I wake up when Ardis, looking a little grim, knocks on the door jam. “Director Cook is here,” he says.
“Okay, I’ll be right out.” I glance at the clock, get up, go to the bathroom, and splash water on my face. I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, not bothering with socks or shoes. Ardis and Wendell Cook are seated at the table. On reflex, I look for Andie even though I know she won’t be there.
Wendell stands up and comes forward to shake hands. He’s in a muted gray suit, white shirt, and dark tie. “Evan, how are you doing?” He doesn’t wait for or expect an answer, just motions me into another chair. “I guess you know we’ve got a problem.”
“You’re the master of understatement, Wendell. Less than twenty-four hours in so-called protective custody and we’re compromised.” I put extra emphasis on protective and Wendell catches it.
He puts up a hand. “You’re compromised—and that’s not even the right word— but your location is not. We don’t know if Gillian even saw that item on the news.”
“Oh, come on, Wendell. If not that one, there will certainly be others. Anything connected with Ryan Stiles is news. All she has to do is go to any internet cafe if she hasn’t already. It’s just a matter of time.”
Cook is quiet for a moment. “There won’t be any new press releases,” he says. “I’m seeing Stiles’ attorney, Grant Robbins, this morning.”
“And telling him what?”
“That you’re involved in a very sensitive matter and unavailable until further notice. In addition, we’re going to ask him to cooperate, and make no attempt to contact you, and issue no new releases to the media concerning your part in the movie.”
“You think he will go along with that?”
“We’re going to make sure he does.” Cook meets my eyes. “I’m sure you know the less complimentary meaning of FBI.”
“Federal Bureau of Intimidation?”
“Precisely. Robbins will cooperate. There are a number of avenues to pursue.”
“Which are?” I wonder what that means. Taxes? A call to the IRS? A friendly audit? A guy like Robbins I’m sure wouldn’t like an unannounced visit from the IRS.
“I’d rather not go into that,” Cook says. “Just leave it to us. In the meantime, we feel you’re safe staying right here.”
“What about Gillian Payne?”
Cook shrugs. “We’re pursuing her with all vigor and we have every hope of apprehending her soon.”
“Sorry, Wendell, that sounds like a press conference statement.”
“Payne’s an escaped felon now, not so free to move about as she did before. She’ll make a mistake and we’ll be ready for her. It’s just a matter of time.”
“How much time? A week? A month?” I have no doubt about Cook’s sincerity but the thought of being holed up in a hotel is already getting to me. As long as I’m stuck here, I’m helpless to do anything and I don’t like the feeling.
Cook unbuttons his coat and leans forward, lacing his hands together on the table. “Evan, no one regrets this situation more than I do, but sometimes the system fails, things go wrong, people slip through the cracks. That said, I won’t have you unnecessarily endangered while the search is on until we have her back in custody.”
“Will I be allowed to see Andie?”
“No, I’m sorry. Too dangerous for both of you. Gillian knows about your involvement with Andie, at least from before. I can’t approve that.”
I sigh and look up at the ceiling. “This is called protective custody, for my own good, but legally, you can’t hold me. Isn’t that right?” I glance over and see Ardis’ eyes on me.
“Don’t go there, Evan,” Cook says quickly. “Legally, no, we can’t hold you, but you’d make our job even harder. We don’t need any distractions from tracking Gillian Payne. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
I nod. “Just checking.”
Cook relaxes a bit and leans back in his chair. “Good. Anything else we can do? Agent Hughes is bringing the piano over later.”
“My dog, Milton. He’s in a kennel in Monte Rio. I need to get word to the vet that I probably won’t be back when I thought. Andie has the number.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Cook says as he gets to his feet. “Okay, I’m going to leave you in Agent Ardis’ good hands then.” He heads for the door then turns back. “Keep the faith, Evan. We’ll wind this up as soon as we can.”
Ardis chains the door once Cook leaves. “Some breakfast?”
“Sure. Give me a half hour.
I take a long shower, running everything over in my mind, weighing my options which are few. I dress and, as an afterthought, grab the script before I let Ardis know I’m ready. We go down to the dining room, but have to wait a few minutes for a table. The room is full of business types, some sipping coffee with laptops open on their tables. The hostess seats us next to four guys, carry-on bags next their chairs, in intensive conversation about some kind of new sales policy.
