Pretty In Ink

by Karen Olson

  “You could do that for a living,” Kyle said.

  “I do,” I said thoughtfully, wondering who this person was that I’d drawn. “Does he look familiar?” I asked, knowing that even from this I couldn’t say for sure whether it was the guy with the champagne or not. I really hadn’t seen his face.

  Eduardo shook his head.

  “But you met him,” I said.

  “I don’t know him,” he retorted. “We were not properly introduced.”

  Touché.

  Kyle was looking over my shoulder and frowning.

  “Do you know this guy?” I asked, standing up. It was getting late, and exhaustion was stretching through my body like a tight elastic band. Bitsy would open tomorrow, but I had a client coming in at noon. I glanced at my watch. At this rate, I wouldn’t get home until two.

  Kyle picked up the drawing and studied it, leading us out of the office and into the dressing room. He still hadn’t said anything; I wondered whether he recognized the man in the picture.

  Miranda Rites was in the dressing room. Or at least her alter ego, Stephan Price, was. He was folding up the pink sequined costume and putting it in his own duffel bag. Like Kyle and Trevor, Stephan was just as good-looking a man as Miranda was a woman, although Stephan was skinnier than his friends.

  “You’re still here?” Stephan asked.

  Kyle held up the drawing.

  “See what Brett did?”

  Stephan took it and studied it a second, then looked at me with questioning eyes. “Why did you draw a picture of Wesley?”

  “Wesley?” I asked.

  Stephan looked at Kyle. “It’s Wesley, isn’t it?”

  Kyle took the drawing back and nodded. “Yes. It’s not exact—that’s why I wanted a second opinion—but it’s pretty close.”

  “Who’s Wesley?” I asked again.

  Kyle handed me back the sketch. “Wesley Lambert used to be in one of my shows. His drag name was Shanda Leer. But he dropped out of the circuit about a year ago, and no one’s seen him since.”

  Chapter 6

  Obviously, someone had seen him since, and it was Eduardo.

  “You said he was from a pawnshop,” I said to Eduardo, who was frowning. Eduardo, Kyle, Joel, and I had left Stephan in the dressing room and went back out into the front of the club.

  “I thought that’s what he said.” He sighed. “But maybe he didn’t, come to think of it. He said Trevor had pawned something, and there was a mistake. But that was all.”

  “Why did he stop doing your shows?” I asked Kyle.

  Kyle sighed. “He fell in with the wrong crowd. Bunch of rednecks. He said something once about a lab or something out in the desert, and it sounded like they were making drugs. And then his new friends started hanging around the club. They creeped everyone out. But I couldn’t throw them out based on that, until they started harassing some of the girls. I told Wesley if he couldn’t keep them out, he needed to find another gig. So he left. It’s too bad, because he was great for the club. He’d wear a gigantic chandelier on his head while singing ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.’ Everyone loved it.”

  I would’ve paid to see that.

  “But you don’t know where he went after that?”

  “As far as I know, nowhere. He just disappeared. His friends, too.”

  “Do you remember where Wesley lived?” I asked Kyle. “I could tell the police when I give them the drawing.” This was getting a little complicated, and I wondered whether I shouldn’t just give it to Tim instead of that nameless detective, who would undoubtedly have the same number of questions as Tim, but I could handle Tim more easily. Then again, if there was bad blood between Tim and that detective, as I suspected, that might not be a good idea.

  I felt like I was between that rock and a hard place everyone talks about.

  “I don’t remember,” Kyle said. “And I paid him in cash whenever he did a show.”

  “What about a queen-of-hearts tattoo? Did he have one? On his inner forearm?” I looked first to Eduardo.

  “He wore a long-sleeved T-shirt when I saw him.”

  Kyle was shaking his head. “I don’t remember a tattoo.”

  More rocks. More hard places.

  I folded the paper up and stuck it in my bag, taking Joel’s arm. “We’ve got to go,” I said. “Thanks,” I said to Eduardo. “I won’t tell the police about you, and hopefully the drawing will be enough.”

  Kyle and Eduardo hung back as Joel and I went back out into the night for the second time.

