Ink Flamingos

by Karen E. Olson

  A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Here and there. Harry’s got a pretty good gig for himself. He does tattoo parties.”

  I frowned.

  “You know, Kavanaugh. Like Tupperware. Except instead of some plastic container, everyone gets a tattoo.”

  Chapter 25

  That’s why he could hang out all day at my shop. Harry was working nights, going to parties and tattooing people, making a mint, apparently.

  “Why wouldn’t he tell us about that, though?” I asked.

  “Maybe he didn’t want you to think he was any sort of competition.” Jeff snorted. “Not that he is. I can’t imagine who’s hiring him to do these parties. They’re obviously not asking for references.” Jeff had started walking toward the exit again.

  “Maybe he’s gotten better,” I ventured.

  “And maybe you don’t have an impostor,” he said.

  “You really hate him, don’t you?”

  “He’s young and arrogant and a lousy tattooist.”

  “Don’t hold back,” I said.

  Jeff pushed the door open and we stepped outside at the front of the Venetian, the Doge’s Palace rising to our left, Madame Tussauds wax museum at the far end of the bridge that crossed yet another canal. We must have taken a wrong turn, because we weren’t in the self-parking garage.

  “Valet,” Jeff said simply, reading my mind as he handed the bellman a ticket.

  We moved to the side as we waited, watching the other hotel and casino guests coming and going, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I was still reeling from finding out about Harry’s party gigs. I’d done that a couple times, back in Jersey, to make a little extra cash. Usually, though, only one or two people at the party actually wanted to get a tattoo. I think they liked the idea of attending a tattoo party so they could tell their friends. I didn’t much see the point in going if you weren’t going to get tattooed, but as long as someone was willing, I made money, so I wasn’t going to quibble.

  It was taking a long time for the valet to get Jeff’s Pontiac. I glanced over at the doors when they opened again.

  Harry was coming out. He hadn’t looked in our direction, just kept going straight, so he didn’t see us. I tapped on Jeff’s arm and cocked my head.

  “Where’s he going?” I wondered.

  “Only one way to find out,” Jeff said, taking a step toward the driveway. At just that moment, the orange Pontiac slid to a stop in front of us. The valet got out, holding the keys out to Jeff, who shook his head. “Sorry, but can you take it back?”

  The valet looked confused, but Jeff pushed the keys at him. “We’ll be back,” he said as he indicated I should follow him to see where Harry was headed.

  Harry hadn’t even looked behind him, and we stayed far enough back so even if he did, he might not notice us. We passed the Walgreens and Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville, where a kid was standing with parrots on his shoulders as a photographer snapped his picture. Just as he did, one of the birds let loose all over the back of the kid’s shirt.

  Jeff let out a snort of laughter but didn’t stop.

  Harry was walking as if he were on a mission. Didn’t look one way or the other, just straight ahead. Not like me. Every time I saw a camera flash, I flinched, my eyes skirting around to make sure nothing was aimed at me. Since I hadn’t noticed the night before, I wasn’t sure how I’d see it this time, but at least I wasn’t drunk on absinthe now.

  I was getting tired. We passed Harrah’s, the sounds of the casino spilling out onto the street, and the Imperial Palace, which didn’t look like much since you had to walk down a sort of alleyway to get to the entrance. It was one of the older casinos, but I’d been there a while back to see the poor man’s Cirque du Soleil: Matsuri, a Japanese acrobatic show that also had a magic act.

  I wondered if we were walking to the MGM. Would’ve been easier on the feet if we’d taken the monorail.

  But just as I thought we’d be walking forever, Harry veered left.

  The entrance overhang was studded with lights. We hung back a little as Harry went inside and then up the escalator. When he was about halfway up, we followed.

  It was the Flamingo. One of my favorite hotels and casinos because it still had that old-time feel to it, the feel of old Vegas, when Frank and Dean and the rest of the Rat Pack were kings and Bugsy Siegel felt this city in the desert was worth building and even dying for.

