Ascension Day

by John Matthews

  ‘Uh… uh, short for Rodriguez?’

  Rodriguez shook his head, knitting his brow. ‘Now, you see, that’s where you can easily go wrong here. Sometimes the nicknames are obvious, sometimes not so obvious. T’give you a clue, I used to be a pimp.’ Rodriguez raised an eyebrow, but Hillier remained blank, none the wiser. ‘…An’ a few of the girls used to pay me a compliment.’ Rodriguez glanced down so that there was no remaining doubt, but still it took a moment for Hillier to catch on.

  ‘Oh, right… right.’ Hillier smiled hesitantly.

  ‘Yeah.’ Rodriguez shrugged off the accolade with a coy smile. ‘It was either that or Woody. Or Stallion.’ More smiles and chuckles from around the table. ‘Now let’s get to the guys you gotta be real careful about gettin’ their nicknames right. You see that guy two tables away over there. Guy with a mean look, shoulders like a line-back and skin colour somewhere between coffee and death?’ Rodriguez nodded towards Tally Shavell rather than pointed. Then as Hillier looked over. ‘Hey, don’t look too hard. He might think you’re tryin’ to read the tattoos on his eyeballs. Gets him real upset.’

  Hillier looked swiftly away, then, as around the table a few chuckles broke out, he smiled crookedly. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Deadpan, Rodriguez shaking his head in wonderment. ‘But let’s see how you do with his nickname. His name’s Shavell and he runs most of the rackets in here – and his nickname comes from the figures he’s always addin’ up to share out the take. Any ideas?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Hillier shrugged. ‘Einstein.’

  ‘Einstein was a fuckin’ nuclear physicist, not a bean-countin’ prison-fixer.’ The chuckling heavier now, Peretti laughing so hard that he was holding his stomach. Rodriguez lifted his eyes heavenward for strength; though equally it was in thanks for sending him such a live one. ‘It’s “Tally”, from tallying up all those figures. And that guard up the end there wit’ the dark, lank hair, his name’s Sam Morovitz – but what’s your guess for his nickname?’

  This time, though, Hillier just puckered his lips and shook his head.

  ‘“More-zits”,’ Rodriguez said after a moment, holding out one hand. ‘Sorta subtle word-play to fit his tenderized-hamburger face. Or maybe not so subtle: more “in your face”.’ Rodriguez eased a brief, sly smile. ‘He’s jus’ one of many lapdogs of head-guard Bateson – the main guy you gotta keep clear of here. “Bate-Boy”. I’ll point him out later. And the guard we call “The Dark One”, Torvald Engelson – he’s actually one o’ the good guys.’ Rodriguez shrugged. ‘Like I said, sometimes it’s confusin’.’

  Rodriguez took a fresh breath and nodded along the table. ‘Now our good friend here that looks like Tyson’s mentally-challenged brother. Let’s do it the other way roun’. I’ll give you his nickname – BC, letter B, letter C – then by lookin’ at him see if you can work out how he got it?’

  Hillier pulled a face, shaking his head after a second. ‘ Uh… it’s difficult.’

  ‘Look at the flat shape o’ the head… that Neanderthal look.’

  ‘That what?’

  The smiles and chuckles rising as much in anticipation this time. It was going even better than usual.

  ‘You know… as in prehistoric. Like a cave man.’

  Hillier chewed his bottom lip for a second. ‘I know,’ he said, stabbing a finger at Rodriguez. He thought he’d nailed it this time. ‘BC. Like in that film… Million Years BC.’

  ‘No, that’s not it.’ Rodriguez shook his head. ‘But to give you another clue – his surname’s Crosby.’

  Hillier pondered for a moment, studying the table for inspiration before looking up again hopefully. ‘Okay. It’s his initials. He’s a Bob… or a Billy, like me.’

  ‘No, not it either. Though again, not a bad guess.’ Rodriguez left another pause, relishing along with everyone else Hillier’s bafflement before giving the final clue. ‘You don’t see it on him now, but when BC showed us some of his ol’ photos, he had more chains roun’ his neck and rings on his fingers than Mr T.’ Hillier’s eyebrows still furrowed, the chuckles starting to rise again around the table. ‘You know, bling. Bling Crosby. Then it became just BC.’

