Read Chapter 21: The Record Producer

The gramophone needle scratched against the worn shellac, hissing through the tiny speaker, but Evie barely heard the crackle. What mattered was the way Julien's fingers moved on the pianoforte, the way his wrists rolled and snapped through a stride pattern she'd taught him, the way he looked at her when she came in on the downbeat—grinning like a boy who'd just stolen a pastry.

The Brickyard's late crowd had thinned to a handful of stragglers. They sat close, elbows on the table, cigarettes burning forgotten in ashtrays. A week ago, this song had been a mess of mismatched rhythms. Seven nights of rehearsal had hammered it into something gleaming.

She sang the final line and let the note hang. Julien's hands lifted off the keys.

From the back corner, a slow, deliberate clap. A man rose from the shadows, tall and spare, with silver at his temples and a suit that cost more than Evie's monthly rent at the Mirabeau. He crossed the room with the ease of someone who owned every floor he walked on.

"Extraordinary," he said, voice carrying a clipped London accent. "I've heard jazz in Harlem, in Chicago, in the basements of Berlin. But that—" he gestured vaguely at the piano, at Evie, at the air between them—"that is something else entirely."

Julien stood, wary. "We're closed for the night, monsieur."

"Not for business." The man produced a card from his breast pocket, laid it flat on the piano's lid. POWELL & SONS RECORDING COMPANY, LONDON. Underneath, in smaller print: Arthur Powell, Chief Producer.

Evie's breath caught. The card was cream-colored, thick as a calling card of the aristocracy. She'd seen reproductions of such things in newspapers, advertisements for records that cost three times what she made in a night.

"Mr. Powell," she said slowly, testing the name. "You came all the way from London to hear us?"

"Came for the jazz." His smile was genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Staying for the discovery. Miss Hart—may I call you Miss Hart?—your voice has a quality I haven't heard since Ma Rainey was recording in Chicago. And Monsieur Delacroix, your command of the European tradition married to the American idiom—" He shook his head. "I want to record you. A full album. My engineers arrive from London next week. We'll use a studio in Montmartre, the acoustics there are divine."

A full album. The words hung in the smoky air like a struck chord.

Julien stepped forward, placing himself half in front of Evie. "We're flattered, monsieur. But there are—complications."

"Complications?" Powell's eyebrows rose. "Every artist has complications. Tell me yours."

Before either could answer, the Brickyard's front door banged open. Lucien stood in the frame, winter coat draped over his shoulders, cheeks flushed from cold or drink.

"Ah. The happy couple." His voice dripped with false warmth. "And who might this distinguished gentleman be?"

Powell turned, offering his hand. "Arthur Powell, London. And you are?"

"Lucien Fournier. Owner of Le Perroquet Bleu." He ignored Powell's hand entirely. "And the man who holds Miss Hart's employment contract."

Evie's stomach dropped. She'd told Lucien about the baron, about the debt. She'd been foolish enough to think he might help. But she'd never signed anything—that was the one thing she'd been careful about.

"Contract?" Powell looked between them, professional smile fixed in place. "I was under the impression Miss Hart was a free artist."

"She's a featured performer at my establishment. Paris has laws regarding such arrangements, monsieur. Poaching artists from one venue to another is one thing. Poaching them into a recording contract with a foreign company, who then controls their domestic rights—" Lucien spread his hands. "I'd hate to involve the courts."

Evie stepped forward. "I never signed anything with you, Lucien. You know that."

"Signed or not, you have performed under my banner for months. The law recognizes implied contracts. Ask any attorney." He smiled at Powell, all teeth. "I'm sure Mr. Powell doesn't want his first Parisian recording session mired in litigation. The French courts can be very—thorough."

Powell's expression flickered, calculation replacing enthusiasm. "I see." He turned to Evie, genuine regret in his eyes. "Miss Hart, I had no idea you were entangled. I apologize for the intrusion."

"Don't." Evie grabbed his sleeve. "Please. There's no contract. He's lying."

But Powell was already retreating toward the door, the imprint of his card still white against the piano's dark wood. "When your affairs are settled, Miss Hart—whenever that may be—my door in London remains open. But I cannot risk a legal battle before the company has even established its Paris presence. Surely you understand."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Evie wheeled on Lucien. "What the hell was that?"

"That was me protecting our interests." He adjusted his collar, unperturbed. "You are my ticket, Evie. The Americans who come to Le Perroquet Bleu—they come for you. Do you think I built that stage, those lights, that band, for the pleasure of watching you run off to another man's studio?"

"It was my voice you built it around. Mine." She was shaking now, rage mixing with the cold disappointment of opportunity slipping away. "You said the baron—"

"The baron owns your debt. I own your appearances." Lucien took a step closer. "You think I'm cruel? What I just did was save you. That London man—what do you think he'd do once he discovered you're wanted in New York? Once he traced the scandal that made you run? He'd drop you faster than a hot coal, and then where would you be?"

"My scandal is my business."

"Your scandal becomes anyone's business the moment they put your name on a record label." His voice softened, almost paternal. "I'm protecting you from yourself, Evie. The recording world is a hungry beast. It'll chew you up and spit you out. But you stay with me, and we'll build something sustained. Protected. You don't need London."

Julien had been silent, watching. Now he spoke, quiet and measured: "You don't protect anyone, Lucien. You possess things. There's a difference."

Lucien's eyes flickered to him, cold. "And you. The aristocrat who plays jazz in his spare time. How much longer do you think your family will tolerate this little performance? I heard about the salon debacle. The Comtesse de Valois—does she know you're here, now, arguing with nightclub owners over a singer with no reputation and a dead mother?"

The blow landed. Evie saw Julien's jaw tighten.

"You'll be back in your bourgeois salon by spring, Delacroix. Writing your little waltzes for little people." Lucien turned toward the door. "Evie will still have her voice, and she'll still have me. That's how these things end."

He left. The door swung shut behind him, leaving cold air and silence.

Evie slumped against the piano. The card Powell had left was still there—she picked it up, running her thumb over the embossed lettering. London. A future. A future that had just been dangled in front of her and snatched away by a man who needed her more than he loved her.

"I'll fight him," Julien said. "Legally. He has no paper trail, no proof. We could—"

"He knows things, Julien." She held up the card. "About New York. About what I ran from. If he makes that public, the scandal doesn't just hurt me. It hurts you. Your mother used it to expel me once—imagine what she'd do if it was in every Paris newspaper."

Julien was quiet. Then: "So we don't fight him through courts. We fight through the music."

"What do you mean?"

He took her hand, squeezing it. "Powell said his engineers arrive next week. Lucien can delay the recording deal, but he cannot stop us from performing. So we make a noise so loud that the entire city hears us tonight, tomorrow, every night. And when Powell's engineers are listening, they will hear so much more than one club owner's lies."

"Until then?"

"Until then," Julien said, "we find Lily. And we find out who the baron really is. Because whoever owns your debt also controls Lucien—and I want to know why a nightclub owner is so invested in keeping you from making records."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper—a hand-drawn map, creased and coffee-stained. "A friend in Montmartre owed me a favor. He says there's a bar near the Pigalle, below street level. The kind of place where the musicians go when they want to disappear. If anyone knows where Lily went, they'll know there."