by Sheila Lowe
They passed the Ballona Wetlands, then the immense Playa Vista condo complex. Then they were driving under the 405 bridge and Crash turned onto a street that took them into an industrial area. Annabelle thought about the iPhone in her pocket. Should she call Claudia? No. She didn’t want Claudia to know what an idiot she was getting into a strange man’s van. Claudia would be disappointed in her, and she couldn’t stand that.
If he kills me, she’ll be really upset.
She would never have gotten in the van if she had known Angel planned to ditch her. Annabelle took out the phone and debated for a long moment, but in the end, she could not bring herself to confess to what she now realized was a pretty dumb move.
She scanned the cargo bay, looking for something that might serve as a weapon. From her experiences last year, she knew that she wouldn’t hesitate to use one if it came down to it.
Scrabbling under the pile of blankets, she found a screwdriver and a crescent wrench. Their gangbanger homies had taught her and Angel some of the tools they used, so the girls could hand off the right ones when they were working on their rides. The screwdriver was a smallish Phillips head one that would not be of much use unless she could jab him in the eye with it. The wrench was about a foot long and heavy in her hand. Wielding it made her feel a little less vulnerable.
They had been driving for less than ten minutes when the van came to a stop and Crash got out. She positioned herself near the door in a crouch, holding onto the handle with one hand, the wrench in the other. She could hear the metallic sounds of a gate rolling open, then Crash climbed back into the driver seat and drove a few feet, turned a corner, then shut off the ignition and got out again.
She tried the handle, but it didn’t budge. When Crash opened, she was waiting for him. But quick as a snake strike, he grabbed her upraised wrist and squeezed until she was forced to let go of her weapon and it clattered to the ground.
“What the hell you doin’, ya skinny little shit?” He bent down and picked up the wrench, sounding more amused than angry, and tossed it inside the van.
Annabelle stuck out her chin in defiance. “Where the hell are we?”
Beyond him, through the open door, she could see several cars in various states of decay in some kind of small yard. Across a chain-link fence was a one-story block-walled building painted a cheerful blue-green and cream color that seemed totally out of place in the drab neighborhood. A hand-painted sign on the wall read Deacons Machine Shop.
Crash grinned at her, and for the first time she saw that his top front teeth were missing. He caught her looking and said, “Crystal meth. Don’t do it if you want to keep your choppers.”
“Where are we?” she asked again, promising herself that she would never, ever experiment with methamphetamine if that’s what it led to.
“Welcome to my tattoo parlor,” Crash said. “Nobody’s gonna bother us here.”
He was right about that. The neighborhood was deserted. Sunday afternoon, the workers who populated the industrial buildings during the week were home watching football and eating pizza, drinking beer. He grinned at her through the big gap in his mouth. “This place belongs to a buddy of mine. He ain’t gonna mind if we park here for a while, so just sit yourself back down. Angel said you wanted a sugar skull like hers.”
“Wait—you mean, you’re gonna do it here, in the van?”
“That’s right. It’s plenty private. Believe me, I’ve inked folks in places way less fancy than this. You can lie on the blankets, be comfortable.”
“Those blankets are gross!”
“Aw, don’t be so prissy. They’re okay.”
“Well, what’s it gonna cost? Angel didn’t tell me.”
“How about a BJ and a pack of smokes?”
“How about not!”
He showed her his toothless grin again and she guessed he was just joking about the blow job. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.
“How much ya got, Skinny?”
Annabelle stuck her fist into her pocket and fished out three twenty dollar bills. “Is this enough?”
He took the bills and crammed them into the pocket of his surfer shorts. “Been saving up your allowance?”
“As a matter of fact.” The defiant attitude she had worked for months to overcome slipped right back on.
Crash pushed a big canvas bag across the van floor and waved his hands at her, gesturing at her to move back. Keeping a watchful eye on him, Annabelle scooted aside as he clambered up into the van with her.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked.
“Gonna tattoo, need equipment.”
Crash sat back on his heels and while he was occupied, taking out small bottles of ink, a tube of Vaseline, an appliance that must be the tattoo machine, Annabelle slipped her cell phone out of her pocket and turned aside so he wouldn’t see what she was doing. She had decided to text Monica so at least someone would know what had happened to her if she ended up in a jam.
A heavy hand on her arm made her jump. Annabelle gave a little scream and turned to look straight into Crash’s scowl. “Hold on there, Skinny. What are you up to?”
“I’m just texting my friend. We—we’re supposed to meet up later.”
“Yeah? Well, you don’t need to be doing that right now. Gimme the phone. I hate those things. I’ll hang onto it until we’re done.”
“No! I’ll put it back in my pocket. I’m not giving it to you.”
“Yes, you are.” Crash snatched the phone from her hand and slid it across the floor behind the Harley where she couldn’t reach it, then returned to arranging his equipment on a tray. She could tell he was watching her from the corner of his eye.
