Black Cat Weekly #62

By M.A. Monnin, Kathryn Prater Bomey, Sydney J. Bounds and 6 more

Black Cat Weekly #62 features modern and classic science fiction, fantasy, mystery, and adventure fiction—great novels and short stories in every issue. You are sure to find a lot you'll like, no matter what genres you enjoy most. This issue includes more than 600 pages!

Mystery / Crime / Suspense:

“Siren Song,” by M. A. Monnin [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Letter Perfect,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Beneath the Surface,” by Kathryn Prater Bomey [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Code 197,” by Richard S. Prather [novella]
A Human Counterfeit, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

Science Fiction / Fantasy / Adventure:

“Siren Song,” by M. A. Monnin [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Green Roses,” by Larry Tritten [short story]
“A Family Matter,” by Sydney J. Bounds [short story]
“The Isle of Lost Ships,” by Seabury Quinn [novella]
“Miracle,” by Ray Cummings [short story]
The Cave Girl, by Edgar Rice Burroughs [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Nov 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667660455

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

SIREN SONG, by M.A. Monnin

CHAPTER 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

LETTER PERFECT, by Hal Charles

BENEATH THE SURFACE by Kathryn Prater Bomey

CODE 197, by Richard S. Prather

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

A HUMAN COUNTERFEIT, by Nicholas Carter

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

GREEN ROSES, by Larry Tritten

A FAMILY MATTER, by Sydney J. Bounds

THE ISLE OF MISSING SHIPS, by Seabury Quinn

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

MIRACLE, by Ray Cummings

THE CAVE GIRL, by Edgar Rice Burroughs

PART 1: THE CAVE GIRL

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

PART 2: THE CAVE MAN

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Siren Song is copyright © copyright © 2020 by M. A. Monnin. Originally published in All That Weird Jazz. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Letter Perfect is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Beneath the Surface is copyright © 2022 by Kathryn Prater Bomey and appears here for the first time.

Code 197, by Richard S. Prather, was originally published in Manhunt, June 1955.

A Human Counterfeit, by Nicholas Carter, was originally published in Nick Carter Stories No. 157, September 11, 1915.

Green Roses is copyright © 1983 by Larry Tritten. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, January 1983. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

A Family Matter is copyright © 2022 by the Estate of Sydney J. Bounds and appears here for the first time. Published with the permission of the Cosmos Literary Agency.

The Isle of Lost Ships, by Seabury Quinn, was originally published in Weird Tales, February 1926.

Miracle, by Ray Cummings, was originally published in Astonishing Stories, October 1942.

The Cave Girl, by Edgar Rice Burroughs, originally appeared in 1925.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 62nd issue is another good one, with a pair of original stories: Beneath the Surface by Kathryn Prater Bomey (thanks to acquiring editor Barb Goffman) and A Family Matter, by Sydney J. Bounds (part of his private mage series). Acquiring editor Michael Bracken has found a jazz-age time travel fantasy mystery by M.A. Monnin (whew! That’s a lot of genres!) so it appears in both sections below. Acquiring editors Darrell Schweitzer and Cynthia Ward are off this week, but hopefully they’ll be back shortly.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Siren Song, by M. A. Monnin [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Letter Perfect, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Beneath the Surface, by Kathryn Prater Bomey [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Code 197, by Richard S. Prather [novella]

A Human Counterfeit, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Siren Song, by M. A. Monnin [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Green Roses, by Larry Tritten [short story]

A Family Matter, by Sydney J. Bounds [short story]

The Isle of Lost Ships, by Seabury Quinn [novella]

Miracle, by Ray Cummings [short story]

The Cave Girl, by Edgar Rice Burroughs [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

SIREN SONG,

by M.A. Monnin

CHAPTER 1

Lamentations

There was a new jazz band playing at the Gimlet Lounge. Hawk Hathaway absently tapped his foot to the beat, a rhythm reminiscent of Sweet Georgia Brown. When the melodic interplay built and the trumpet player took the spotlight for a solo, the high clear notes sailed across the room, and he sat up. The haunting wail of the horn called to him, reached in and touched his soul. The music expressed fluidly the regret and sorrow that crushed his very being. Hawk stared at the trumpeter, transfixed. He knows how it feels, to have the weight of intolerable pain pressing in on him.

