Chapter 32
McSorley’s was rocking.
Customers packed into the saloon four-deep with more pounding on the glass, desperate to get in.
Tonight, Tony broke a rule he’d followed for years and cut a deal with a bootlegger for a one-night-only delivery of ale.
The entire night was a celebration, a last hurrah.
The customers only saw the drink flowing, but Tony saw something else—the end of an era.
Clay relented and agreed to cover the expenses for the illicit liquor after Tony assured him the fix was in, and no one would get arrested. The ale flowed freely for the customers who were lucky enough to get in. The street crowd had to buy drinks from a bootlegger operating in the alley.
Bastien stood in the back room with Clay, reviewing the setlist one last time. “Why the fuck isn’t Remy here to play that old set of drums?”
“I know you’re mad, but save it until you see him. He put his life on hold to come after you. Suck it up,” Clay said in an annoyed tone.
Bastien rubbed the back of his hand where a piece of shrapnel had cut him and left a nasty scar. “I’m sounding like an ungrateful asshole, and that’s not me. I suppose it’s the stress of being here and worrying about Marcelle. Now that I know she’s safe, I can stop blaming the blameless.”
Clay gave Bastien a firm clap on his back.
“After this show, you’ll have bragging rights to the best night at McSorley’s that will top Remy’s drum playing and fighting a crooked cop.
We’re about to do a show that New Yorkers will talk about for decades, and we’ll remember it as the night Remy didn’t show up.
Now, go out there and get this party started. I’ll be here waiting for my intro.”
Kaitlyn and Marcelle slouched onto the springy sofa, their tweed suits and low-slung fedoras casting them as shadows, mimicking mafia dons rather than the striking women they were. Kaitlyn signaled Bastien to come over. When he did, she rose, but instead of embracing him, she adjusted his tie.
“Have fun out there tonight.” Her voice dripped like warm honey, thick and intoxicating.
It crossed his mind to let Clay go on first while he and Kaitlyn slipped upstairs for their own pre-game warm-up. But—duty over desire. A solitary muscle in his cheek twitched erratically in rebellion. He leaned in and breathed the words against her mouth, “I love you more than life itself.”
For a minute, she stood rooted to the spot, staring at him, and then a wicked, knowing smile curved her lips. “I love you more and can’t wait to show you how much.”
That sent a jolt of electricity through his veins.
Customers stomped their feet and yelled, “Bastien! Bastien! Bastien!”
“You’d better go out there before they come for you.”
He picked up his saxophone and headed out into the raucous crowd. Customers cleared a path, their applause and whistles echoing through the space, as he worked his way toward the stage.
“We have a great show tonight with surprise performers,” Bastien announced.
They had decided that he would go first and that after thirty minutes, Clay would join him.
After another thirty, Marcelle would come out, joining the guys in “Swinging on Nothing.” They figured the men would have drunk enough ale by then that they wouldn’t notice the trumpeter’s gender.
Bastien started the show with “You’re Beautiful” and quickly gauged the crowd’s energy level and overall mood. That helped him decide whether to mix up his setlist or play the songs in order.
After thirty minutes, he introduced Clay, who did a quick swivel on the piano stool before playing “Ain’t Misbehavin’” and then started singing, which surprised Bastien. Clay did a pretty good impersonation of Fats Weller. Singing wasn’t Clay’s strong suit, but nobody in the saloon cared.
Clay commanded the room. He wove rapport with the audience, traded jokes with Bastien, spun improvisations on demand, felt the pulse of the crowd, and molded his performance to the general mood in the room.
It wasn’t until Marcelle caught Bastien’s eye that he realized he’d missed her introduction entirely.
When the last note faded, he introduced his brother, Marc LeBlanc—and the lie slid easily off his tongue.
Marcelle jogged out, playing funny sounds on the trumpet—elephant, donkey, wah-wah, fanfare, and horse. The men laughed, and when they did, she’d play another wah-wah. Then she started playing “West End Blues,” and Clay and Bastien joined her.
“Who the hell taught that kid trumpet? He sounds just like Armstrong,” a man in the audience yelled.
“Let’s do ‘Weather Bird’ next,” Bastien said. “You good with that, Clay?”
Clay nodded, reaching into his jacket pocket for his phone. Bastien had asked him to record this song. The duet would showcase the siblings’ technique and rhythmic fluidity, and Bastien wanted to listen to it later.
Tonight, something shifted. Bastien and Marcelle always took cues from each other, but Marcelle’s eyes stayed fixed on Clay. Earlier today, Bastien had caught a spark between them—a look, a touch—had made Marcelle smile, even giggle. And Marcelle never giggled.