  “Will you give that to Tim?” Joel asked.

  “Yeah, probably. He can pass it along to whoever.”

  When we got to our cars, Joel leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “You did good,” he praised, like I was a puppy, but I knew he didn’t mean it like that.

  “Thanks. You could’ve done it, too.”

  “I don’t have your formal training, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you’ve done this long enough so you could.”

  He opened his mouth to argue again, and I shook my head. “We could go around and around on this.”

  The door to Chez Tango opened behind us, and the stragglers began spilling out. Definitely time to go.

  We said our good-byes and got into our cars. I sped out of the parking lot before Joel, eager to get home. I took the Strip rather than the back roads, because I knew the lights would keep me alert. The reflections of the neon flashed across my windshield, and I was reminded how someone once said that every movie and TV show filmed in Vegas had at least one scene with a car driving down the Strip, the lights cutting across the windows.

  I was such a cliché.

  The Bellagio fountains were dancing as I sat at a light. Every time I pass them I think about Ocean’s Eleven and wonder if George Clooney’s back in town. I’ve never seen him—or any other celebrity, except for Howie Mandel. I bumped into him—literally—and spilled gelato all over his Hawaiian shirt at the Palazzo. He totally freaked-out, being the germophobe that he is. Why couldn’t I have spilled something on Mark Wahlberg or Leonardo di Caprio? My sister, Cathleen, who lives in Southern California, always seems to be running into Keanu Reeves or Nicole Kidman or even Miley Cyrus at all of her charity events. You’d think that because the Vegas Strip is a lot smaller than Los Angeles, I’d be rubbing elbows with celebrities all the time. Instead, I’m inking tourists next to a fake Venetian canal in a fake St. Mark’s Square.

  Somebody’s got to do it.

  I pulled into the driveway at the house I share with Tim in Henderson, the headlights illuminating the banana yuccas by the front door. I’ve been here two years now, having moved from Jersey when Tim broke up with Shawna, his almost-fiancée, and needed a roommate. I needed an escape from a relationship gone bad, and I’d been getting too comfortable in my job at the Ink Spot. It was time to move on and run my own shop. I’d also still been living with my parents, who’d announced out of the blue that they were selling the house and moving to Florida. Personally, I think it was their way of saying, “You’re thirty years old, and you can’t live with us anymore,” although I would’ve been happier if they’d just come out and said that rather than plan to move fifteen hundred miles away to a town that rolled up its sidewalks at six p.m. and had a grocery store with its parking lot divided into sections named after the states. My parents always parked in New Jersey. It was easy to remember.

  I knew I wouldn’t live with Tim forever, but it was a nice place to hang my hat for a while.

  It was dark inside. I parked in the garage next to Tim’s Jeep and let myself in quietly, so I wouldn’t wake him. I pulled off my jeans and black blouse, which might survive a washing, might not, and put on a pair of cotton pajama bottoms and an oversized T-shirt. The bedside lamp let off a golden glow, casting shadows on the paintings on the walls. I’d indulged myself with works by college friends, splashes of color in oil and acrylic. My own work was in my parents’ house in Port St. Lucie, Florida.

  My mother still hadn’t gotten over my being a tattooist. She told all her new friends in the retirement community that her daughter was an
artist but neglected to tell them what kind.

  Sister Mary Eucharista would give her a pass. I had a harder time forgiving her for not accepting who I was.

  Tim said I should get over it. But who was he to talk? He’d followed in Dad’s footsteps and had always been the favorite.

  I shut the light off, as if it would shut out my thoughts, too.

  It worked after a little while, and I fell into a deep sleep.

  Tim was scrambling eggs when I emerged the next morning, rubbing sleep from my eyes. He grinned and took another plate down from the cupboard.

  “Hey there, night owl.”

  I groaned and slid onto one of the kitchen chairs. My bag was still slung over the back.

  “So how was the show?”

  “Fine,” I said on reflex, then, “Well, there was a little excitement.”

  He dished the eggs out and put a plate and fork in front of me as he sat down with his own. “What happened?”