When the trumpeter lowered the horn and took a breath, the dullness in his eyes and his downturned mouth confirmed Hawk’s supposition. The tune segued back into play between the horn, the guitar, and the drums, more like Dixieland jazz again. That was no surprise. This was Kansas City, with the historic 18th and Vine Jazz District just blocks away. Still, the festive notes jarred with the wallowing of despair that he came here for every night. Along with the alcohol. Hawk considered the three whiskeys he’d had and left the table for a trip to the can.

He trudged down the solid stairs to the basement of the century-old building.

Huh, he thought, I can still hear the music down here. In fact, it seemed louder.

His musing was interrupted when he noticed that Carl, owner of the Gimlet, had remodeled the gent’s room. When had that happened? Hadn’t he been here every day for the last month, every single night since he’d given up his driver’s license?

Be honest with yourself, he said brutally. Since you killed that girl. Only ten years old. He’d tried to stop in time, but that didn’t matter. A vision of the ten-year-old running in front of his car blurred his vision. Hawk shook it off and focused on the improvements to keep from thinking about her.

The bright white wall tiles were surrounded by fresh grout, not the black lines he was used to seeing. Carl must have had it completely redone. No amount of bleach could have removed the decades of embedded mold and grime on those walls. The woodwork of the stalls themselves had been cleaned and refinished, brought back to their original glamour, when the building had been in its heyday. Even the air had lost that essence of mildew so familiar in the cellars of these old buildings. He was surprised Carl bothered. The place was a dive now, little more than a hole in the wall.

The door opened and the man who entered nodded before going to the far urinal. Dressed in a brown suit with bold pinstripes, he sported a wide green tie. That’s why we’ve got Dixieland upstairs, Hawk thought. The swing dancers are here.

He washed his hands, noticing that Carl had replaced the sinks, too. Going all out. Funny that he’d kept the same style. That must be Greta’s influence, Carl’s twenty-four-year-old daughter. Hawk eyed the hard bar on the soap dish with distaste. Too bad he hadn’t splurged on bottles of liquid soap.

And the towel dispenser—Greta must have talked Carl into the old-fashioned cloth roller towel, too. She was into the environment. No trash, no electricity consumed. He pulled down the cloth towel with both hands for a crisp, fresh section to dry his hands on, then made his escape before the swing dancer started a conversation. They were too talkative and cheerful for his taste.

In the hallway, the sounds of the trumpet filled the air. Something evocative in the notes spoke to a longing in his soul. Hawk paused before climbing the stairs. There was smoke coming from behind the storeroom door. Cigarette smoke. It had been five years since he’d kicked the habit, but now, with the girl on his mind, the scent lured him in like a fish to a fly. Someone was sneaking a cigarette, in spite of the indoor smoking ban. Maybe he could bum one. Maybe it was Greta.

He pushed the storeroom door open. And stared. Had he taken a wrong turn in the dark? Hawk stepped back into the narrow hallway and took a swift look around. No, there was the men’s room. The same one he’d visited every night for the last month. He turned back to the open doorway. There was another bar down here, and it was hopping. Swing dancers filled the place, along with their cigarette smoke and chatter.

They need to do their research, he thought at the sight of the slinky straight dresses and long strings of beads on the women. The costumes belonged to the 1920s, not the 40s, when swing was in. But the men’s fedoras were sharp. Might have to get one himself. Funny, this band was playing the same song as the trio upstairs. Not as polished though.

Eying the band, the bartender reached under the bar and retrieved an amber bottle. He filled a single glass, then tucked the bottle away as the band stopped playing. The musicians crowded the narrow bar along with the patrons while Hawk contemplated bumming a cigarette.

Give me a special, Slim, the trumpeter said, holding the instrument at his side.

Got it for you right here. The bartender pushed the glass of clear liquid across the bar.

The costumed dancer Hawk had seen in the restroom brushed past, bumping him.

Excuse you, Hawk said under his breath.

The sax player leaned his elbow on the bar. It’s Friday night. Time to get paid, he said to the bartender.

Slim looked up and smiled.

