Nel-M had phoned Melanie Ayliss’s number earlier and been told, ‘Mom won’t be back till late this evening. Shopping and then sociology evening class.’
Nel-M hadn’t planned to try her again until the next day — but if this was going to be the name of the game with Ayliss, Runaround City, the sooner his ex-wife was chasing his ass, the better. With two of them trying to find him, he wouldn’t find it so easy to slip away.
Darrell Ayliss’s cab took him deeper into the city — through the Warehouse District, CBD and French Quarter — to a smaller, more intimate hotel with a quaint Spanish courtyard and pool on the edge of Faubourg Marigny.
He glanced through the cab’s back window a couple of times, nobody following that he could tell — but then he hadn’t noticed anyone following earlier either. Just basic precautions: change his hotel and his rental car every day. Keep on the move.
He’d phoned to book the room under his name four hours back, and, as he checked in, the desk clerk informed him that his guest had already arrived. ‘About half an hour ago.’ The desk clerk handed him his key. ‘Room twenty-nine. First floor.’
Ayliss nodded with a tight smile and, despite it being only one floor, took the elevator. He felt as awkward as hell moving around, felt as if all that clammy heat and stale sweat from Libreville was still trapped against his skin.
Noises from the en-suite as he walked in: running water. He’d knock the door in a minute, but meanwhile he couldn’t wait any longer to get everything off. First his oversized jacket and shirt, then the padding strapped around his shoulders and waist that made him look seventy pounds heavier. He leant forward to shake and blink out the two brown contact lenses into his right palm, then finally, stripped to the waist standing in front of the dressing- table mirror, he started peeling off the skin-coloured prosthetic stuck tight to his cheeks and around his jaw.
The bathroom door opened, and, reflected in the mirror, he saw Alaysha Reyner leaning against the door frame in burgundy-red La Perla panties and matching bra. She smiled slyly.
‘My, my, Mr McElroy. I swear I only recognize you with your clothes off.’
He felt an ache of longing as he looked at her, but as he remembered Gerry’s words ‘…
34
As Jac had been about to phone John Langfranc that night out by the Great River Road, he’d suddenly thought of Morvaun Jaspar. He’d stood frozen in the same position for a couple of minutes, turning over in his mind whether the scenario that had just struck him might be at all possible. Yes, it would be one way of disappearing for a while and, yes, he might be able to get into Libreville with a good enough disguise. But some of the practicalities and worrying gaps in the plan he wouldn’t be able to fill until he’d actually spoken with Morvaun.
Morvaun had seen the late news bulletin, ‘‘Spect half of New Orleans has by now,’ and while his initial excitement over the idea outweighed his concerns, he reserved full judgement until they’d talked it over some more. ‘First thing is t’get you picked up. Then we can sit over some hot coffee — an’ maybe somethin’ stronger — while we thrash out if this is actually gonna work, or is jus’ the worst damn-fool plan since the Presiden’ decided to go into Iraq.’
In the half-hour wait, despite hanging in the shadow of some trees until he saw Morvaun’s car turn the corner, again Jac’s nerves bubbled as if being pressure-cooked, worried that the man on the terrace — or someone else seeing him through a window — might have matched him to the news bulletin, and a squad car would get to him before Morvaun.
Though when he did show, Jac still had good reason to worry. Morvaun’s car, a late fifties Plymouth Belvedere, two-tone pink and sky-blue with grandiose tail-fins that looked like they belonged on a Buck Rogers space-craft, couldn’t have stood out more in the small community. If Morvaun had leant out a side window with a loud hailer shouting “Septegarian pimps’ convention” or “James Brown’s back in town!” — that would at least have half-explained the car’s presence to them.
As the car coughed and jerked its way back up to Highway 10, with the occasional backfire, Morvaun half- turned towards Jac in the back seat.
‘Now you keep down real low there, Jac. Outta sight. Don’ wanna bring no untoward attention to ourselves.’
Jac swallowed back a muted chuckle.
Morvaun’s driving was atrocious. Jac lost count of the number of horns blared at them as Morvaun pulled out when he shouldn’t or drifted across lanes. As a car at a cross-street screeched and swerved around them, a narrow miss as Morvaun pulled out without apparently seeing them, Morvaun apologized.
‘Sorry ‘bout that, Jac. Haven’t been drivin’ this for a while.’
Jac looked around at the car. ‘What, since nineteen-fifty-eight?’
Morvaun chuckled. ‘You wanna save what humour you got left fo’ what the fuck I might make you look like later.’ Then he shrugged lamely. ‘Nah, eight months, perhaps. An’ before that, jus’ weekends now and then. ‘Cause my eyesight ain’t what it used t’be.’
Jac would never have guessed.
‘…An’ sounds like it needs a bit of a service now, too.’
Jac was convinced that, between Morvaun’s erratic driving, the car’s garish appearance and spluttering and gunshot-loud back-firing, they were bound to get stopped by a police car before they got back to Morvaun’s place.
But somehow, miraculously, they made it, and over coffee and Kahlua — Morvaun didn’t have brandy and whisky, only a wide array of exotic Caribbean and Pacific Island liquors — they got down to the serious business of not just if and how it might work, but most of all
Jac quickly discounted implicating Langfranc, what with old-man Beaton no doubt now looking hawkishly over his shoulder, but Mike Coultaine was another matter: long-retired, no remaining allegiances, and a strong invested interest — having been thwarted both at trial and appeal — in saving Durrant’s neck.
Coultaine was understanding of Jac’s plight, but was non-committal at first, saying he’d phone back in an hour. But when he called back he not only had a name, Darrell Ayliss, but within minutes had e-mailed a j-peg to Morvaun’s computer. Coultaine had spent most of that hour making arrangements, calling in old favours.
‘Ayliss is ideal,’ he explained, ‘Because he’s been off the scene for a while — seven years — and there’s hardly anyone in New Orleans that’ll recognize him. Ex-wife’s in Oregon, and the rest of his family in Mississippi.’
Morvaun agreed: ideal. Not only because of the lack of close friends and family in New Orleans, but the eight years since his last passport photo. ‘Gives us a pile more leeway in how he might look now.’
Though to get the likeness as close as possible, Coultaine arranged the next day for Ayliss to e-mail Morvaun directly — along with scans of each page of his passport — details of his appearance now: hair colour, length, level of greyness, eye-colour, weight, type of clothes and glasses.
Coultaine had also covered their tracks by arranging for Ayliss to go to Cabo San Lucas for a week’s fly- fishing. ‘Some old favours owed between us — don’t even ask the hows and whys. All you need to be assured of is that if anyone checks on Ayliss down in Vallarta, according to his staff he’s simply away for the week. Where, they don’t know — they weren’t told.’
That evening, Morvaun went out to see Alaysha at Pinkies — the only way they could think of safely getting a message to her. Jac surmised that there wasn’t nearly enough for the NOPD to hold her for any length of time, let alone charge her with an accomplice to murder rap.
As she leant close in the middle of a dance, Morvaun whispered in one ear, ‘Jac wants to see you. I know where he is.’
A beat’s pause, then she resumed quickly in case Security thought that Ol’ Man River had just made an
