Page 47 of The Right to Remain

“Elliott, if you’re even thinking about leaving town,don’t. The law requires that your arraignment happen within twenty-four hours of indictment. If you fail to show, you will be a fugitive, and the judge will issue a bench warrant. Don’t do that to yourself. Call me as soon as you get this message.”

Jack didn’t have time to play private detective and track down his own client. He stopped at Cy’s Place on his way into the office. It wasn’t open yet, but Theo was there with his great-uncle Cy, the club’s namesake. Jack and Cy were the only invitees to what Theo’s advance billing had labeled “the best thing that could ever happen to an old-time jazz saxophonist in his nineties.”

“So, where are the ladies?” asked Cy.

He was alluding to Theo’s promise of “the best thing that could ever happen,” which was classic Cy, and it made Jack chuckle.

Cy was a relic of Miami’s Overtown Village in its jazz heyday, when it was known as Miami’s “Little Harlem.” Cy had played all the “joints”—the Cotton Club, the Clover Club, Rockland Palace Hotel. He especially loved sharing his memories of “after-midnight” gigs with Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, and other black entertainers who would finish their act at a Miami Beach nightclub and then head across the causeway to jam in Overtown, where their skin color didn’t prevent them from getting a room for the night. Best of all were Cy’s stories of the Knight Beat, “the swingingest place in the South.”

“You know, Jack, the Knight Beat wasn’t named after Cyrus Knight,” he said with a wry smile, “but that didn’t stop me from letting the ladies think it was.”

Jack had heard the story a dozen times, but he never grew tired of Cy.

“So, what’s this meeting about?” asked Jack.

Theo went behind the bar, retrieved what appeared to be a framed portrait covered in butcher paper, and set it on the table before Cy.

“Open it,” said Theo.

Cy tore away the paper, and Jack immediately recognized the old photograph from the collection of “Cy memorabilia” around the club, which included everything from Cotton Club matchbooks to Cy’s old Buescher 400 saxophone. The photo showed Cy as a handsome twentysomething dressed in his classic three-piece Norfolk suit in natty tweeds blowing on the sax. But Theo’s gift was a doctored version of the old black-and-white. It was sharper, even eye-popping, more like a slick advertisement than a portrait, complete with a brand name printed in a bold marketing font.

“What the hell is ‘Uncle Cy’s Bespoke Gin’?” asked Cy, reading aloud.

“Remember that homemade gin you told me about?” asked Theo.

The memory made Cy smile, and he explained for Jack’s benefit. “This is a recipe that dates back to Prohibition days, before evenIwas born. The story goes that they ran out of gin bottles and some dope puta batch of gin in a whiskey barrel. No one dared to taste it for almost two years. When they finally did, guess what? People loved it. Aging gin in a whiskey barrel gave it kind of an almond flavor.”

“That’s calledbespokegin,” said Theo. “And now it’s the hot new thing in the spirit industry. That’s why I’m launching ‘Uncle Cy’s—the Speakeasy Bespoke Gin.’”

Jack had to let that sink in for a moment. “Theo, when you told me you were making gin, I expected to see a glass vat with juniper berries sitting on your bar top.”

“Yeah, and if I had told you more than that, you would have come up with a hundred reasons why it wouldn’t work. So—surprise!”

“Are you seriously planning to make a private-label gin?”

“Yup. Already got a container shipment of empty whiskey barrels sitting in a warehouse over in the foreign trade zone. I’m in negotiations now with a gin supplier in the U.K. Next step is a bottler.”

Cy narrowed his eyes with concern. “Theo, can you afford this?”

“I’ll need an investor when I get to the distribution phase, but I’ll find one. We know the product is good. From a marking standpoint, who can resist the story behind Uncle Cy’s Speakeasy Bespoke Gin?”

Cy seemed more than pleased. He was downright proud. “Thank you, Theo. But all this business makes an old man hungry. Think you can rustle me up some breakfast?”

“Sure thing,” said Theo.

He headed toward the kitchen, and Jack followed. They stopped at the refrigerator.

“You pissed I didn’t tell you about the gin?” asked Theo.

“No, we all have our secrets,” said Jack.

“I just didn’t want to deal with you trying to talk me out of it.”

“Too late for that,” said Jack.

“That was the whole idea, dude,” he said with a sly smile.

Theo checked the expiration date on a milk carton, sniffed the opening, and tossed it in the trash. Jack turned the conversation to what was really on his mind.