Hawk decided to forgo the cigarette. What the crowd lacked in research skills they made up for in enthusiasm. The last thing he wanted was to be surrounded by cheerful partiers. Besides, the smoke in the air had been enough to settle his craving. For now.

Upstairs, the band played smooth jazz tunes, and Hawk took his seat at the bar. Greta was tending tonight.

Nice job downstairs, Hawk said. The men’s room. And the bar, he added, embarrassed, somehow, at bringing up bathrooms to her.

Glad you like it. She laughed, causing the silver ring in her left brow to twinkle. She filled two glasses with Boulevard Wheat from the tap and took them to a table.

He read the name printed on the band’s drum while she was gone. The Scott Norman Trio. When Greta returned, Hawk ordered another whiskey. No swing dancing up here?

She glanced at the small stage. They’re the right band for it.

The musicians set down their instruments, and made their way through the tables to the bar.

Has Harry Flynn been in tonight? the trumpet player asked Greta.

The music producer? Greta shook her head. I haven’t seen him, Scott.

Scott scanned the bar patrons. He’s hitting all the clubs in KC this weekend. He’ll show up sooner or later.

So that’s what the crowd is about, Hawk said. The trumpet player was younger than he thought, not more than a kid, really. But even close up, Hawk could see that sadness in his eyes. Another damaged soul. Looking for your big break? he asked.

Sure could use one, Scott said. Things have been rough lately.

Tell me about it. Hawk knocked his whiskey back. His life had spiraled downhill since that day. That song you played first. Can you play it again? He looked at the musician. It eases the pain. Takes me with it, if you know what I mean.

Yeah, I do. Scott finished his drink and studied the glass. Get a lot of requests for that one. It’s gonna make my name.

The trio returned to the stage, and the swinging melody began. Hawk closed his eyes and pictured the accident, reliving the horror of the impact as he had a thousand times before. If only he hadn’t glanced at his cell phone. But ’57 Chevys didn’t have Bluetooth. That’s all it had been, a glance—he had no intention of replying to it. The memories brought back the craving for a cigarette.

You smoke? he asked Greta, opening his eyes.

She shook her head.

I’m going downstairs to bum one.

He ran down the stairs, almost regretting that he’d requested the song. The mournful notes filled his ears, reverberating in his head as the trumpet built to the high, scorching solo. The sound punished him, pain he relished as his due. A shimmering like pixels breaking up in the edges of his peripheral vision warned him that a migraine wasn’t far behind. A cigarette would help. In the cellar, he pushed open the storeroom door, looking for a smoker. Someone congenial who wouldn’t mind sharing with a stranger.

This band was still gathered at the bar. As Hawk walked in, the trumpet player grimaced, clutching a hand to his chest, and dropped his horn. The instrument clanged when it hit the floor, then the man himself fell from his stool. A sultry brunette at one of the tables jumped up, spilling her drink on the red silk of her dress.

Phil! She knelt by the fallen man’s side, then raised her eyes to the crowd. Her gaze stopped on Hawk, beseeching. Help him, please.

Hawk froze, helpless, as he had been thirty-two days ago when he’d hit the ten-year-old. He was a lawyer, not a doctor. Others crowded around and one man loosened the trumpet player’s tie while another slapped his cheek, deliberately, with force. First the left, then the right. The man didn’t revive.

The brunette’s wail of anguish rose high and filled the room. Hawk broke out of his shock and checked his phone. No signal. He dashed upstairs. Scott Norman’s Trio was taking a bow to enthusiastic applause.

Call 911, Hawk said to Greta, who was browsing her cell phone. Somebody’s in trouble downstairs. It doesn’t look good.

Downstairs? In the bathroom? she asked.

Hawk saw the emergency defibrillator on the wall. Carl had insisted on it after a long-time customer nearly died on him. Bring that. It might be a heart attack.

Greta looked at her father, who nodded and picked up the receiver of the wall phone. Tucking her cell into the top of her boot, Greta grabbed the apparatus from the wall and followed Hawk.

The hallway was silent when they reached the bottom of the stairs.

It’s too quiet. That can’t be good. Hawk pushed open the heavy door. The room was pitch black. A fuse must have blown. He jerked his head back and forth, searching for a breaker box in the dim hallway.