  The group around the table had heard the punchline a score of times, but still it sent them into raptures of laughter, becoming heavier as Hillier’s expression remained puzzled and Rodriguez had to prompt.

  ‘Bling Crosby… you know, as in Bing Crosby.’

  But Hillier’s eyebrows just knitted heavier, and as he said, ‘Who?’ the laughter became thunderous, Peretti bent over double as if he was in pain.

  Rodriguez fired his audience a deadpan Jack Benny look. He should have realized that Bing Crosby to the rap generation was like Paul Robeson to his. Long-gone, no longer relevant.

  Rodriguez was glad he’d done the routine, despite his concerns about the timing. It had certainly gone down well with his audience, and maybe at a time like this, with the shadow of Larry’s death edging closer, they needed their spirits lifting all the more. Even Larry was appreciative, nodding his way with a smile, eyes bright and the shadows that haunted them gone for a moment, as if to say, ‘Thanks. That might be the last time I’ll be able to enjoy that.’

  Roddy, prison clown. That’s what he did best, Rodriguez thought wistfully, sneak-thieved some smiles and laughter from the doom and gloom where he could. And if he couldn’t do that, then he wasn’t good for much else. But as the laughter died, the grey walls and the dour routine settled back around them like a cloak, with only the faint clatter of their cutlery to punctuate the silence.

  Jac had just come out of the shower and had started to get dressed when the phone rang. He thought for a minute it might be Alaysha asking him to bring something over, such as oregano, if he had any, or that dinner was taking longer to prepare than she’d anticipated, or, more worrying, cancelling completely. But it was Jennifer Bromwell.

  ‘You know I said I didn’t think we should date again… or, rather, we both more or less came to that conclusion. Well, I’ve been thinking… and maybe it is a good idea if we did.’

  Jac paused halfway through buttoning his shirt. ‘But I thought you had a boyfriend. The rock musician that your father wasn’t keen on.’

  ‘What, Kelvin? Oh sure, I’m still with him.’ Jennifer chuckled lightly as she realized he’d grabbed the wrong end of the stick. ‘I didn’t mean date, date. I meant pretend to continue seeing each other as if we were dating.’

  ‘Oh, right. I see.’ Although he still had little idea.

  ‘The way I see it – my dad and mom don’t want me to continue seeing Kelvin, so every time I go out with him, I get grief. And they’re already pressing for when I’m next meant to be seeing you – because when they asked how our date went, I said great, fine. Not only because that’s what they wanted to hear, but because – the love and romance bit aside – that’s exactly how I think the date went: great! And I thought that was pretty much how you felt about it, too.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Jac said automatically. He still wasn’t fully up to speed on where she was heading, and he had half an eye on the clock. He’d left it tight as it was to get dressed on time, and, as if to remind him, next door he could hear the soft clatter of pans and opening and shutting of kitchen cupboard doors. The final minutes of preparation and setting the table.

  ‘So, the thing is, I can see that I’m going to continue to get grief from my parents every time I date Kelvin… and you’ve got a similar problem with your Aunt Camille.’

  ‘True,’ Jac agreed. He’d only had one call so far from Camille asking how it went, but since he’d said much the same as Jennifer – ‘Great, fine, nice girl’ – no doubt the enquiries would soon increase in intensity. His excuse that they hadn’t yet set the next date because of his heavy workload was only going to buy him so much time.

  ‘And if it wasn’t me, she’d only try to set you up with someone else that she considered “suitable”. So I thought… if we made
out that we were continuing to date, that would take all the pressure off – for both of us. I could keep seeing Kelvin whenever I was meant to be seeing you, and you, well… at least you wouldn’t have Camille pushing every buck-toothed rich-kid in the state in front of you.’

  ‘That’d be fine, I can see the sense in that,’ Jac said, sighing gently as he prepared to let her down. ‘Only problem is, I’m starting to see someone else.’

  ‘My, my, Jac McElroy, you don’t waste much time. We only just started courtin’, and already you’re cheatin’ on me.’ Jennifer feigned a heavy Southern Belle accent which lapsed into a chuckle.