  I told him everything: how I witnessed the cork shooter and the mysterious nameless detective and Trevor going to the hospital and the queen-of-hearts tattoo and Trevor’s pin and Eduardo telling me what to draw. I managed to eat all my eggs while I talked and pulled the sketch from my bag, handing it to him as I chugged a glass of orange juice.

  He studied it for a second, taking a drink of his own juice, then put it on the table between us.

  “You did that?”

  “Yeah, what of it?”

  “Nothing, except it’s good. Great if it looks like the guy it’s supposed to be. You could have a second career if you want to give up the shop.”

  I chuckled. “Mom would love that, wouldn’t she?”

  “No kidding.” Tim shoveled more eggs in his mouth before asking, “So who is he?”

  “Some ex-drag queen named Shanda Leer.” I couldn’t remember his real name—I knew Kyle had told me—but I remembered his stage name because now I got it. “Chandelier, you know,” I said. “Shanda Leer.”

  Tim chuckled. “How do they come up with those names?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Beats me. Kyle kicked him out of the club because he started hanging with drug dealers or something.”

  Tim frowned. “Huh?”

  I told him how Kyle said there was some sort of lab in the desert.

  “Probably not just speculation,” Tim said, but then he grew quiet.

  I wanted to push it, find out just what was going on out in the desert, but I could tell he’d closed down on that subject. So I tried a new one. “Who’s the detective who wouldn’t give me his name?”

  Tim drank some more juice, buying time. I could tell he didn’t want to tell me.

  “Come on, big brother. What is it with you two? Did you get into a fight on the playground or something?”

  “He’s Shawna’s fiancé.”

  Shawna, as in Tim’s old flame, the one who wanted a diamond but got a house instead, so she moved on. Guess she finally got her wish.

  “So, why would that matter to me? Why not tell me his name?” I asked.

  Tim sighed. “He thinks I’m an ass. Even though I’ve reminded him that if Shawna and I had gotten married, he wouldn’t be with her now.”

  Good point, although Tim had been an ass. I didn’t understand, either, why he’d go in on a house with the woman and then drag his feet on getting married. I’d never asked him outright, though. It was his business, and if he wanted to tell me about it someday, fine. If not, well, that would have to be fine, too.

  “How’d he meet her?” I asked.

  Tim made a face. “We had a barbecue here, right before Shawna moved out. They met then. Maybe it was love at first sight.”

  He didn’t sound bitter. Maybe the reason he didn’t marry her was because he just didn’t want to. Maybe it was that simple.

  “She’s a pit boss now,” he volunteered during my silence.

  “Really?” Shawna had been a blackjack dealer, like Tim had been when he met her. He’d had more fun trying to catch people cheating at the table than he did dealing, and finally figured he would go to the police academy so he could go after real bad guys.

  “She got promoted a few months ago.”

  I didn’t really care, and I could tell he was just making conversation.

  “What’s the guy’s name?” I asked.

  “Frank. Frank DeBurra.” He paused. “I’m surprised he was there. Must be putting in some overtime.”

  “Why surprised?”

  “He’s with Metro Homeland Security.”

  “Huh?”

  Tim chuckled. “Yeah, LVPD’s got its own homeland security force. All those threats, you know.”

  I didn’t know, but he didn’t elaborate.

  Before I could ask, he tapped at the sketch. “You know, come to think of it, if DeBurra was the responding officer and he talked to you last night, he won’t be happy if he knew you gave this to me.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I thought of that. But I didn’t know his name. How was I supposed to get it to him if I didn’t ask you?”

  “Okay, we’ll go with that story. But you could’ve just called the department and asked for the detective on the scene last night.”

  “That would be too much trouble.”

  “On second thought, I don’t want to deal with the fall-out.” He pushed the sketch back toward me. “Call the department. Tell him you’ve got this. Leave me out of it. Believe me, it’ll make my life a lot easier.”

  He had a point.

  “What’s the best way to explain how I did the drawing without mentioning Eduardo?” I needed a little guidance on this.

  “Just tell him . . . I don’t know.” Tim ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “I know you want to protect the guy, Brett, but . . .”

  “I’m not ratting him out, Tim. I promised.”

  “Okay, chill. You’ll think of something.” He got up and started clearing up the dishes.

