Chapter 64 Chicago, 1927—Clay #2
At the edge of the fairgrounds, he found an empty bench and sank onto it.
His hands still trembled, too visible, too telling.
Sketching was out of the question now. Someone might remember his face, the stranger with the notebook.
Normally, when he needed to pass the time, he’d scroll through his phone, read the news, and ground himself in the rhythm of headlines.
But here, at this time, that luxury didn’t exist.
Instead, he reached into his waistcoat and pulled out his leather tobacco pouch and the pipe he’d added to his disguise.
His fingers still shook as he filled the bowl, tamped the leaf, and sparked a match.
The first draw steadied him, the familiar taste anchoring him as the smoke curled lazily upward.
By then, the police had arrived.
He watched them from afar, wishing he could tell them what happened—but he couldn’t afford to get involved. He’d already seen too much. His duty now was to understand, to piece it together.
Ring Man lost his bet. He went to Capone, got cash, then stormed to the barn to punish the jockey. That much fit. But had the boy been bribed to throw the race and refused? Or had Capone’s money simply bought a violent debt collector?
Clay’s gut twisted with unease.
Moments later, movement at the exit caught his eye.
Ring Man and his partner emerged, laughing as they climbed into a chauffeured yellow and black LaSalle.
Clay froze, blinking hard. That car—wasn’t it the same model Skye had ridden in earlier?
It couldn’t be the same one. He refused to believe she had any connection to men like that.
Still, it was enough of a sign. Time to get the hell out of there.
He flagged down a taxi and climbed inside, the door shutting with a hollow clack.
“Take me to The Stevens Hotel,” he said, voice tight.
As the cab pulled away, Clay pressed his back against the worn seat.
The images replayed unbidden—the brutal twist of the arm, the scream, the lifeless eyes.
He puffed hard on his pipe, smoke filling the stale air, trying to drown it all out.
Then, through the haze, he heard it.
Rick’s voice—clear, steady, impossible.
Rental house. Meet me there.
Clay’s hands went still. His chest tightened. JC had once spoken to him that way—somehow bridging the distance with nothing but will. No one else had ever managed it. So why Rick? And why now?
Not through the phone—through his head.
Whatever JC had unlocked in him hadn’t closed again.
Could Violet be involved? The thought wouldn’t leave him. Maybe she was pulling strings between them—or playing her own game. Either way, Clay wished she’d just pick a side and stay.
He gave the driver a new address. “N. State Parkway,” he said quietly. Then he sat back and opened his journal, flipping through the pages, letting the rough sketches ground him in something real.
Half an hour later, the taxi turned onto the quiet, tree-lined street. Clay leaned forward. “Pull over wherever you can park. I want to make sure my cousins are here. If they’re not, I’ll have you take me to The Stevens Hotel.”
The driver eased to a stop. Clay climbed out, tossing a quick “I’ll only be a few minutes” over his shoulder, and hurried up to the door. When the butler answered, Clay straightened his jacket.
“May I help you, sir?”
Were they supposed to be brothers or cousins? He couldn’t remember—and didn’t care. “I have an appointment with Mr. O’Grady. Is he here?”
The butler stepped aside. “He’s in the parlor.”
Clay followed him inside. Tavis and Rick sat in front of a wide bay window, flasks in hand, the soft light catching in the glass.
“Looking at anything in particular?” Clay asked.
Rick turned in his chair, eyes wide. “Where’d you come from? We didn’t see you on the sidewalk.”
“I came from the other direction. You can’t see the porch from those windows—you’ve got a blind spot.”
“We realized that,” Tavis said, setting his flask down. “But why are you here?”
“Geez. Thanks for the warm welcome. Should I leave?”
“That’s not it,” Tavis said quickly. “Rick claimed he sent you a message. I thought he was joking. Did you actually get it?”
“Yes—and it surprised the hell out of me. I’ll explain in a minute. Let me pay the driver first.”
He paid the driver, then returned, chest tight but steady.
He crossed the room and dropped into a chair upholstered in deep green velvet, the wood carved in the sleek lines of Art Deco elegance.
He unscrewed his flask, took a slow sip, letting the warm burn and faint chocolate finish settle his nerves.
Then he crossed one leg over the other and looked between the two men.
“Now,” he said, “what do you want to know?”
Tavis frowned. “How did you know to come here?”
“Rick told me,” Clay said simply, taking another sip. “Okay, I admit it freaked me out—but if JC could do it, why not him? Especially since he’s the clan’s morality police.”
“I’m not the morality police,” Rick said. “I just call people out when I think they’re making a mistake. What’s this about?”
“Before that—why are you two here?”
“To watch the people coming to Skye’s house,” Tavis said. “We’re taking pictures. Hoping to match faces with politicians, gangsters, anyone from Rick’s database.”
“Smart,” Clay nodded. “Then you’ll want to hear what I found.”
Rick lifted a brow. “The suspense is killing me.”
Clay exhaled slowly. “I recognized Ring Man. He was with Capone. That’s why I left—I needed confirmation. After the race, I followed him. He met a guy, passed him money, then went into the grandstand and sat beside Capone, who handed him an envelope.”
Rick swore softly.
“Then Ring Man met another man wearing a crossed-keys ring,” Clay continued.
“They went to the barn. I followed. They found the jockey who rode the winner in the fifth race. They argued. The only words I caught were you and lose. Then Ring Man broke his arm—snapped it. The jockey went down hard. I don’t know if he died. ”
“Asshole,” Rick muttered.
“Did you get a name?” Clay asked.
Rick nodded. “He called himself Maurice Bowes.”
Clay blinked. “You’re kidding.” He’d heard enough about Penny’s story to understand what Rick meant.
“Nope,” Rick said grimly. “Now we know where his grandson gets it.”
“If you kill him, you might prevent the grandson from being born,” Clay whispered.
“I’m not killing him,” Rick replied. “Lafitte thought he solved this once, but the man he killed already had a son. History repeats, apparently.”
“Shit,” Tavis said, turning toward the window. “That’s Bowes. Right there.”
Rick shot to his feet, chair tipping over. “I’m going to the Marshalls.”
“The hell you are,” Tavis snapped.
“I want him to know I have a connection to Alistair.”
“You don’t,” Tavis said.
“Maybe he’s a bank client,” Clay offered.
Tavis shook his head. “After what you said about him, no chance. He’s not there to pay respects.”
“So why is he?” Rick asked.
Clay hesitated. “Here’s something interesting. Bowes left in a black and yellow LaSalle—the same model Skye rode in this morning. I didn’t see the driver, so I can’t be sure it was the same car.”
Rick straightened, adjusting his tie and hat. “If I’m not back in an hour, come get me.”
Tavis frowned. “And if you get desperate?”
Clay leaned back, his expression serious. “Tell Alistair you read the article about his disappearance in Scotland. That’ll throw him off long enough to figure out what you need.”
Tavis pocketed his flask and nodded once. “What do we do about Skye?”
“Play it by ear,” Rick said.
“Whatever you do,” Clay added quietly, “it has to benefit Remy.”
“Hold on a minute.” Tavis disappeared, his footsteps fading down the hall. He returned moments later, a small slip of paper in his hand, which he pressed into Rick’s palm. “This is the number here. If you need help, call.”
Rick folded the paper and slid it deep into his pocket, then spun his hat up his arm and tipped it into place with a practiced flick. “Keep a lookout,” he said—and strode out the door, leaving the room humming with tension and the faint scent of whisky and tobacco.