hell out of Chicago. But I shook my head. “No. You can let us out, Elroy.”
“Good luck, then.” He let the doors slide open and we stepped out, as ready as we would ever be.
Sal had said everyone was there. It wasn’t an exaggeration. Everyone was there. The room was densely packed with about sixty people who could make or break you. I recognized two actors, a politician, and three mob bosses and their consiglieres. There were plenty of wives too . . . or girlfriends. A sports broadcaster sat with the owner of the White Sox and his new pitcher.
At the corner table, his back to the wall, eyes to the room, was someone else I recognized. He was tall and thin, impeccably groomed, and sharp eyed. He was bald on top and didn’t try to cover it. Instead, he’d shaved his pate smooth. The little round glasses and his hairlessness should have aged him. It didn’t. It made him look more intimidating. I knew him from the papers, from occasional coverage on the evening news; he’d been in the news a lot more lately. I knew him from the wall of pictures in Uncle Sal’s study. Two men sat at his table with him, drinking with the ease of the privileged set who knew the world couldn’t—or wouldn’t—touch them. My heart dropped, and the urge to get the hell out of Dodge welled in my chest all over again.
Rudolf Alexander was in the room.
Sal moved toward us, and the crowd parted, eyes pinging between us and back to my uncle, who had his arms held wide and high, like I was the prodigal son come home. The room grew quiet without Sal saying a word. Still, someone clanged a spoon against glass, signaling the boss had something to say. Fat Tony, most likely, though I couldn’t see him in the crush. Esther’s hand tightened on my arm, but she didn’t let go.
“Nephew!” Sal greeted loudly. He took my face in his hands and kissed my cheeks enthusiastically, first one then the other, and I tried not to grimace in pain. Anger flickered across his features.
“You look like shit,” he hissed.
I didn’t answer. I knew he didn’t expect me to. And I said nothing about Alexander. Sal was well aware of Alexander’s presence, and Esther didn’t need to be.
Sal turned to her, saying her name just as loudly, and he kissed her too, his lips barely brushing her skin, his hands patting her shoulders. It was his signal to the gathering that he approved. There were murmurs and gasps, but I was guessing it was more my appearance than Sal’s greeting.
“Esther and Benny just got married,” Sal announced, throwing his arms wide, voice booming, demanding everyone listen.
We didn’t correct him.
“And I hope you will all help me welcome her to the family.”
“Toast,” someone yelled. Definitely Fat Tony.
“Toast,” someone repeated, jovial.
A waiter rushed forward with a tray of champagne. Sal handed us each a glass, and Esther let go of me reluctantly so I could hold the stem with my good hand.
“To Benito and Esther. May you make beautiful music and a beautiful life together. I know Jack would be proud. My sweet sister, Giuliana, too. May they rest in peace.”
“To Benny and Esther,” Fat Tony shouted.
Glasses were raised, and goodwill rang out. I downed my glass, and Esther sipped at hers before setting it aside like she didn’t trust the contents.
“Now you all know my nephew is a piano man. But you might not know that his lady is a singer. And tonight . . . Benito and his bride have agreed to perform for us,” Sal said, urging us forward toward the piano that sat in the corner of the room, the lid lifted, the bench pulled out, the keys waiting. There were no microphones—it wasn’t an official gig—but we didn’t need them. The room was hushed, the curiosity tangible, and I slid onto the bench while Esther took her place beside the piano, facing the gathering. I left my injured hand in my lap. One hand would have to do tonight; Esther’s voice would have to carry us. I looked up at her and winked. She smiled a ghost of a smile and squared her shoulders.
“As you can see . . . Benny Lament’s got a broken wing,” she said, projecting her voice over the silent crowd. “But you can still fly, can’t you, Benny?”
“I’d rather not. Let’s stroll, shall we, Esther? Nice and slow.” It wasn’t