  The black-and-white tiled floor reminded me of my grandmother’s bathroom back in Jersey, and the bronze statue of the flamingo stood sentry just above the steps that led down to the casino floor.

  Harry was walking through the casino, not paying any more attention to the table games or slot machines than he had to the people on the sidewalk outside. Where was he going?

  We had our answer when we saw him push the glass doors open to the outdoor aviary. Somehow I didn’t think he was here to check out the real pink flamingos that lived in the little watery alcove.

  But maybe he was. Harry stopped on the footbridge overlooking the flamingos and leaned his elbows on the railing, watching the birds. Jeff touched my arm and indicated I should fall back, and we moved to the right, so Harry wouldn’t see us if he turned around.

  “What’s he doing?” I whispered.

  Jeff shrugged.

  “Why are we following him anyway?” While it seemed like a no-brainer back at the Venetian, the question had started to nag at me.

  “You wanted to know more about him,” Jeff whispered.

  Okay, so it was my fault that my flats had given me blisters.

  I was about to say something snarky when Harry suddenly straightened up and turned, not toward us, but in the opposite direction. It looked as though he was about to greet someone, but right at that moment, a wedding party moved in between us. The bride was decked out in a flowing white dress and long veil, four giggling bridesmaids in pink taffeta clung to each other, and a groom and three other young guys in tuxedos surrounded them.

  I tried to see through them to whomever it was Harry was greeting, but all I caught was a flash of blond hair and a pair of jeans.

  “Is he meeting up with a girl?” I asked, realizing that Jeff couldn’t see any more than I could and he’d shifted a little to the right to try to get a better view.

  Jeff shrugged. “Can’t tell, but I think so.”

  So maybe she hadn’t seen the blog pictures of Harry and me. After a second of feeling resentful that my boyfriend broke up with me because of Harry, I realized that Harry had been stepping out, too.

  “Wonder who she is,” I muttered.

  “Jealous?” Jeff gave me a wink, and I knew he was teasing.

  The wedding party had paused to take some pictures against the backdrop of the flamingo lagoon, but Harry and the blonde walked a little farther down the path, past the little ducks and birds and pheasants that were wandering on the grass, toward the fountain. Because night had fallen and their backs were to us, we still couldn’t make out the girl’s features. Jeff and I sidestepped a few people, trying to stay far enough behind so they wouldn’t notice us following them.

  “This is ridiculous,” I finally said when another couple stepped between us in front of the little waterfall that provided a backdrop for wedding pictures. The flamingo logo of the resort was strategically placed for advertising purposes. “Why are we doing this, anyway? So he’s meeting up with a girlfriend. Big deal.”

  Jeff nodded. “You may be right.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  He studied my face for a second, a grin spreading wide. “Is it tiring being right all the time?”

  I slugged him on the arm and turned around, wincing slightly as the newfound blister caught on the leather of my shoe. Socks are underrated.

  Suddenly, I felt Jeff’s hand on my arm, tight, stopping me. He cocked his head back toward Harry.

  The twosome was becoming a threesome.

  I froze.

  Ace van Nes, my employee, was laughing as he ap
proached them. He held a case that I recognized. It was the case he used for his tattoo equipment.

  Chapter 26

  I could put two and two together. All that time at the shop and the oxygen bar clearly had created a friendship and possibly more. With Jeff’s information about Harry’s tattoo parties, it seemed likely that Ace was moonlighting with Harry.

  I wanted to think that I paid him enough so he wouldn’t need to do that. And anyway, what was up with all his whining about how tattooing was not his life’s calling, that he was so frustrated as an artist because he couldn’t express himself the way he wanted?

  I took a step toward them, but felt Jeff’s hand holding me back.

  I could see in his face that he’d drawn the same conclusion I had, but he was shaking his head.

  “They can’t know we’re following them,” he said softly. “How would we explain that? You can talk to Ace tomorrow about this.” And he indicated I should follow him back toward the building.

