Fade to Blue

by Bill Moody

  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.

  Stretched out now on Ace’s couch, his huge flat screen television tuned to CNN, I begin to assess my position. I’d had no choice but to use a credit card to buy my ticket, so if the FBI was interested enough, and started checking, they would know I’d flown to Las Vegas. Andie certainly would want to know. It was she who had told me about the lead in Las Vegas.

  What was in my favor was that during that whole Gillian Payne case, even her capture in Las Vegas, I’d had almost no contact with Ace Buffington. Andie and Coop both knew of my total falling out with Ace, so I don’t think either will immediately conclude I’m here. During the case, I’d gone undercover with a band to draw Payne out, and it had worked all too well. Unfortunately for her brother. She’d almost killed him. But why would she come back to Las Vegas? What was the connection? Did she have a friend here, someone helping her, someone she was forcing to help her?

  I drift off, my mind swirling with questions and scenarios until I feel a hand on my shoulder. “How about some dinner?” Ace asks.

  I rub my eyes and sit up. “Guess I dozed off. Yeah, I could eat.” The TV is off now and the sounds of Bill Evans’ piano filters in from the stereo. I recognize the tune, “Detour Ahead.” I was certainly on one.

  “I’ve got some potatoes in the oven and a couple of steaks to grill. While I get a salad together, have a look at these.” He hands me a few computer printout pages. “I got them off the Internet. Most of it’s old news from when she was captured, but there’s a couple of things about her escape and the nationwide manhunt.”

  I look through the stories, but Ace is right. There’s not much. Just a recap of her reign of terror and eventual capture. There is one photo, probably a booking mug shot. I’d only seen her once. The long black hair is cut short now, but the face is the same, and those deep dark eyes that seem bottomless. My name is in there plenty, more
than I would like. I see now where Grant Robbins and Ryan Stiles got their material for the screenplay.

  Over dinner, Ace and I catch up. He had a short stint as department chair, had written some more articles, but sheepishly confessed he had abandoned the book about Chet Baker.

  “I’ll just enjoy his music. My little adventure in Amsterdam was enough to put me off anymore hands-on research. Besides, there have already been two biographies in the meantime.”

  “So, you’re just teaching, doing a little writing, enjoying life, eh? Now here I come about to disrupt all this blissful existence.”

  “Please. It’s gotten pretty boring. I’m ready for a little excitement.” He puts up both hands. “Remember, I said a little.”

  “I promise I won’t ask you to do anything illegal or dangerous.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I have no idea which pharmacy Gillian Payne had tried to fill her prescription, or for that matter, if she was really seen. I also have no idea what the prescription was for, so I’m starting from scratch. I use the Yellow Pages to compile a list of pharmacies in the area, and fan out from Ace’s house, using his old VW Bug as transportation. With supermarkets, drug stores, and discount stores, there are dozens of possibilities. Ace wishes me luck and heads for his classes at UNLV.

  Las Vegas is a big city now, over two million people. Somebody thought they might have seen Gillian Payne, but who knows what the FBI decides is a lead. My list is discouragingly long, but at least I’m doing something other than sitting in a hotel room. Between stores, I try to fine-tune my cover story, beyond saying I was there to pick up a prescription for Gillian Payne or Gillian Sims. So far I’d struck out at eleven stores and gotten a few mildly questioning glances from pharmacists when I didn’t know what the prescription was for. My guess is Valium or Zanex, but for all I know, Gillian could have some real ailment.

  Number twelve goes much better. I join the line of a half-dozen people in front of the pharmacy counter at a Walgreens Drug Store on West Sahara. There’s only one clerk on duty, so each transaction takes several minutes as people either pick up a prescription they’ve called in, ask questions, or are told they’ll have to wait while their order is filled.

  I glance around the store, checking my watch impatiently, then suddenly catch sight of a man coming toward the pharmacy, a slip of paper in his hand. The resemblance is too strong to ignore. I step out of the line, duck down an aisle for toothpaste, and walk to the end. He’s the last in line now as I peek around the end of the aisle. I get a quick look at his face as he looks back over his shoulder. There’s no mistake. Even though it’s been several years, he’s changed very little. The hair is a shade lighter, but I’d know that face anywhere.

  I’m looking at Gillian’s brother, Greg Sims.

  It takes another fifteen minutes for Greg to get served. He hands a slip of paper to the pharmacist, who retrieves a small bag, rings it up, staples the receipt to the bag, and hands it back to Greg. He pays in cash, then turns and heads for the exit. I follow him out to the parking lot and watch him get in a late-model Toyota. I run for the VW, start the engine, and slip in behind Greg’s car as he exits and starts down Rainbow heading north.

  I stay a few cars behind, keeping his car in sight but not close enough for him to spot me. At the end of Rainbow, he takes I-95 North, past several developments of new homes, and finally exits on Lake Mead. He continues east a few blocks then turns left on a two-lane strip that leads into an underdeveloped area. There’s a lot of empty desert, some newer houses with FOR SALE signs that look abandoned, a few older houses, many of them run down. I hang back farther, watching Greg turn onto a dirt road to a small isolated house surrounded by brush and cactus.

