by Kim Fielding
I’m in this far.
Everyone looked up when Wes entered the shop. “Sorry, we’re closing,” the woman said. “I can make an appointment for next week.”
“I actually just wanted to ask a few questions, if that’s okay.”
She glanced at the artist, who shrugged, then looked back at Wes. “Okay. Just a sec.”
Wes sat in a leather chair to wait. He liked the music playing softly over the speakers—Black Sabbath, he thought, although he wasn’t well-versed in heavy metal. A large binder lay on the coffee table in front of him, and he leafed through the photos of tattoos, many of which featured animals. He wasn’t an expert by any means, but it looked like quality work. He thought idly about what he’d get if he ever decided he wanted ink, but nothing seemed important enough to be permanently inscribed. He remembered the faded blue marks on his grandfather’s arms, relics of his time in the Korean War. His grandfather never spoke about them. Maybe Wes should get a tiny dot like Parker’s.
“What can I do for you?”
While Wes was lost in memories, the customer had left, and the artist approached him. The woman was wiping down the chair.
Wes stood and held out his hand. “Wes Anker.” He’d considered a pseudonym, but what was the point? This guy had no idea who he was anyway.
The artist gave his hand a brief but firm shake. “Leo Cavelli.”
“You do nice work.”
“Thanks, man. But it’s late. If you want a consult, come back Monday and we can talk.”
“I’m not here for a consult.” Wes raised his chin a little. “Did you know Logan Miller?”
Was that sudden wariness on Cavelli’s face? Maybe. He glanced at the woman, who was still cleaning the area around the chair. “Yeah, I know him. I’m doing some work on his back. Big piece. Why?”
“Did you know he’s dead?”
Something flashed very quickly across Cavelli’s face before his expression settled on a facsimile of surprise. “Nah. What happened?”
Wes decided to throw the dice. “Murder, maybe. We’re not sure.”
Another fleeting expression. Alarm, maybe? “Shit! Who’d do that to Miller?”
“We’re trying to find out. Maybe you can give me some useful information.”
“You ain’t no cop.”
It was funny. Although Cavelli spoke coarsely and wore battered jeans and an old Judas Priest tee, Wes had the impression it was an act. He suspected Cavelli came from middle-class suburban stock. His nice, straight teeth were clearly the result of orthodontic work, for instance, and his shoes looked expensive. His hands were smooth and uncallused except for the parts in contact with the tattoo gun.
“I’m a friend of the family,” Wes said with a small degree of accuracy. “We’re just looking for the truth.”
Cavelli squinted at him for a long time before apparently reaching a decision. He turned and called to the woman. “I’ll get it, Coco. You can go home.”
She dropped her cleaning supplies at once. Within moments she’d gathered her phone and jacket, said good night, and left. Cavelli locked the door behind her. “Don’t want any more walk-ins tonight,” he explained.
“You’re working late.”
“Gonna take a long weekend, but bills gotta be paid.”
“I know how that is.”
Cavelli crossed his arms. “So whatta ya wanna know about Miller?”
“How well did you know him?”
“Told you. He was a customer. A big piece like his, that takes a lot of hours. Ya get to talking with a guy, you know?”
That relationship sounded too casual for Cavelli to have paid a visit to Logan’s apartment. “What did you talk about?”
“Dunno. Regular shit, I guess. He was really into dogs, so I heard a lot about that.” He gave his lips what might have been a nervous lick. “And, uh, he talked about his boyfriend. Sounds like they were having problems.”
“What kind?”
“Not exactly sure. I think Logan had an expensive little problem, though, you know? His boyfriend was probably pissed about that.”
At this point Wes was certain Cavelli was delving into pure fiction, which probably meant he had something to hide. But Wes needed more if he was going to get Saito to take him seriously. So he pushed further. “What kind of problem? Gambling? Shopping?”
“Drugs.”
That fit neatly with the fact that Logan had overdosed, but it contradicted Parker, who believed Logan just used weed. Even a pretty big pot habit wasn’t usually enough to cause troubles for someone. Plus it sounded as if Logan had been reliable at his job, which tended to be inconsistent with a bad addiction.