Here. I’ll get it. Greta reached past him into the room and he heard the click of a switch.

The room illuminated brightly. Instead of a sea of scared faces, Hawk looked at cases of tequila and gin and kegs along the wall, a wall he could have sworn held a large mirror and shelves of alcohol. There was a mirror on the wall above the boxes, but it was speckled and dark with age. A row of dusty amber empties stood on a narrow ledge beneath.

Greta left him in the doorway and peered through the cracked glass panel of the men’s room door. Anyone in there? Do you need help?

As Hawk turned to her, baffled, she opened the door and ducked to look under the stalls, then did the same in the ladies’ room next door.

Nobody’s down here, Hawk. She studied him a moment. Her eyebrows drew together slightly, then she gave him an understanding smile. How many did you have before you came here tonight?

He stepped past her to the men’s room and jerked the door open. Stared at the familiar cracked tiles, the scratched wooden stalls, the rust stains in the sink and the paper towel dispenser only half-way fixed to the wall. He hadn’t had anything to drink at all before he got here, had he? Hawk blinked and rubbed a hand over his face.

I don’t remember.

Chapter 2

Revelation

The next night, Hawk was late getting to the Gimlet Lounge. He’d worked longer, to make up for the cases he’d gotten behind on, in his funk. He’d made certain that he paid attention to every detail. The previous night’s confusion scared him.

Edging in at the crowded bar, Hawk glanced at the colorful bottles lined up on the counter behind Carl. Better not hit the hard stuff.

Just give me a Boulevard.

Carl poured the beer. Can you believe this crowd?

The music producer?

Yeah. He’s supposed to stop in tomorrow night, too. Great for business. Carl grinned from ear to ear.

Scott Norman came in with his band, and the musicians took the stage. They tuned up, playing a soothing mix of smooth jazz. But what Hawk really wanted to hear was the song from yesterday.

He looked at Greta, working the other end of the bar, then stared down into his beer. Last night had seemed so real. He swallowed. He couldn’t let grief drag him down. It had been an accident. He’d stayed with the girl until the ambulance arrived. Held her hand. Watched the life and vitality fade from her brown eyes. Hawk grimaced, then chugged the beer.

The song trailed away, then Scott Norman spoke into the microphone. You all know the Gimlet Lounge has a long history as a jazz club. That’s why you’re here. What you might not know is that my family has a history of playing here. My great-great-grandfather played here in the 20s, and my great-great-grandmother sang here, too. It’s where they met. I don’t know if the crowds came for the music, or the booze. It was Prohibition, you know. You decide. Here’s a little number Phil Norman wrote and played back in the day.

Familiar notes rang out. It was the tune they’d played yesterday, the one he’d requested. He was drawn to the raw emotion of the trumpet, pulled by that haunting melody that gripped his soul in an iron fist, squeezed it tight, then left him drained. He closed his eyes and let the notes fill his head, his lungs, let them reverberate through his very being. Hawk opened his eyes and shook his head. He could swear the band downstairs played it yesterday. If he didn’t go down and verify that there was nothing but two restrooms in dire need of remodeling and a well-stocked storeroom, he’d think he was losing it. He slid off the seat.

Greta was swamped as he walked past, but she paused long enough to wink at him while she shook a stainless-steel cocktail shaker. Hawk smiled. Shrugging off his trepidation, he went downstairs. The same song was playing. Again. It must be an echo, the acoustics of the wide stairwell combined with the stone-walled cellar that made it seem as if the song were playing down here, too. He laughed at the sense of déjà vu, but at the bottom of the stairs, he stopped, and so did his laughter.

The crack in the glass panel of the men’s room door was gone. Turning his head to the right, he took in the well-lit ladies’ room, with the neat lettering on the glass, then looked down the short hall to the storeroom door. The door was closed all the way this time, and he didn’t catch any whiff of cigarette smoke as he had the previous day.

With the coalescing notes ringing in his ears as they built to the climax of the solo, Hawk forced his reluctant feet down the hallway and reached for the doorknob. His hand was unsteady when he twisted it and opened the door.

The dancers were there again. He blinked. They didn’t go away. This time, Hawk stepped into the room. So, it wasn’t his imagination after all. He went to the bar and tentatively rested an elbow on it. How is he?