Ardis ignores them, but scans the room until he’s satisfied, then finally opens his menu as a waitress brings us coffee. We both order omelets. “We’re in kind of a hurry,” he tells her.
“So is everybody, sweetie.” She hurries off before he can reply.
“Relax, Ron. We have nothing but time.”
We’re on our second cup of coffee when Ardis asks about the script laying on the table, but before I can answer, his cell phone rings. He takes the call, listens for a few moments. “Right, see you then.” He closes his phone. “That’s Hughes. He’s on the way with your piano.”
“Great. I’m going to need some cigarettes, too.”
Ardis nods. “There’s a convenience store next door. I’ll get you some when Hughes gets here.”
“Thanks.” I tell him the brand. We finish breakfast and Ardis signs the check and starts for the elevator. I stop and look down the corridor.
“How about a walk?”
“Yeah, why not.”
We go out the exit to the parking lot. It’s full of cars, mostly rentals I’m guessing, and a couple of airport shuttle vans are parked near the entrance, doors open, the drivers standing nearby, smoking, checking their watches. I stand close by, watching as the first one starts to fill up.
“I thought you wanted to walk,” Ardis says. He’s a few steps ahead of me.
“I do.” I make a show of looking beyond Ardis. He turns, follows my gaze.
“What?” he says, turning to look.
“Was that van here last night? Over there in the corner.”
“I’m not sure. Stay here, I’ll check it out.”
As he starts for the van, I turn back to the shuttle bus. It’s nearly full now, the driver at the wheel, ready to close the door. I slip on and just make it. “Sorry, missed my wakeup call.”
I go to the rear bench seat and scrunch down, blocked by suits and bags. I see Ardis at the van, checking the doors. He turns back. When he sees I’m gone, he breaks into a jog, looking all around. As the bus pulls away toward the street, I sneak a look out the back window. Ardis is checking the second shuttle and grabbing his cell phone.
Two minutes later, the bus is heading up the on-ramp of the Ventura Freeway.
I hear the driver click on the microphone. “First stop is Burbank Airport.”
I join half the bus getting off at the Southwest Airlines stop, trying to keep in the group, letting the suits shield me as much as possible. Inside the terminal, I lose myself in the crowd and get to a window, scanning the sidewalk. I’m counting on Ardis not being able to leave the hotel until Hughes arrives to pick him up, but of course he would have phoned in. The shuttle I arrived on has already gone, but more are pulling in every few minutes from a number of different hotels.
I make my way to the Southwest counter, mired in a line for several minutes until it’s finally my turn. “I need a one-way ticket to Las Vegas on your next available flight,” I tell the harried agent, her dark hair in a ponytail.
She punches some keys on her computer and shakes her head. “Sorry, nothing open until 2:15.”
“How about standby?”
“You can try. There are always some no shows.”
“Okay, let’s do that.” I hand over my credit card and scan the area while she prints out a boarding pass. So far, so good.
“Any luggage?”
“No. Just a quick trip.”
She nods. “Go to C gates to get on standby. Good luck.”
On the way to security, I stop at a gift shop and buy a Dodgers baseball cap and a small blue nylon carry-on bag with two big dice and Las Vegas emblazoned on the side. I stuff the script inside and head for security, donning the cap and my sunglasses. I get through fairly quickly without setting off any alarms and check the departure board. Gate 17 is the next flight, but it’s a no go. Passengers are already lining up to board and it looks full.
At Gate 12, the guy on the desk says there’s a chance. He takes my name. I take a seat in the most crowed area and keep the cap down over my eyes. When the flight is called, I hover near the desk. I don’t want my name broadcast over the PA system. As the plane loads, I catch the agent’s eye.
“Any chance?”
“Looks like maybe you’re in luck.” He checks with another agent collecting boarding passes at the gate, comes back and smiles that friendly Southwest smile. “You’re on.”
I rush down the jetway and find a seat in the back, willing the plane to depart on time. I breathe a deep sigh as the doors shut and the plane starts to back away from the gate. I hate to think what Wendell Cook’s reaction will be once he hears what I’ve done.
Now Gillian Payne and I are both on the run from the FBI.
***
At McCarran Airport, I’m one of the last to get off. There’s no squadron of FBI agents waiting for me, so I make my way to the tram and take the short ride over to the main terminal. Going down the escalator to the crowded baggage claim area, I’d forgotten how noisy it is with jumbo TV screens blaring, touting the Strip shows, and hundreds of people milling around the baggage carousels. I slip out one of the side doors where hotel shuttles and taxis are loading, and grab the first available taxi.