How did Bastien feel about that? Clay seemed like a good guy, but Marcelle shouldn’t fall for her rescuer simply because he showed up.
She’d never had a serious relationship and might confuse temporary infatuation with genuine commitment.
Her future was mapped out, and Bastien didn’t know if Clay would fit into that plan.
They tore through the setlist, a seamless force of nature, trading the lead with telepathic precision. But a gaping hole in the lineup demanded a voice and a solid beat.
By two o’clock, Marcelle gave Bastien the neck-slicing signal to wrap up. Then, after the last song, she waved herself offstage, followed by Clay, and then Bastien took a final bow.
Kaitlyn reached for Bastien’s hand. “Let’s hurry upstairs.”
Clay and Marcelle followed.
“That’s the best show I’ve ever seen,” Kaitlyn said.
“You three played as if you’d been performing together for years.
Brilliant. Papa will have visitors tomorrow who will try to steal his talent, but you should rethink doing another show.
If top agents show up, saying no to their offers for the best venues and record deals will be almost impossible. ”
“I agree,” Marcelle said. “The more we play, the more impact we’ll have on jazz. Tonight’s show used dozens of modern musical interpretations. Jazz should develop at its rightful pace with legitimate artists, not twenty-first-century musicians.”
Kaitlyn unlocked the door to Tony’s apartment, and Bastien held it open for Marcelle and Clay. “Saying no to a recording deal goes against everything I’ve dreamed of as a musician,” Bastien said.
“Then you’d better get out before that happens,” Kaitlyn said. “News of tonight’s show will spread like wildfire.”
“Leaving on a high like tonight is the best way out,” Marcelle said.
“Aren’t you returning to Chicago to continue playing with Skye’s band?” Bastien asked.
“But that’s for her, not us.”
Kaitlyn reached for four glasses and a bottle.
“What’ve you got there, babe?” Bastien asked, turning the bottle to see the label.
“The Macallan. Papa had it shipped from Scotland. It’s his special collection, and he doesn’t share. But I think tonight he’d make an exception.”
“I can’t believe he didn’t offer me a pour the other night.”
“Like I said. Papa doesn’t share.”
Bastien tugged on her hand. “He’s sharing you with me.” She glanced up. Her eyes had a troubled look, which caused a sharp pang in Bastien’s chest. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She hesitated before saying, “You didn’t see Papa’s eyes tonight. There was an emotion I couldn’t identify, and I thought I knew all his looks and moods. Tonight was different.”
“Maybe he was reflecting on thirty-two years of accomplishments. Maybe he remembered all his fear and worry as a young man coming to America and the struggle to provide for his family. Maybe he wondered if he had the energy to do it all again.”
“That’s exactly how I feel,” Tony said from the doorway. “Now, pour me a taste, and let’s talk about the future.”
“Sure, Papa.” Kaitlyn poured drinks and handed out the glasses. “Where do you want to start?”
“I’m going to accept Mr. Hayes’s offer for the saloon and turn over the keys tomorrow.
I’ll take my personal effects and leave once I have the check.
You should do the same, Kaitlyn. The longer we stay, the easier it will be to back out.
Pack your mother’s pictures and jewelry, and then turn over your apartment and law practice to Lucy.
She’s shared your office for several years and knows all your clients. ”
“I can’t do that, Papa. My clients depend on me. It would be unprofessional to leave without an explanation.”
“Lucy will take care of that. How many times has she covered for you when you had conflicts? You’ve always trusted her opinion. The longer we delay—”
“The easier it will be to back out.” Kaitlyn glanced at Bastien. “What do you think?”
“I think Tony’s idea is brilliant. I’m ready to go home.”
Clay stood and lifted his glass. “To the future.”
They all joined in the toast.
“Shall we meet at the MacKlenna mansion tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock?” Clay asked.
“Can I take the Chevrolet?” Tony asked.
“We all have to travel together, so we’ll take whichever vehicle fits five people and luggage.”
Tony smiled with delight. “That means we’ll take my Chevrolet.”
Clay tipped an imaginary cap. “Congratulations. I’ll leave the Model A Ford sports coupe at the MacKlennas’ house with instructions not to sell it.”
Kaitlyn kissed Tony’s cheek. “I’ll come here in the morning to negotiate your sales contract.”
Tony shook his head. “No need. The deal’s done. I’ll write up a Bill of Sale just like the one Patrick did when he sold me the saloon for a dollar.”
Kaitlyn’s jaw dropped. “You’re not selling this place for a dollar.”