Who? the bartender asked, the same one he’d seen yesterday, with slicked-back hair and a white coat.

The trumpet player.

The bar tender gave him an irritated glance, then lifted his hand toward the band.

Hawk scrutinized the musicians. All four were present. The trumpet player was alright, then. He looked around the cramped area, and saw the sultry brunette that had knelt at the sick man’s side. She sat at a tiny table, a cigarette burned to ash in the elegant cigarette holder she held between her fingers. While he watched, she seemed to notice the ash and tipped it off into an ashtray beside her glass. Two women sat with her.

Slim turned back to Hawk while he wiped the counter. What’s your poison? I’ve got the special tonight. Two cases. Best stuff in the city. Boss Tom makes sure of that.

It was then Hawk noticed. This room was small. Tiny, in fact. Between the bar along one side, the four-piece band opposite, and a couple of tables, the twenty or so customers had little more than standing room. No space to swing dance. The bar itself was rudimentary, a wooden base topped by a wide plank, and beneath, he saw from the open end, plain metal brackets supported a single shelf that held bottles and glassware. It was a storeroom after all. What were they doing here in costume? He sniffed the air. A modern opium den? Worse?

He had enough trouble as it was—he wasn’t about to get caught up in drugs. Hawk turned and left.

He hesitated when he saw Greta upstairs. She must know all about the rave downstairs, or whatever she wanted to call it. That’s why she’d played dumb last night. A pop-up rave, like the pop-up art galleries that only opened on First Fridays. That sort of thing was more in her line than her father’s, he’d bet. Hawk sat at the bar and watched the stairs. No one came up. There must be another exit from the storeroom, one he hadn’t noticed. He could offer Greta a little friendly advice, steer her away from trouble. The people play-acting downstairs probably thought it was a game, dabbling in heroin or cocaine, or whatever the drug du jour was. She probably did, too.

You know I’m a lawyer, right?

Greta’s sapphire gaze dropped slowly to the dress shirt he hadn’t changed from after work, then lifted to meet his eyes with a sassy sparkle. Trying to impress me?

Was she flirting with him? Him, with blood on his hands, and she the most beautiful thing he’d seen? He couldn’t help but smile back. Her flirtation emboldened him, but he didn’t want to play the heavy, and scare her off. He’d have to approach her setup downstairs with tact.

So, is there a way out of the building from the basement?

She laughed. Planning to run out on your bar tab?

Scott Norman took the stool beside him. There is. They used it during Prohibition.

You’re giving all our secrets away, Greta protested.

Two men about fifty years old had been sitting quietly at the end of the bar. One of them had his arms folded across his chest. Nice playing, he said, standing up. You’ve got talent.

Scott gawked. Harry Flynn.

Yep. The man came over and shook Scott’s hand. You’ve got potential. Play with flair and a grace that I don’t see often. But that first song you played. It isn’t yours. I’ve heard it before.

Scott grinned. My great-great grandfather wrote it.

Flynn’s business card was in his hand, but the producer returned it to his chest pocket at Scott’s words. His gaze changed from warm to wary. Got to do more than look up music on YouTube if you want to be informed. Check out some of the greats. The album cuts, not just the hits. Copyright suits are hell. They’ll kill your career before it starts.

Scott’s face fell. He stared after the producer as the man left. That song was my ticket out. I’ve got bills to pay, and I’ve got to eat.

Greta gave him a commiserating smile. So her sympathy wasn’t something special, just for him, Hawk thought. He was on the producer’s side. He’d heard the band downstairs play the song.

Wanting to talk to Greta privately about the rave, Hawk leaned forward. I know what’s going on, he said. Can we take a look, downstairs, just for my sanity? Carl can handle the crowd.

Greta untied her apron and stepped from behind the bar. Come on.

You’ve got a good thing going here, the Gimlet Lounge, Hawk said on the stairs. You don’t want to mess that up, get caught up in the law. I know what it’s like to live with regret. You don’t want to go there. There are better options for bringing in a younger crowd.

Other than the best cocktails in the city? What would you suggest? Greta asked as she opened the storeroom door.