“Do you think his drug problem could have got him killed?”
“I dunno, man. He didn’t tell me much about it.”
“Do you know who his dealer was?”
“No! Like I said, he didn’t talk about it much. Just the damn dogs.”
Wes doubted dogs had anything to do with this, but he needed a few moments to consider his next line of inquiry. “What about dogs? Breeding them?”
“Nah. He was gonna open a business, he said. Like a pet supply store—really high end—plus a kennel. He said it was gonna make him rich. All these assholes who work in tech, they make a ton of dough and they don’t have time for real kids, so they have dogs and cats instead. And they’re willing to spend a fortune to make sure Fifi has fancy collars and leashes and a kennel like the fucking Ritz.”
That made some sense, especially because it fit with what others had told Wes. It didn’t necessarily sound like the plans of a guy who was zonked out on drugs. And Cavelli seemed to know a lot about Logan’s dream, which belied his initial claim of them having only a casual relationship.
While Wes thought about this, Cavelli cocked his head. “What makes you think someone murdered him anyway? I mean, he was pretty down about his boyfriend. And he was a heavy user. Shit happens.”
Even more bullshit. “There are some indications,” Wes said vaguely. “Things that don’t make sense.”
“Well, I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you.”
“How much was the tattoo costing him?”
“I’d have to look at my books. Prob’ly around a grand. Lotta hours going into it.”
Wes nodded. “Sure. Had he paid for it already?”
“Nah. He was doing installments.”
“Did he ever mention he was having money problems? Aside from the drugs, I mean?”
“Dunno. Might’ve.” Cavelli shifted his feet. “You wanna take a look at the piece I was doing for him? I got photos.”
“Sure.” Wes didn’t particularly care what the tattoo looked like, but it would give him an excuse to delay a little longer and try to extract something incriminating. By now he strongly suspected Cavelli was somehow involved in Logan’s death, but he didn’t know how or why.
Cavelli walked to the back of the shop and disappeared through a door. When he returned a minute or two later, he carried a binder similar to the one on the table. “These are my ongoing pieces.” He handed over the binder. “I like to take pics for reference.”
Wes began to slowly flip pages as Cavelli looked over his shoulder. “There. That’s him.”
Wes could see only Logan’s back, which disappointed him. He’d hoped for a glimpse of Parker’s ex-lover’s face. Would Wes see any similarities to his own? Did Parker have a type? And if so, was Wes it? What he could see was light brown neck-length hair, a little crooked at the edge, as if it were cut by an unskilled barber or had grown unevenly. Beneath that, an expanse of pale skin. Logan had broad shoulders and a slight suggestion of love handles above the waist of his blue jeans. A substantial man, although Wes couldn’t tell how tall.
The tattoo took up almost his entire back, although parts of it had only black outlines and hadn’t been shaded or colored yet. A large black lab sat in the center, staring intently forward. It was beautifully detailed, every strand of fur seeming to stand in rel
ief. Even in the photo, it looked almost three-dimensional. Smaller versions of other breeds encircled the lab. They held a variety of poses—running, lying, jumping. A border collie, suspended in midair, was about to catch a ball. A Saint Bernard pulled a cart. A shaggy black dog swam.
Would someone really put this much time and thought into a body decoration and kill himself before it was finished? Seemed unlikely.
“Wow,” Wes said, bending to look closer. “That’s—”
Something moved fast at the corner of his eye. Wes started to whirl to face it—which meant he caught the blow on the side of his head. He staggered and dropped the binder, but he didn’t hear it hit the floor because his world had gone eerily silent.
And then the world went dark as well.
Chapter Fifteen
PARKER’S NOSE woke him up. The house was filled with the delicious scents of roasting turkey and melted butter and warm spices. He yawned, stretched, and checked his phone, but there was nothing new from Wes. Parker had been too sleepy last night to give proper thought to Wes’s question about Logan’s tattoo, but now his curiosity redoubled. What was Wes up to?