  I park along the main road. Greg gets out of his car and greets a large black dog that comes around from the back of the house, barking and wagging his tail. Greg stops to pet him, the prescription bag in his hand, then goes into the house without looking back. I watch the house for awhile, deciding what to do next. Is Gillian in there? Have I found her? I check my watch. Almost three o’clock. I light a cigarette and wait, still unsure what to do next.

  If Gillian is there, I could call the police. But with no cell phone, I’d have to leave, find a pay phone, and chance Greg leaving, maybe to meet Gillian if she’s somewhere else. Twenty minutes later, while I’m still trying to decide, Greg comes out. He’s dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and bow tie, carrying a rolled-up black cloth in one hand. He gets in his car, turns around, and heads toward me. I duck down in the seat as he turns and passes me, hardly glancing at my car.

  I wait a couple of minutes, start the VW, make a U-turn. I catch up with him at Lake Mead. He turns right, back toward the freeway, then pulls into a 7-Eleven store. It’s a busy one with lots of cars. I park in front, but shielded from the door. Greg goes inside then returns, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. As he gets in his car, I get a better look at his shirt. I won’t have to follow him now. Mirage Hotel is embroidered over the pocket.

  Greg is a dealer and he’s going to work.

  To avoid a sneer from valet parking guys, I find a spot in the self-parking lot for Ace’s old VW. I make my way into the Mirage though a side entrance and shoulder my way through the noisy, crowded casino, scanning the tables for Greg Sims. It takes about twenty minutes for me to finally find him at a five dollar Blackjack table, dealing to three players. From a distance, he handles the cards and payoffs with the cool efficiency and detachment that goes with the job.

  Occasionally, his eyes go from the table to scan the casino crowd. I move in closer then take one of the seats as one player gathers up his chips and heads off. I lay down a twenty for buy in. Greg nods then his eyes meet mine and for a second, he freezes. He pushes four chips toward me and deals a bit slower. My first card is a king, the second an ace. I turn them both up and smile.

  “Thanks, pal. That would have been mine,” a guy in a Hawaiian shirt next to me says.

  Greg shoves two chips toward me and finishes the hand, turning up his cards that show nineteen, beating the other two players. He scoops up their chips and cards and deals again. When he comes to me, I tap my watch. I have two tens this time and I win again.

  “Twenty wins again,” he says, turning his head toward the bar across the casino. I nod my understanding, scoop up my chips, and leave the table. At the bar, I find a stool that gives me a view of Greg’s table, order a coke, and wait for the change of dealers coming off a break. A few minutes later, a dozen or so dealers, almost in formation, make their way to the tables. As Greg’s relief comes up behind him, he backs off, taps the table and joins a group heading for the break room. As they near the bar, Greg peels off and joins me.

  He’s nervous, his eyes dart everywhere before he takes a seat facing the casino. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he says. “I know why you’re here.”

  “Where is she, Greg? Where is Gillian?”

  “I don’t know. She’s trying to keep me out of it.” His eyes won’t meet mine. “What about the prescription you picked up for her? I was there. I saw you.”

  “I left it at the house. She said she would pick it up while I was working.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “She has asthma. It’s inhalers.”

  “And then?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”

  “Why is she in Las Vegas?”

  “She has a friend here.”

  “Did she say anything about me, wanting to find me?”

  “No, nothing. She just said…”

  “What?”

  “She said she won’t go back to prison.”

  I mull that over for a moment, wanting to believe what he says is true. He glances at his watch. “I have to go. My break is almost over.” He stands up, starts to go as another formation of dealers appear.

  “Don’t go home tonight.”

  “What are you going to do?” I see panic spr
ead across his face.

  “Stay with a friend or something. Get a motel room. Just don’t go home.”

  He turns away and starts through the crowd toward the tables.

  “Greg. They’re going to catch her.”

  He turns back toward me. “I hope they do.”

  I watch for another few minutes as he takes his place at the table, then throw some money on the bar and make for the exit. I push through the glass doors and almost bump into a couple coming in. The light is not good. It takes me a second to recognize them, two people I never expected to see.

  “Doing a little gambling, Horne?” Ron Ardis says. Standing next to him, hands on her hips in a dark pantsuit is Andie, her eyes fixed on me with wonder.

  “You didn’t last as long as we thought.”

  With Andie riding with me in Ace’s VW, Ardis follows in his car. They want a place to talk, so I head for the nearest place I can think of, a coffee-pancake house on Spring Mountain. “Let me get this straight. You knew I’d bolt from the hotel?”

  Andie smiles. “It took some convincing, but Wendell finally went for it. When you used your credit card to buy a ticket to Las Vegas, Ardis and I drove up.”

  “You were all very convincing. But how did you know about—”

  “Ace? I didn’t know about him but Coop did. We’ve had you under surveillance since you got here.”

  I pull into the parking lot at Blueberry Hill and shut off the engine. “So Ardis is not in trouble?”

  “No, he was in on it, too.” Andie watches me for a moment. I just shake my head and stare out the windshield.

  “Come on, baby, we’re the FBI. It wasn’t hard to discover Greg Sims was a dealer at the Mirage. You have to have a sheriff’s card to work in this town. We were on the way to see him when you bumped into us. You just saved us the trouble.”