Once again, all trace of the revelers was gone. Hawk walked in and noticed that the bar had been pushed up against the mirror, the alcohol stacked in front of that. He ran a hand over the cases of gin and mentally measured the distance in the room.

If this row of boxes was pushed out several feet, it would make a nifty pop-up bar. But where did the tables and chairs go?

Greta didn’t reply to his question. Instead, she walked to the far corner. This is the secret exit.

Grimy wooden shelves extended on the back wall past the equally grimy mirror. She reached beneath a waist-high shelf, and Hawk heard the click of a latch releasing. When Greta pulled the wooden shelf, the entire section of wall, shelves attached, swung outward.

He knew it. This was how they left. He peered into the opening. The space was maybe three feet deep. Boxes of lightbulbs, glassware and cases of commercial-strength cleaner were stacked on the floor. Frowning, Hawk stepped inside and knocked on the wall above the stored products. Solid.

Greta laughed. This was a hidden speakeasy. The tunnel used to lead to the Bellevue Hotel. It was blocked off when the hotel closed in the ’40s.

There must be another exit down here, Hawk said. There was a metal door to his immediate right. What’s this? Where does it go?

After pulling a ring of keys from her back pocket, Greta unlocked the door. When she went out, he followed. Rusted iron steps led upward. The original trash elevator. She pointed upward.

The starry night sky was visible through a metal grate that covered the entire opening. And it still works?

Not very well. She pushed a large red button and the mechanism groaned, but didn’t move.

They went back inside, and Greta continued as she relocked the door. Of course, everyone knew about the speakeasy. On their weekly raids, the police rounded up the patrons that hadn’t made their escape and take them to jail, but they were always let go with a warning.

Hawk ran a finger along the surface of the mirror, leaving a clear line in the dust. While he rubbed the dirt from his fingertip, panic pushed adrenaline through his system. He’d seen it. He’d talked to Slim, the bartender.

All those people. Last night, and tonight. How did they get out so quickly? I was watching for them.

Greta took his arm, and he felt a thrill of pleasure at the warmth of her hand. It’s only been a month since that little girl died, hasn’t it?

He’d seen their faces so clearly—Slim, Phil, the sultry brunette in red, the man in the brown suit that had bumped into him. The man in the brown suit. Last night the man had stopped in the gent’s first, then gone into the speakeasy. Tonight, Hawk was already there when he came in—but it was the same scene. Chills raised the hair on the back of his neck.

The woman who’d knelt at the trumpeter’s side wore the same red dress as she’d had on the previous day. She’d spilled her drink on it. An actor might wear the same costume night after night, but a woman out for fun with friends? She would change into something clean.

What had Slim said? Boss Tom. Tom Pendergast, notorious Kansas City boss. In the nineteen twenties. Hawk’s glance darted around the dusty storeroom. Greta wasn’t hiding anything, no rave, no pop-up bar scene for her friends. The world shifted under his feet. The only thing that felt solid was Greta’s hand, firmly gripping his arm.

In the hallway, Hawk scrutinized the dilapidated restroom doors as they walked past. Upstairs, he took a seat at the bar, and tried to process.

He’d gone back in time, been given a glimpse. That was the only explanation. Why? Why him, why couldn’t Greta see it, too? He shook his head. It’s PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Brought on by the accident, his guilt. Grief and guilt. Suggestion, because Scott Norman mentioned his great-great grandparents and Prohibition? But he hadn’t known about Scott’s history yesterday…

From the other side of the bar, Greta leaned in as she slid him a 7-Up. You know, I’d be willing to go with you to grief counseling. If you want.

Before Hawk answered, Scott took the seat next to him.

What a crap year. Scott ordered a beer. My mother lost her job. I’m supporting her, too. He took out his phone and brought up a photo. My little sister just died. Hit by a car last month.

Hawk’s head swam. It couldn’t be. As the trumpet player held out his phone to show the photo, Hawk leaned away. But he had to know. Full of dread, he bent forward to see the photo of Scott’s little sister. Bile rose in his throat, and he gripped the edge of the bar to keep from falling off the stool.