  ‘I know, I know. Just came up, out of the blue.’ But with the thought of Alaysha so close to that of Aunt Camille, his mind fast-forwarded to the possible nightmare conversation: ‘Thanks for the offer of Louisiana’s finest and most eligible, but I’ve decided in the end to date a lap-dancer. Family? Struggling down-at-heel immigrants originally from Port-of-Spain. Father a wife-beater, deserted the family early, mother on welfare. Oh, and she’s already got a child by another man who didn’t have the courtesy to marry her and headed down the same route as her father: lashing out and leaving early. That’s why she’s lap-dancing – to support the child.’ That would go down with Camille like an Islamic terrorist at a Bar-Mitzvah. She’d probably oust his mother and sister from her house that same night. ‘Though… wait a minute. Perhaps this could work out – as you say, to both our advantages.’ If Camille thought that he was going out with Jennifer Bromwell, at least she wouldn’t ask any awkward questions. ‘But I don’t have the time right now to go through all the details… I’m already running late for a dinner appointment. So can I phone you when I get in from work tomorrow and we’ll work out the timing for the first date? Make sure we get our respective stories straight.’

  ‘Great. Look forward to it, Jac.’

  And having just agreed to dating another woman, he finished getting ready for dinner with Alaysha Reyner.

  Dinner was typical Creole: shrimp remoulade, chicken and smoked sausage jambalaya and catfish etouffee.

  Alaysha was wearing jeans with a black semi-transparent gauze top that showed her bra. But it was an elaborate dress bra – black with silver stitching and studs – that was meant to be seen. Molly was staying with her grandmother that night, Alaysha explained as they sat down, noticing Jac’s eyes stray and take in the room for a second. Almost a mirror image of his apartment, except that the décor was ten steps above: a lot of salmon and soft pastels, it somehow seemed larger yet at the same time warmer, more inviting.

  With the way that her wavy dark hair tilted and swayed as they ate, her smiles and laughter at intervals as the small talk gathered pace, her lip-gloss making her lips look moist, inviting, and those warm brown eyes with green flecks that seemed to make him melt every time they settled on him – the effect was dazzling. As before, Jac found her beauty intimidating, his mouth suddenly dry with nervous anticipation of what might happen between them.

  And on top of that he had the tension – a writhing, tightening ball in the pit of his stomach – of what he now had to broach with Alaysha.

  After the let-down with the video tape, Haveling’s call the day before had given him fresh hope that he might be on a roll again. Good news on two fronts: Dennis Marmont had finally come to in hospital, and while Haveling had decided not to fully accept one account over the other, guards’ or prisoners’, that mid-ground stance had at least meant that nothing would go on Durrant’s file about an attempted prison break, and he’d overall provide a ‘fair and sturdy reference to support his clemency petition.’

  Jac headed to Libreville to see Rodriguez straight after, because it wasn’t the sort of thing they could discuss on the phone – faking the e-mails from Josh Durrant – but Rodriguez wasn’t able to help, communications were monitored too closely. ‘Monitorin’ guard would pick up straight-off that the message came from inside.’ The only thing he could help with was to smooth the way for it incoming, if someone else was able to send it from the outside. ‘I could also send the last few e-mails from Josh t’make sure the flavour was got right.’

  But as Rodriguez looked across sharply with an arched eyebrow, and Jac realized that Rodriguez was suggesting that he send it – Jac explained that he couldn’t. He felt uncomfortable enough even being involved with it, let alone actually sending himself. ‘If something like this was traced back directly to me, I’d be struck off the bar before I could draw breath. I’d never be able to practice law again.’

  They’d sat in awkward silence for a moment before Rodriguez commented with a shrug. ‘Somehow don’t sit right us all givin’ up for no other reason than all our hands are tied. Mine, ‘cause I can’t send the message, yours ‘cause o’ your career… and Franny Durrant ‘cause she’s afraid of losin’ her new partner. And meanwhile we all just sit back and let Larry die.’

  Jac had nodded numbly, eyes closing for a second as he felt Rodriguez’s words settle like a ten-ton weight on his shoulders, why couldn’t Rodriguez just stick to comedy? – when it suddenly struck him who might be able to send it. ‘The person, in fact, who first suggested the idea.’

  ‘What? Some lawyer buddy who, unlike you, don’ mind playin’ dirty?’

  ‘No. It’s a lap-dancer I just met.’