  The doorbell rang.

  We looked at each other, both of us frowning. Tim went into the front foyer and looked through the peephole. He gave me a funny look as he opened the door.

  Speak of the devil.

  Detective Frank DeBurra walked in.

  Chapter 7

  “Hello, Tim,” DeBurra said, although I noted he didn’t offer to shake Tim’s hand. He spotted me at the table. “Just the person I was looking for.”

  I was acutely aware that I was still wearing my pink and red plaid pajama bottoms and the T-shirt that hung low, showing more of the dragon than usual. My short hair was spiked up in cowlicks from sleep. I hadn’t bothered taking off my mascara before I went to bed, and it was smudged around my eyes in a sort of raccoon look.

  But my mother always taught me to go with the flow, so I stood and stuck my hand out. He did shake mine as he walked past Tim, obviously dismissing him.

  “I’ll get in the shower,” Tim said to me, then turned to DeBurra. “Nice to see you, Frank.”

  The detective grunted, wouldn’t even look at him. Made me dislike him even more than I did last night. He could at least be polite in our home.

  Tim disappeared into the back of the house, and I motioned that the detective should sit.

  “Coffee?” I asked. I hadn’t had my first cup yet, but Tim had left it brewing on the counter.

  “No, thanks,” he said, and his eyes moved over the sketch that sat on the table. “What’s this?”

  I busied myself with pouring a cup of coffee, then getting the milk out of the fridge. “What?” I feigned ignorance.

  When I turned with my coffee, he was holding it, studying it. “What is this?” he asked again, looking at me this time.

  I took my cup to the table and sat. “It’s a guy who was poking around Chez Tango yesterday afternoon, asking questions about Trevor. I didn’t know if you would want it.” I’d conveniently insinuated that perhaps I had actually seen Shanda Leer and did the drawing from memory.

  “You drew this?” His incredulity was worse than Tim’s.

  “I studied as an artist,” I said flatly, taking a sip of my coffee. “And I do portraits now.”

  DeBurra didn’t say anything for
a few seconds, then, “Do you know who this is?”

  “Someone at the club told me it looked like a former drag queen named Shanda Leer.”

  “So you’ve never seen him before?”

  I shrugged. “No. Should I have?”

  “You don’t recognize him as the person with the champagne?”

  “I really didn’t see that guy, like I told you last night.”

  “But you saw this man backstage?”

  He was firing questions at me so fast, I didn’t have time to think. So because Sister Mary Eucharista had ingrained it in me not to lie, I said, “Someone else saw him and described him. I drew it for him.”

  “Who?”

  Now I was in a pickle.

  “One of the dancing boys. I don’t know which one,” I said, hoping I didn’t blush to reveal my lie.

  “It’ll be easier if you just tell me,” DeBurra said impatiently.

  So much for hoping I didn’t blush. Now I felt my face grow hot.

  “Isn’t this enough?” I asked. “This guy was asking about something Trevor had pawned, said there was some mistake, and then just hours later, Trevor gets shot with a champagne cork. Seems a little suspicious to me.”

  “Why?”

  “He told the dancing boy that he’d give Trevor a message he couldn’t ignore.”

  His eyes narrowed and he studied my face for a second, like his next question was going to be about whether I wanted world peace or something.

  Finally, he asked, “But if Trevor pawned something, then why would this guy ask him about it? Trevor wouldn’t still have it, would he?”

  “He bought it back, apparently.” This guy should know how it worked. Run out of money at the tables, find the most valuable belonging you have, take it to a pawnshop, sell it for a few hundred or more, and buy yourself a little more time at the tables. If you won, you could buy your valuable back.

  “Which pawnshop?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know,” he said accusingly.

  “Detective, you’re in my house. You insult my brother by not shaking his hand, and you’re calling me a liar. Why don’t you just take the picture and see what you can find out and leave us alone?” I stood, gripping my cup so my hands wouldn’t shake. I had planned to tell him about the drugs, but his attitude got my back up and I just wanted him to leave now. If he was as smart as he obviously thought he was, then he could find out for himself. I didn’t want to help.