It was her—the little ten-year-old he’d hit. He looked into the young trumpeter’s eyes, but nothing registered there but sorrow. No recognition, no indication that Scott knew he was the perpetrator. Hawk hadn’t left the scene; his name was in the police reports. But his face hadn’t been shown on the news. Scott must not know.

Her name is Carina, the trumpeter said, blanking the phone.

Hawk cleared his throat. What was the name of your great-great grandfather? The one that wrote the song?

So you believe me? Scott’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. Phil Norman. He was the one that would have made it big. Played with Count Basie, and Carlton Coon. After hours, of course, when anyone joined in that wanted to jam.

The trumpet player, Hawk said.

He died back in 1927. Not before he stole the band’s funds. Left his wife to raise their kid alone. It was rough on her. Guess that’s how our family luck goes. Scott stared blankly at his glass.

It all came back to that song. Hawk had been fine until the band played it. His head shot up. Both bands had played the song.

Hawk looked earnestly into Scott’s eyes. Do you… do you feel a kinship with him, when you play? When you play that song? Hawk couldn’t ask if he’d ever seen Phil. It was too fantastic, too weird.

Scott glanced at the stage, but his eyes held a faraway look. You know, I kind of do. The guy couldn’t be all bad, to write something as beautiful as that, could he? It’s the only good thing he left behind. He scowled. But now it looks like he didn’t even do that.

Hawk gripped his glass so tightly it threatened to crack. Now he understood. The scene downstairs that only he could see. It wasn’t a figment of his tortured imagination. It was his punishment, decreed by God. No, not God. God wouldn’t have allowed an innocent ten-year-old to die. Fate, or Providence, then, had decreed that he must pay.

He pictured the woman in the red dress, down on her knees beside her dead husband. Her heart-broken wail filled his ears until he thought his eardrums would burst. Wailing now not only for the death of her husband, but also for her great-great granddaughter, little Carina. He was connected to them, connected by shared anguish over the same girl’s death.

That’s why the song pulled him in. It called to him like a siren, drew him in, then crushed his soul on the rocks of his guilt and regret.

His own personal hell.

Chapter 3

Providence

The next day, Hawk made it to the Gimlet Lounge when it opened at five. Carl unlocked the door.

You’re early, Hawk.

Finished work early. It was the first time that had happened since the accident. This time, Hawk stuck strictly to soda. He’d figured out how he could make amends, and had gotten Scott’s number from Greta and called the musician.

While he waited, his stare alternated between the basement steps and the empty stage. A portal through time. Was it the frequency of the notes? The vibration? That’s how matter worked, didn’t it? Atoms vibrated with life. Oscillations of crystal sent radio waves across the air. Physics had never been his strength, but he didn’t need to understand how it worked, he just knew that it did.

To be sure, to test his theory, he went downstairs and threw open the men’s room door. He didn’t really need to. The corner of the glass panel was cracked. Inside, the same dilapidated stalls met his eye. Passing the ladies’ room, he saw that more of the lettering on the glass panel was scratched off than remained. Only the d and the s were legible, and the gold had chipped off the outlines of those letters, too.

He stopped in front of the storeroom door and took a breath, then pushed the door open. The storeroom was silent and dirty, smelling of damp stone walls. Lined up against the dark speckled mirror were the dusty empties. He took one and studied it. The absence of the speakeasy confirmed his suspicion. That song spoke to him personally. Played by a descendant, it called a portal through time that only he could enter, forcing him to bear witness to yet another scene of the family caught in tragedy. Hawk left the storeroom, then climbed the stairs, lost in thought.

Do you have the papers? he asked when Scott arrived.

Sure. But look, I’ve got to set up. The rest of the guys are giving me the eye. So is Greta, and I don’t want to get on her bad side. Scott took his horn out of a battered case. Now that he was close, Hawk could tell the instrument was old. The musician also removed a sheaf of yellowed paper from the case, on which were musical notations, handwritten.

Hawk took the pages. You just play. I’ll talk to Harry Flynn about the song. It’s the least I can do.

Scott looked at him quizzically, but Hawk didn’t explain his motive. He couldn’t yet. When Scott got his contract, and his life was headed upwards, then Hawk would confess he was the driver.

Aren’t you sharp tonight, Greta said, giving his suit and tie a once-over. Going swing dancing later? Isn’t that what you asked me a few days ago?