Parker grabbed some clothes and shambled to the bathroom, calling out as he passed through the hallway. “I’m up, Mom. Be there soon.”
He showered quickly, shaved and brushed, and pulled on sweats and a tee for now. Rhoda encouraged him to dress up a little for the holiday, but he’d do that later, shortly before guests were due to arrive.
In the kitchen, Rhoda was swaying to Billie Holiday and chopping celery. Parker swooped in to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Morning.”
“Hey, Gonzo. You’re in a good mood.”
“Hmm.” He poured himself a glass of milk, chugged it, and rinsed out the glass. Then he gobbled a ham-and-cheese croissant left over from the previous day at P-Town. “What can I help with?”
“You can get the tables and everything all set up.”
Parker went down to the basement, the repository of boxes full of his kindergarten art projects, clothing from previous decades that Rhoda couldn’t bring herself to give away, mysterious piles of gardening implements, curtains his parents had replaced after moving into the house, and an ugly couch that had gotten down the stairs via a miracle and was never coming back up. He found the folding table, festooned in cobwebs, leaning against a wall behind the furnace and used a rag to wipe it down. He hoped he was wiping away any resident spiders as well. Then he wrestled the table upstairs.
Thanksgiving involved far too many guests to seat in one place, so Rhoda served the meal buffet style, and people ate wherever. Parker set up the folding table against one wall in the dining room and moved the regular table against the opposite wall. He draped matching colorful tablecloths—sporting turkeys, leaves, and pumpkins—and set out the huge set of white china Rhoda had acquired cheap through one of her food-service sources. He also got out about a zillion sets of flatware, a couple dozen wineglasses, and a bunch of mugs for spiced cider.
Parker once asked her why she didn’t just use paper and plasticware; it would have saved a lot of washing up. But she’d shaken her head firmly. “This is an occasion, kiddo. Occasions call for the real thing.” Her one nod to convenience was paper napkins, but she used the fancy heavy kind.
After consulting with Rhoda, Parker put out the nonperishable foods and stepped back to assess his work. It looked good. No, better than good. It looked warm and inviting, a promise of friendship and laughter soon to happen. Because it was the right day for it, he took a few minutes to appreciate his blessings. He had a mother who loved him no matter what and who happily opened her home to him whenever he needed it. He never had to worry about going hungry or not having clothes to wear. He was healthy. He had a job at P-Town whenever he wanted one. He had wonderful friends. And then there was Wes….
Parker pulled out his phone and sent a quick text. Missing you. Hope you’re here soon. There was still no reply after a few minutes. But maybe he was driving now, on his way from wherever he’d spent the night.
Parker occupied some time helping with food prep. Rhoda had bought a bunch of canapé shells she wanted filled with a mixture of salmon, cream cheese, chives, and capers. Filled artistically, she emphasized, so he fussed over them. Then he chopped veggies for a huge green salad he thought wasn’t really necessary. In his opinion, this was one day when people could skimp on fresh veggies. Rhoda disagreed. It was a pretty salad, at least, with pomegranate seeds adding dots of color. He made a huge batch of his dad’s cranberry sauce, which was laced with bourbon. When Parker was a teen, his dad used to let him sneak a little sip while Rhoda pretended not to notice.
Finally Parker changed into somewhat more formal clothing: maroon skinny jeans, a black-and-white-striped shirt, and a silvery blazer. He toyed with his hair too, arranging it various ways until he was satisfied. He turned on the living room speakers and reminded Rhoda to bring up her Thanksgiving playlist. The Beach Boys started singing about good vibrations.
Still nothing from Wes.
The first guest arrived minutes later: a former barista at P-Town who was now a social worker. She came with her six-year-old son and a pumpkin cheesecake. Parker had barely closed the front door when the bell rang again.
“Bob!” Parker exclaimed.
Bob Martinez stood in the doorway holding a bouquet and a cardboard wine carrier. “Your mother tracked me down. She’s a resourceful woman.”
