume it’s because of his leg, and Kaitlyn is working today. He probably didn’t want to go by himself.”
“How’s he getting around?”
“Kaitlyn has been using my car to drive them around. But it has a clutch, and he can’t drive it. He’ll take a taxi or the train.”
“Makes sense.”
Tony turned off the burner. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
They stepped onto the sidewalk. The street was already waking up—doors opening, footsteps passing. A couple of people called out greetings to Tony as they went by, and he answered each with a nod or a word.
“How many people have been coming to hear Bastien?”
“They pack the saloon every night. Standing room only—three deep, and neighbors line the sidewalk. It’s become a big party.”
“I wish Remy would come tonight, but if he bails on Capone, every gangster in Chicago will be out looking for him, and news will reach New York City and points in between.”
“I understand.” Tony clapped Clay on the shoulder. “Don’t wear a suit tonight. Bastien removed his jacket last night. And if Marcelle comes to sit out here, make sure she doesn’t wear fancy clothes.”
Clay did something he normally refused to do. He jaywalked to reach his car parked across the street and slid behind the wheel. Before driving off, he gave Tony a clipped wave.
Clay navigated his car through the familiar traffic toward Fifth Avenue and pulled into the gravel driveway of the sprawling mansion. He mentally rehearsed a dozen different scenarios, each one ending in disaster.
Strolling toward the front door, he was still unclear about what he intended to do.
He found Marcelle in the dining room, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. “How are you this morning?” he asked, kissing her cheek.
“I woke up tired, so I rolled over and went back to sleep.”
“I’m glad you slept in. You’ve had a few stressful days and late nights.” He glanced at the newspaper page she was reading. “Any ads for a trumpet player?”
“No, and I’ve looked through yesterday’s paper, too. Bastien either didn’t have the money to place an ad or didn’t think I’d read it.” She folded the newspaper and set it aside. “You’ve been out already today. Where’d you go?”
“McSorley’s Old Ale House.”
“Drinking already?”
Clay sat beside her, his sense of unease reaching a high pitch. “I found him.”
“Him?”
“Bastien. I found him.”
She shot up out of her chair. “You buried the lede, Mr. MacIntyre. Where is he?”
“Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”
She sat on the edge of her chair. “Is he okay?”
“Yes.”
“Has he had a hard time?”
“No.”
“Did the battery run out?”
“Yes.”
“Has he been sleeping on the street?”
“No.”
“Has he eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Is he hurt or injured?”
“No.”
“Has he been playing his sax at McSorley’s?”
“Yes.”
“Is he there now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s go see him.”
She stood and stepped away, but Clay clasped her hand and pulled her back to the chair. “I need to explain what’s going on.”
“If he’s not hurt or hungry, there’s nothing I need to know before I see him.”
“Count to ten, take a few deep breaths, and sit quietly while I explain what’s going on with him.”
“He’s in the hospital, isn’t he?”