Did you mean it, that you’d go with me to grief counseling? No judgement?

If you’re willing to be seen with someone like me. She rested one hand on his, and with the other, gestured at her short plaid skirt and biker boots.

As if he’d say no. I’m willing.

The band began to play his song. Hawk watched the audience to see if anyone else was affected by the music, as he was. They were enthralled, watching the musician as he played, phones dark in their laps while they listened. Hawk waited for those high, lonely notes that indicated the start of the solo. What was the name of it? Scrawled large across the top page were two figures: #5. It would always be Siren Song to him.

As soon as Scott started his solo, Hawk went to the open end of the bar. Come on, he said to Greta. You’re not going to believe it, but just watch. We can talk later.

Not the storeroom again, Hawk.

No judgement, remember?

He held Greta’s hand as they descended the stairs. The light shining through the men’s room door showed nary a crack. Through the glass, a shadowy figure moved. Next door, Ladies Room was written in bold, elegant script.

Greta balked at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the restored glass. At the door of the storeroom, Hawk’s heart lifted. On the other side, the band was playing. He pulled her into the bar. No one paid attention to them in the doorway.

I thought you had a pop-up bar down here, Hawk said under his breath.

Greta stared wide-eyed. It’s a speakeasy. But how?

Just watch.

The bartender retrieved the bottle from under the counter and poured a drink. Hawk pulled Greta to the side as the man in the brown suit brushed brusquely past, and the band stopped playing. Phil Norman sat down at the bar and picked up his glass.

It’s Friday night. Time to get paid, the sax player said.

The scene played out as it had before, as Hawk knew it would. Phil fell to the floor.

The sultry brunette ran to him, kneeling on the floor with her hands on Phil’s chest. Help him, please! This time, when she looked straight at Hawk, her eyes were accusing. He’s dead! Her high, keening wail filled the room.

From outside, Hawk heard police sirens.

The sax player grabbed the bartender’s arm. Give us our pay and we’ll get out of here.

Slim leaned over the bar and eyed the dead man. I paid Norman this afternoon.

The musician knelt and fished Phil’s wallet out of his jacket pocket. He opened it. It’s empty, he said, glaring at the woman in red.

She raised her hands to her face in shock.

Hawk listened for the band upstairs. Scott was still playing, but how long would it last? He had to get Greta safely back. Who knew how long the portal would stay open. As he pulled Greta away, the room went dark and silent. They were alone in the deserted hallway.

She looked into his eyes.

What…how? she sputtered.

That was Phil Norman, playing Scott’s song. It’s the song. It’s always playing upstairs when this scene plays out. It must have opened a portal through time. I can’t explain how. Grasping her hand, Hawk ran up the steps. I needed you to see, to believe me. Now I need to do what I can for Scott.

Harry Flynn and his cohort entered the Gimlet and took a seat near the door. Hawk glanced at the stage, catching Scott’s eye, and nodded. Leaving Greta at the bar, Hawk headed for Harry Flynn’s table.

He laid the sheet music in front of the music producer. I’m Scott’s lawyer. I can make a case for the Norman family’s rights to the song. Hawk handed over one of his business cards.

Flynn read the card. P. Hathaway. What’s the P stand for?

Family name. You can call me Hawk. He tapped the yellowed pages. This is the original composition of the song. We can date the paper and the ink.

The music producer glanced at the sheet music and shrugged. Do what you want. That song is on three albums from the thirties that I know of. With him insisting that it’s his, I’m not going to touch him. Flynn shifted his piercing gaze from Hawk to Scott, who had walked up just in time to hear. Flynn got up from the table and went to the stage, where he handed the guitar player his business card.

It hadn’t worked. Flynn wasn’t going to take a chance on the song. Hawk’s plan to make amends for his role in the Norman family’s sorrow had come to nothing.

Greta motioned Scott to the bar. On the house. She handed him a glass with two fingers of whiskey, which the trumpeter tossed back before returning to the stage.

Her gesture to the musician reminded Hawk of the scene in the speakeasy, Slim’s special. The bartender’s insistence that he’d paid Phil the money owed to the band. Phil was awfully young to die of a heart attack.