‘Can’t say it plainer than that, my friend. McElroy won’t be there. And if you want to know why — I suggest you keep an eye on local news channels between now and tomorrow morning.’ Nel-M sniggered, but he could still feel a tightness in his chest where Bateson’s word psychiatrist had hit him, as if part of his crawfish hadn’t digested and had decided to burn a hole through his ribs. Almost certainly everything with the psychiatrist would now be axed too, but it was an uncomfortable reminder of how close they’d come. More brownie points scored with Roche when he told him, more back-pats for his timely ingenuity. ‘Or, if I were you — you know those special occasions when prisoners are allowed to watch TV? Like the World Series or President’s inauguration, or last episode of Seinfeld or Friends? And you get them all in one room looking at an oversized screen? Why don’t you arrange that now for the local news — then just watch Larry Durrant’s face when the piece about Jac McElroy comes on.’
‘What have you been up to?
Nel-M had never liked Bateson, and while he’d invited the question, Bateson’s folksy, slyly gleeful tone made his skin crawl. I’m not one of your good ol’ boys, asshole! he felt like screaming. But he immediately slipped into similar sly mode for his response.
‘Now, that would be telling.’
Jac went to a cash machine on Gravier Street and took out $300 to add to the fifty in his wallet, then started thinking about how to get a change of shirt. He knew he’d be hard pushed to find any shops open, his only hope was probably the French Quarter, so he’d drifted that way, trying to keep in the shadows of the buildings. A police car had passed him on the way, but he’d just kept walking normally, one hand by the stain on his shirt, as if he was scratching his stomach. The car just kept drifting past, didn’t pay him any attention.
Then, as he approached the corner of Bourbon and Iberville and saw a Lenny Kravitz look-a-like handing out promotional cards for a new club, he was struck with an idea.
Jac took one of the cards, ‘Thanks,’ nodding towards Lenny K’s chest. ‘And have you maybe got some club t-shirts to sell, like the one you’re wearing?’
‘Nah. Just paid me to hand out these here cards.’
‘Maybe at the club itself?’
‘Doubt it. I think these were jus’ printed up for the bar-staff.’
‘Shame. They’re nice, jazzy design.’ Jac smiled tightly. ‘How about you selling me that one? Fifty bucks?’
Lenny K smiled incredulously. ‘Man, I got another hour out here wit’ these. An’ how am I gonna explain away losing my shirt?’
‘Shrunk in the wash, amorous stalker ripped it off.’ Jac shrugged, smiling again. Despite the protests, there was a hint of temptation; though maybe, with the connected hassle, $50 for a ten-dollar T-shirt still wasn’t enough. ‘A hundred bucks.’
Lenny K looked each way, as if concerned who might be viewing the transaction, and part of his eye-shuffling also took in the stain on Jac’s shirt; one last cloud of doubt before he finally nodded, ‘Okay, man, let’s do it,’ pulling back into the shadow of a shop doorway as he pulled off his shirt and held it out.
Jac peeled five twenties from his wallet and they made the exchange, and, as soon as he was round the corner, he ducked into another shop doorway to change into the t-shirt. He bundled his old shirt in his hand and threw it in a bin halfway along North Rampart Street, then headed towards the phone kiosk fifty yards along to call John Langfranc.
Jac checked his watch. 9.32 p.m. Just under fifty minutes since the shooting.
Langfranc answered quickly, and equally Jac started speaking rapidly, at one point garbling and running ahead of himself with pent-up tension as he struggled to explain.
‘Whoa, whoa, back up a bit,’ Langfranc said. ‘So, God’s sake, I can get this clear in my mind.’ He took a heavy breath. ‘Somebody comes by and shoots dead your girlfriend’s ex, straight after you’ve just shut the door on him after an argument? And rather than run off with the gun, he drops it right there… and he’s gone before you open the door again to see what’s happened? Have I got it straight so far?’
‘Yeah, yeah. That’s right. As I opened the door, I just heard his last few footsteps on the stairs.’
‘But then you picked up the gun and ran off with it? That’s the bit I don’t get. Why was that again, Jac?’
Jac sighed, his frayed nerves riding on it wearily. ‘This is the client-confidential part, John, okay? Because as for the official line — I think we should make out that the killer ran off with the gun, as would normally happen, or just no mention of it at all.’
‘Goes without saying, Jac. Without saying.’ Langfranc sounded mildly offended to even be asked.
‘The thing is, Alaysha recognized the gun. It’s hers, or rather her mother’s — but it was at Alaysha’s apartment at the time. That’s why I ran off and dumped the gun — because I was sure it would have her prints on it. It looks like whoever did this must have broken into her apartment earlier and got the gun, and then — ’ Jac was speaking rapidly again, slightly breathless as he fought to explain, and as he heard a police siren close by, his breath froze in his throat, the siren’s passage counted in tight pulse beats in his neck before his breath finally eased as it drifted past, heading away from him. ‘- then he uses it on her boyfriend, and the set-up’s complete.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Jac, but it’s not good. Not good. I know you and so I know that you’re telling the truth. But listening to this now wearing the hats of a couple of hard-boiled homicide cops — who don’t know you and on top have heard it all before — it sounds like a story, Jac. And not even a good one at that.’
‘There’s a witness, too.’
From Jac’s downbeat tone, Langfranc knew already that it was bad news. ‘And don’t tell me — they didn’t see the shooter, either?’
‘No. Old woman across the hallway. Opened her door a minute after the shot was fired — shooter long gone and just me and Alaysha standing by the body. Started screaming, “You’ve shot him, you’ve shot him!” ’
Low groan from Langfranc and a throaty, doom-laden ‘Terrific.’
‘I need your help, John. That’s why I called now.’
‘Help, yeah. Miracles take longer.’
‘I need someone I know to represent Alaysha. I need to know what’s happening, which direction everything might go.’
‘I can understand that.’ Langfranc was quiet for a second. ‘But this isn’t just protectiveness for your girlfriend, is it Jac? Something else is worrying you about this.’
‘Yeah.’ Deflated sigh. The seed of doubt had been there from the moment he’d realized it was Alaysha’s gun, rankling deeper as he’d ducked between the shadows of the night-time streets during the past forty-five minutes. ‘The question that’s bothered me is why frame Alaysha? With everything else that’s been going on, I thought I’d have been the main target for something like that. So if they’ve gone to the trouble of lifting her gun from her apartment, what else might be waiting in the wings? Some hefty Accomplice to Murder rap, perhaps, from other evidence they’ve planted? That’s why I need to know the lay of the land, John, before coming forward.’
‘I can see that. There wasn’t a Times-Picayune photographer there to snap you as you left the apartment block with the gun, was there?’
‘No.’ Jac chuckled, and Langfranc joined him a second later, as if making sure first that Jac was ready to see the light side. Though Langfranc’s chuckle quickly died when Jac told him that he was spotted by a patrol-car a few blocks away. ‘And I ran.’ Jac sighed heavily. ‘It was dark, though, and I was probably too far away for a good ID.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Langfranc took a fresh breath as he focused on the remaining options; what few were left after Jac’s catalogue of horrors and errors. ‘Did the old girl across the hall see the gun?’