She was still contemplating how to get to her phone before he caught her when he reached back into his bag and took out a half-empty bottle of tequila. Annabelle gaped at him. “Hey, you’re not putting needles on me when you’re wasted!”
He unscrewed the cap and extended the bottle. “I’m not gonna be wasted, you are.”
“What? No! I’m not drinking that shit.”
“If you want me to lay this ink on you, you are. I don’t need no squirrelly little kid squirming all over the place. It’ll help you relax.”
“I’m not a little kid. I’m almost sixteen.”
“Then drink the damn tequila and let’s get on with it or I’ll just drop ya back where I found ya.”
Annabelle took the bottle and sniffed. She seriously wanted the sugar skull and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d drunk tequila, but she had promised not to do it again until she was legal age.
She carefully wiped the lip of the bottle on her T-shirt, making sure to rub away any germs lurking there, and took a healthy slug. Promises were made to be broken. The alcohol rushed down her throat, setting her chest on fire and leaving her spluttering for air. She handed back the bottle, trying to salvage her dignity as best she could.
Crash took the bottle, and shoved it back in the bag, ignoring her discomfort. “Where you want the tat?”
“Someplace no one can see it, so I don’t get in trouble.”
“Pull your pants down and lie on your back.”
“What?”
Taking a work light from the bag, he hung it on a hook on the wall. The cargo area lit up like a full moon. “You heard me, gal. I can’t do it through your pants. You don’t want it seen, it goes on the bikini line. So, drop ‘em.”
Annabelle stared at him in dismay. She had not thought this far ahead and it was pretty clear to her that Crash was reading her misgivings and finding them amusing. Resigning herself, she slowly laid back on the yucky blanket and unzipped her Levi’s. She lifted her butt a little and wriggled the denim down an inch or so. Before she realized what he was doing, Crash grabbed the waistband and yanked it down, exposing her blue and white
striped cotton panties. When he started to put his hand on the elastic, she caught him in time and pushed it away.
“No!”
“How’m I supposed to…”
Annabelle pushed the elastic waistband below her belly button and held it there with both hands. “Do it like that, or I’m outta here.” She wasn’t sure how she would follow through on that threat, but Crash just grinned his toothless grin.
“Okay, Skinny. You da boss.”
The tequila was working fast. She was already feeling a little light-headed. Cutting her eyes to the left, she could see him pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
Crash uncapped a bottle of green soap and soaked a paper towel with it. He began washing her abdomen near her hip in strong, sure strokes. “Why you wanna ink up this pretty young skin?”
Annabelle flinched as the cold liquid touched her flesh. The small smile she saw on his veal-colored lips totally creeped her out, like he was getting off on her embarrassment. “I—I guess—I—it just seemed cool and I liked Angel’s—”
“And you want one just like those two chicks got—the same sugar skull?”
“Yeah. They said it was okay with them if I copied it.”
“You sure? Better if I draw something special, just for you.”
“No, I want one just like theirs. Are you going to do it or not?”
Crash held up a piece of tissue paper about four by four and showed it to her. On it was the sketch of a sugar skull that looked to her like a match for the ones Jamie and Angel had on their shoulders. “This is what you want?”
“That’s what I want.”
Annabelle didn’t understand the sudden look of bitter hatred that crossed Crash’s features. It was in his voice, too. “Inkslingers don’t like it when someone copies their shit.”
She tried to shrug off the uneasy feeling she was getting by giving him a pert response. “Well, you already drew it, so I guess that means you’re gonna do it, right?”
“You sure about this, Skinny?”
“Stop calling me that.”
“It ain’t gonna wash off, you know. It’s permanent.”
“I know it’s permanent! Why are you trying to talk me out of it?”
“What about your folks?”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Okay, then, if you’re sure.” Crash separated the tissue from the piece of carbon paper to which it was attached and set it aside. He began to rub some kind of lotion on her. Even though the latex gloves kept his fingers from being in direct contact with her skin, Annabelle found the intimacy of the act repellant.
“You just lie back and relax,” he said.
“How long’s it gonna take?”
“Maybe an hour.” Warning her to stay still, he laid the tissue paper on her with great care and smoothed it out. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at the gap where his front teeth used to be. When he pulled the paper away and told her to look, she stretched her head and looked down at the outline he had made next to her hip bone.
“That looks good,” Annabelle said, and Crash got to work.
Jamie was right, the needles did feel like a bee sting. But it wasn’t so bad that she couldn’t take it. She stared up at the ceiling of the van while Crash leaned over her, his attention fixed on his work as he laid down the ink in small, tight circular motions. His clothing smelled musty, as if it had not been laundered in a while. Annabelle tried to focus on what he was doing. Tatting and wiping, laying on Vaseline, tatting and wiping some more. The drone of the tattoo machine was like bees, too. Hypnotizing. Her limbs relaxed and she started to feel pretty good, just buzzed enough.