I give the driver the address and sit back, hoping I’m right about my destination being the last place anybody would think to look for me. Once free of the airport traffic, the driver heads east on Tropicana and crosses the Strip past the massive MGM Hotel, then turns north onto Spring Mountain Road.
“Here you go,” he says, pulling to a stop in front of a house I haven’t been to in several years. I pay the fare, get out, and walk up to the front door, and ring the bell. From inside I can hear the faint sounds of vintage jazz. When the door opens, the tall bearded man and I stare at each other for a long moment, his jaw dropping open.
“Evan, my God.”
“Hello, Ace.”
Ace Buffington seems frozen to the spot, unable to believe his eyes.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Come in. Sorry, it’s just, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
I didn’t think so either. The last time I’d seen Ace was after returning from Amsterdam at a hotel in Monte Rio where we’d had a big scene over his selling me out to the drug dealers. Ace had been there in pursuit of research on Chet Baker. When Ace had gone missing, I made my own search and found Ace had given me up when the dealers he thought would help him had instead threatened him. Ace pointed them in my direction and left the country with me holding the bag. By the time I caught up with him, I vowed our friendship was finished. I’d thought a lot about it over the years and finally decided maybe I’d been too hard on him. Ace was a college professor, totally out of his element. He’d simply reacted. Now, seeing his face, I think I was right.
We go into the kitchen and sit down. “Some coffee? I just made some.”
“That would be great.” I look around and see nothing much has changed. When I’d come out of rehab from the accident that almost ended my playing days, Ace had arranged a solo piano gig through his connections with the music department at UNLV where he taught English. My comeback had been solo piano at a Strip shopping mall adjoining Caesar’s Palace. I’d stayed with Ace in the guesthouse in back. That gig got me playing again, but also involved me helping Ace trying to solve the 1955 death of saxophonist Wardell Gray at the Moulin Rouge Hotel Casino.
Ace brings coffee and cream and sugar to the table and sits down. “I still can’t believe it,” he says. “Seeing you here again, after, well, you know. You don’t know how many times I’ve regretted what I did, how ashamed I was, how—”
“Forget it, Ace. It’s history now. I wasn’t exactly very understanding either.”
“Thanks. Thanks for that, but you were justified.” He takes a sip of coffee and manages a small smile of relief. “So, what brings you to Las Vegas, and more importantly, to see me?”
“When I tell you, you may want me to leave.”
“Not a chance.”
I take out my cigarettes and look at Ace. He nods and gets an ashtray. “I saved it from when you were here before.”
I light up, take a deep drag, and exhale a cloud of smoke. “I need a place to hide out for awhile.”
Ace frowns. “Hide out? From who?”
“Gillian Payne and the FBI.”
I catch Ace up on everything, beginning with Grant Robbins hiring me to tutor Ryan Stiles. As I talk, Ace gets up and paces around the kitchen, nodding, taking it all in, but never interrupting once. When I finish with my account of eluding the FBI and landing on his doorstep, he sits down again.
He looks at me and shakes his head, a smile spreading over his face. “You never do anything halfway do you?”
I shrug. “I just couldn’t stand being cooped up in a hotel room, waiting for them to find Gillian Payne. I’m tired of this hanging over my head. I want it over once and for all.”
“You’re not seriously going to look for her yourself?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Ace. Not yet anyway. The one lead the FBI had was here in Las Vegas. Payne tried to fill a prescription someplace here. I wanted to get away. I thought of you, and well, here I am. Just let me stay here awhile till I figure it out.””
“As long as you want,” Ace says. “I owe you.”
“Thanks, Ace.”
“There’s just one thing?”
“What?”
“Do you have some plan?”
Ace’s question is a good one. Do I have some plan? Eluding the FBI’s protective custody is one thing, but searching for Gillian Payne on my own is another thing altogether. Once I saw that shuttle bus idling at the hotel, ready to go, the impulse was just too tempting to pass up. My only regret is Agent Ron Ardis. Wendell Cook would ream the young agent for letting me get away, but I knew I’d never make it waiting for word on Gillian’s capture, sitting in a hotel room, cut off from everything. But did I really get away? I would find out soon enough.