“You don’t know the half of it. Come on in. Mom’s in the kitchen.”
Then the guests came in a rush. Ptolemy arrived with their boyfriend, an older man who was a high school teacher. They came to P-Town together sometimes, even though Ptolemy no longer worked there, so Parker knew the boyfriend and liked him. Jeremy and Qay came, and two of the cat ladies, and Jeremy’s friend Malcolm, and a guy named Al who was homeless when Rhoda first met him but now lived in transitional housing and seemed to be doing very well. John and Carter were there; they brought books instead of food, which delighted Rhoda. Some people stopped by for a while even though they’d be attending dinners elsewhere, like Drew and Karl, who played music at P-Town once a week, and their partners, Travis and Ery. Nevin and Colin would be going later to Colin’s parents’ house, but they always made a point to come to Rhoda’s too.
The house filled with people. It was loud, a little chaotic, and utterly wonderful. Everyone smiled and laughed and nibbled on appetizers. People kept adding their favorite songs to the playlist. Travis dropped and broke a glass, earning the coveted Butterfingers Trophy: a generic football-trophy guy with a candy wrapper glued to his hands. Parker won it the previous year, and now everyone cheered as he handed it over. Travis bowed deeply before accepting. Rhoda was everywhere, cooking, serving, schmoozing. She seemed to spend extra time with Bob, and she just glowed. Parker was pretty certain her version of heaven looked exactly like this gathering.
Although Parker circulated, he also checked his phone. Often. When Rhoda took the turkey out of the oven and announced she’d start carving in twenty minutes, Parker couldn’t stand it anymore. He sent another text. Hey, we’re about to eat. We’ll have plenty of leftovers whenever you get here, but I hope it’s soon.
It remained unread.
Rhoda had used some kind of maple glaze on the turkey, and there was a mountain of fluffy mashed potatoes. Ery had brought the sweet-potato casserole that was one of Parker’s very favorite foods. There was an abundance of wonderful dishes prepared with love by people Parker cared about—and it all tasted like ashes.
Although Parker couldn’t manage to choke down much food, he tried to at least appear festive. He wasn’t especially successful. He was in the process of feeling grateful that Rhoda was too busy to notice his mood, when Jeremy pulled him to a relatively quiet corner of the living room. “What’s up?” Jeremy asked.
“Nothing.”
Parker tried to walk away, but Jeremy took his arm and dragged him down the hall, then stood there and blocked his escape. “Why a
re you miserable, Parker?”
Jeremy was a very big man. Parker couldn’t push by him, and tackling him was a no-go. That left giving in or standing sullenly in the hallway until Rhoda noticed their absence. “It’s Wes,” Parker said with a sigh. “He said he’d be here today.”
Wincing, Jeremy rubbed the back of his neck. “Look. I believe that Wes is a good person, but he’s also troubled. You probably don’t want to get mixed up with him.”
“Qay was troubled, and you got mixed up with him.”
Jeremy’s turn to sigh. “Yes, I did. And I’m really glad I did. But it wasn’t easy. We love each other to the depths of our hearts, and yet some days it’s still not easy.”
Parker folded his arms. “You don’t think I’m strong enough to handle some adversity. Or man enough.”
“That is not what I think. I admire you. Things happen to you—sometimes bad things—and you keep picking yourself up and trying again with a kind of optimism I really envy. And you’re never ashamed to be who you truly are, which is something a lot of us don’t achieve until we’re a lot older.”
His handsome face was open and sincere, and Parker’s anger evaporated. He’d always assumed Jeremy viewed him as Rhoda’s dumb kid, not as someone to be respected. “I don’t mind a challenge if the guy’s worth it. And I think Wes is.”
“Maybe. But here’s the thing—and it’s something I didn’t understand until well after Qay and I started dating. Until I almost lost him, actually. You can’t fix someone else’s problems. Nobody can. You can support them and love them. You can give them advice if they want it. You can let them know you’ll still be there even when they screw up. You can understand them. But in the end, each of us has to heal ourself.”