Chapter Five
Monday Evening
Kernels were still exploding as Claudia pulled the bloated Jiffy Pop bag off the stove. There was something soothing about standing at the stove, shaking the aluminum pan back and forth, taking care that the corn didn’t burn before the foil expanded just the right amount. Just like back in the day, when she and her brother Pete used to fight over who got to be in charge of making the popcorn. A cloud of hot steam rose as she ripped open the foil. After carefully dumping the puffed yellow kernels into a bowl she drizzled melted butter over the top and carried the bowl and a pile of napkins.
At the kitchen door Claudia stopped and listened. Something had changed since she’d left Monica and Annabelle giggling over Henry Cavill’s skintight blue costume in the Superman, Man of Steel video they were watching. Their voices were lowered, as if they didn’t want to be heard, but the inflections were clipped, sharp. Were they arguing? That was a first for these two, who had been joined like Siamese twins since their first meeting.
The words “get infected” caught Claudia’s ears as she pushed through the swinging door into the living room. Monica, who had spoken them, abruptly stopped talking when she saw her aunt, her upturned face stricken.
Claudia raised a brow. “Superman’s butt not so cute after all?”
Annabelle aimed the remote at the TV with a scowl and paused the movie. “That’s so funny, I forgot to laugh.” She got up off the floor to take the popcorn bowl.
“What’s wrong?” Claudia asked, noticing that she winced as she climbed to her feet.
“Nothing!”
Avoiding her aunt’s gaze, Monica reached for the napkins in silence. Questioning them together was not likely to produce a straight answer. Claudia eyed them both with suspicion and told them she would be working upstairs in her office.
“What are you working on, Aunt Claudia?” Monica asked, looking relieved at the change of topic.
“It’s an insurance fraud case. I have to figure out whether some signatures were written at the same time or at different times.”
“How can you do that?”
Annabelle, forgetting her pique, looked interested, too. “Do you look for different ink colors?”
“Different inks could be a clue, but there’s more to it. Some doctors have their patients sign their name on a sign-in sheet every time they come in for treatment, then the insurance pays for those visits. In this case, they got people off the street and paid them a small fee to come to the office and sign their name about thirty times on the sign-in sheet. Then the doctor’s front office person added different dates and filed a claim with the insurance company. In other words, they get paid for all those visits the “patient” didn’t have.”
“Are you working for the insurance company?” Annabelle asked.
“Yes; this kind of thing is a huge problem for insurance companies. They want to get their money back—millions of dollars. I’ve worked on several cases.”
“But how can you tell the patients didn’t have all those office visits?” Monica wanted to know.
“Excellent question, and if you really want to know, come upstairs and I’ll show you.”
***
Claudia sat at her desk. The two girls stood behind her on either side of her chair.
“Wow! Are those all the sign-in sheets?” Monica asked, pointing at a three-inch high stack of papers.
“They are. There are several hundred sheets for me to examine.” She picked up the top sheet. “What do you see?”
“It looks like when I get in trouble at school,” Annabelle said with a snicker. “When the teacher makes you write a hundred times, ‘I will not chew gum in class,’ or something stupid like that.”
“Yeah,” Monica added. “You get bored with it and you write the first word all the way down the paper, then the second word, and…”
“Exactly.” Claudia took some lined paper from a desk drawer. “Here, take a piece of notebook paper and sign your name twenty times, one to a line. See what happens.”
The girls did as instructed. When they had finished, they looked at their sh
eets, then stared at each other. “It looks like that sign-in sheet,” Monica said.
Claudia nodded. “When you sign all at the same time, it creates a pattern down the page. It’s called synchronous writing, which means it was done all at once, or in groups of several signatures. See how the signatures move toward the right side of the paper as they go down the page? That’s ‘margin drift.’ If you signed your name at different times, that pattern wouldn’t appear; there would be a lot more variation in the writing. I can take a ruler and draw lines to show the pattern on the page. That’s what I’ll be demonstrating to the jury when I testify.”
“That’s awesome,” Annabelle said. “Can you always tell when something was written, or just sign-in sheets?”
“Sometimes I get cases where the client wants to know if diary entries were written at different times. For example, in one case a home nurse was suing his employer. He claimed he wasn’t paid for all the hours he’d worked. He produced a diary he said he’d kept with a record of the dates and times he’d supposedly visited patients over four years. If it were true, the employer would have to pay him for all that time. But the diary had patterns like these that showed he had made the entries in groups, not at different times.”
“So, did you bust him?” Annabelle asked.
“I didn’t have to. When his attorney told him that a handwriting examiner was ready to testify, the guy broke down and admitted he’d faked the records to get more money.”
“How can people be so dishonest?” Predictably, it was Monica who asked the question.
“Are you kidding?” Annabelle’s cynicism was well beyond her years. “Most people are just liars and fakes.”
Claudia raised a quizzical brow. “You’ve had some horrible experiences, Annabelle, but that doesn’t mean the whole world is bad. Wouldn’t you say that most of the people you know personally these days are pretty decent?”