  Once safely inside and definitely out of sight, I let out a deep breath. “That was something I didn’t expect.”

  “You can talk to him tomorrow,” Jeff said again. “We’ve got to get to the MGM.”

  But we were without a car now.

  Jeff was reading my mind. “We can pick up the monorail here at the Flamingo,” he said. “It’ll take us straight to the MGM.”

  I’d been on the Las Vegas Monorail before. It ran back and forth between the MGM and the Sahara, stopping occasionally. More and more people were taking it these days, but it was still mostly tourists.

  There were enough people so we couldn’t sit down, but had to hold on to the silver poles in the middle of the car. It reminded me—sort of—of the New York subway, but it was a tad too clean. I noticed Jeff was checking out a girl standing close to him, long blond tresses, tasteful makeup, a tight red dress that left nothing to the imagination. Was that his type? I looked down at my own jeans and black T-shirt with the skull, my tattoos bleeding down my arms. Couldn’t be more different.

  Jeff caught me watching him, but instead of looking surprised, he merely winked.

  I made a face at him and turned toward the guy next to me, a white kid who had aspirations to be a black rapper, wearing a wife-beater T, jeans hanging precariously around his hips, strands of gold “bling” around his neck. I bet this guy grew up in the white suburbs somewhere, had never been in a ’hood in his life.

  He caught me looking at him and a leer crossed his face.

  I had to stop paying attention to people. It was safer to be oblivious.

  The monorail slowed at the Bally’s/Paris stop. I could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower from the window, all lit up like a Christmas tree. I imagined the real thing, and wished I were there, away from all this. Would I be a coward if I left town now?

  I felt the slight jolt as the monorail began to move again, and because I’d shifted my feet a little, I fell against the white rapper guy. I felt his hand cup my ass and I jerked away, my face growing hot with anger.

  Before I could say anything, Jeff had the guy by the scruff of his shirtfront and had lifted him to his tiptoes.

  “That’s not a way to treat a lady,” he growled in the guy’s face, which was now even whiter with fear.

  Jeff let him down with a thud, then turned to me and winked, putting his arm around me to herd me a little farther away. It reminded me of the time Tim had come to my rescue when Danny Brody had grabbed me during a game of capture the flag, his hands reaching toward my newly budded breasts.

  Let’s just say Danny stayed away from me after that.

  The monorail slowed again at the MGM stop. Everyone filed out, the white rapper giving Jeff furtive glances as though he were afraid Jeff would come after him again. The girl in the red dress batted her eyelashes at Jeff, and I wondered if they had made an unspoken date.

  “Thanks for that back there,” I said as we walked from the monorail station to the MGM.

  “Guy was out of line.”

  “It happens,” I said.

  “Shouldn’t.”

  “You seemed to like that girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “The one in the red dress.”

  Jeff chuckled. “What are you after, Kavanaugh? Trying to figure out my type?”

  I shrugged. “I guess it’s just that you’ve met Colin Bixby, and you knew Simon Chase, too,” I said, referring to a casino manager I’d dated several months earlier. “I’ve never even seen you with a woman.”

  Jeff’s face grew a little dark. He pursed his lips and stared straight ahead. “You knew about Kelly.” He was referring to his ex-wife, who had been murdered. He’d wanted kids with her and found out when she died that she’d been pregnant. I’d thought that because he never talked about it, he wasn’t still thinking about her. But I guess I was wrong. Hard to get over that sort of thing. Even for Jeff Coleman.

  This was getting a little too personal. I was relieved to see we’d reached the entrance to the arena where the Flamingos were playing. I stepped up to the box office and told them my name.

  “Melanie Black said she’d have two tickets for me,” I said.

  The woman barely looked at me, rummaged in a drawer, and produced a small envelope, slipping it out through a slit in the bottom of the glass barrier between us.

  I took it and looked around. Didn’t see Tim or Flanigan anywhere.

  “Let’s go in,” Jeff said.