  Rodriguez beamed widely. ‘Now you’re talkin’. Slip a C-note into their G-strings and those girls will do just ‘bout anything. No, seriously. If you jus’ met her – d’yer think she’ll play ball on this?’

  ‘Only one way to find out.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Rodriguez nodded with wry smile. ‘But one word of advice, if I may. You’re meant to fuck ‘em before you let them too much into your private life. Otherwise you risk fallin’ into that awkward mid-territory of “just-friends”.’

  Just friends. Jac had immediately discounted Langfranc or his sister, too close, and while Alaysha would keep it at arm’s length from himself, and yes, it had been her suggestion – it was still a hell of a favour to ask of someone you’d just met.

  Jac swallowed hard as he looked across the table at Alaysha. And the last impression he wanted to give now was that that favour was even close to the main purpose of the date – so he’d decided to wait before broaching the subject. Besides, from the way that at moments her eyes clouded and she’d look to one side, he got the feeling that she too had something on her mind. He decided to let her go first – but equally she was slow getting round to whatever was troubling her, as if it was awkward or she feared it was too sensitive for an early date.

  ‘It’s amazing we’ve lived next door to each other all this time without ever seeing each other,’ she commented.

  ‘Yeah.’ Jac shrugged. ‘I’ve had a hectic time the last year or so with fresh bar exams. And a lot of weekends I head out to see my mum and sister in Hammond.’

  Alaysha nodded thoughtfully. ‘And is it your mom that’s originally French?’

  ‘Yes. My dad’s Scottish.’ Jac explained that his mother’s parents hailed from near Bordeaux, but because of their anti-Vichy stance they left France during the Second World War and settled in Scotland – which is where she had met Adam, Jac’s father. ‘That’s why when my father hankered after opening an artists’ retreat, he chose the Bordeaux area. It would be like a return to roots for my mum. And that’s where we lived from when I was eight years old up until just three years ago, when my father…’ Jac’s voice trailed off. Enough death hanging over him with Durrant.

  Alaysha smiled tightly, as if in understanding, but the silence settled deeper as the seconds passed, a faint tension creeping into it.

  ‘How’s the Jambalaya?’ Alaysha asked, breaking it.

  ‘Just how I like it.’ He held up a forefinger and thumb pinched together in an O. ‘Even though I’ve only had it a couple of times before.’

  ‘Give you some grits and gumbos, and you’ll almost be a native.’ She smiled again, and Jac raised his wine glass in acknowledgment, returning her smile.


  The small talk was running thin – but still she looked briefly again to one side before making the final resolve to say something.

  ‘This “prisoner” you mentioned the problems with? Is it by any chance Lawrence Durrant?’

  She held her gaze on him unflinchingly, and he had the same feeling as when he’d first met her. As if she could somehow see through to his very soul. And lying to her at this stage wouldn’t exactly help him when he got around to asking his favour.

  ‘Yes… yes it is,’ he said on the back of a resigned exhalation. ‘What made you suspicious – think that it might be him?’

  ‘Oh. Intuition. Clemency appeal and “wanting to die” all but narrowed it down to a possibility of one.’

  ‘Yeah, but how did you work it out from there?’ He ducked as she smiled and threw her balled-up paper napkin at him, his brow creasing as he straightened. ‘Really – was it that transparent?’

  ‘Pretty much. There hasn’t been an execution in Louisiana for over a year, and the only one I can see scheduled any time soon is that of Lawrence Durrant. At least from what I see in the news.’

  ‘I’ll have to be more careful in future not to mention death or clemency. Just saying “the prisoner” obviously isn’t enough to protect my client’s identity.’

  ‘Looks like it.’ She mirrored his thoughtfulness for a second before introducing a more upbeat tone. ‘But, hey, one hell of a case to land. You must be excited?’

  It would have been so easy to play the big shot and score points by saying that he’d got the case because he was such a high-flyer at Payne, Beaton and Sawyer. But, as with everything else so far with her, he had the feeling she’d see straight through it. It wouldn’t get him anywhere.

  ‘Not really.’ Jac shrugged. ‘The firm only gave me the case rather than keeping it for one of the senior partners because it’s such a no-hoper. All the juicy stuff was apparently exhausted at appeal. All I’m left with is sweeping up the dust – but looks like I’ve broken my broom after the first couple of strokes. I’m striking out before I’ve hardly started.’