  “I’m supposed to wait for Tim.”

  “We’re late. He’s probably already in there.”

  Jeff was right. But what was this? He wanted to go in with me?

  “You can’t stand this kind of music,” I said.

  He grinned. “Always up for something new.”

  I hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Granted, Melanie had left two tickets for me; Tim was nowhere to be found. But I wasn’t sure about Jeff. First, because Tim might already be in there, ticket or no, and this wasn’t supposed to be a party. Second, Jeff wanting to go to a Flamingos concert was really out of character. Something was up, but I couldn’t figure out what.

  Jeff leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “Your brother isn’t here to go in with you, Kavanaugh. You’ve got someone taking pictures of you, accusing you of murdering a client. Accusing you publicly. I am not going to let you go in there alone. There must be thousands of people in there.”

  And one of them could be my stalker. Okay, I got it.

  I handed the envelope to the usher, who fished out the tickets. And something else. He looked at it, then handed it back to me. I glanced at it. A backstage pass.

  “Go down to the front and give this to the usher near the steps,” he instructed.

  I clutched it firmly in my hand as we made our way through throngs of people. At one point, I felt Jeff’s hand on the small of my back. At least I hoped it was Jeff’s. When we reached the front usher, I showed her the pass. She said something into a little walkie-talkie, then told us: “Hold on a minute.”

  We stood, jostled by people taking their seats for the concert. Since we were so close to the stage now, I couldn’t help but notice the flowers. People had tossed bouquets and stray flowers and stuffed animals up on the stage. It was their way of paying their respects to the Flamingos. Since there was no street corner at which to leave them, the Flamingos’ fans had strewn them on the stage, where Daisy was more at home than anywhere.

  I felt a sob escape my throat.

  “It’s not your fault,” I heard Jeff whisper in my ear.

  I swallowed hard, and before I could answer, a big, burly, black security guard came out of nowhere. The woman usher indicated us. “That’s them,” she said, but I couldn’t hear her because of the noise. I’d read her lips.

  He barely looked at us, but a small nod of his head indicated that he might have actually heard her—or he was good at reading lips, too. We followed him up some side steps and around to the back. Before we could reach our
destination, Melanie came running out toward us. The security guard stepped back, putting his hand to his ear, where he had a small headphone attached.

  “What did you do, Brett?” Melanie demanded as she approached.

  I looked at Jeff, then back at her, and shrugged. “What do you mean?”

  “The cops. You sent cops over here.”

  Tim and Flanigan. I nodded. “My brother—” I started, but she put her hand up to stop me.

  “They took Sherman out of here in handcuffs.”

  Chapter 27

  Sherman Potter? In handcuffs? “What are you talking about?” I asked her.

  Melanie’s eyes flicked to Jeff.

  “This is my friend, Jeff Coleman.”

  Jeff gave her a short nod of acknowledgment, and she looked back to me. “Come on back,” she said, leading us through a hall to a door. She pushed it open, and we stepped inside.

  The rest of the band—Cara, Tiffany, and Josie—turned around. They’d been facing a long mirror, putting on makeup and primping their hair.

  “You actually felt you could show up here?” Tiffany demanded, brushing her long, dark locks that bounced back with a curl.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” I said. “I really don’t know what’s going on with my brother arresting Sherman Potter.”

  “He just walked in here and read him his rights and slapped cuffs on him,” Josie said. She held two drumsticks and was absently tapping her knees to music inside her head.

  “What for?” Jeff asked.

  All heads turned toward him, and I noticed they were all assessing him. And then dismissing him. Guess he was too old for them. I’d have to tease him about that later.

  “Daisy’s murder,” Melanie said. “They charged him with Daisy’s murder.”

  “But I thought she died from that tattoo,” I said.

  Melanie nodded. “That’s right. That’s what they told us, too. But I guess there were fingerprints or something. I didn’t get all of it; Sherman told us to call his lawyer and make sure we went on on time.”