Pretty In Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  Charlotte was beckoning us to come up onstage. Joel and I weaved around a couple of tables and climbed the steps.

  “Trevor asked if I’d bring his stuff to his apartment,” she said. “I’m just so relieved he’s okay.”

  Joel caught her in a hug.

  I shifted from foot to foot. I’m not a hugger. At least not to the extent Joel is. Joel would hug anyone anytime for anything.

  I started across the stage, figuring they’d join me when they were done.

  Bitsy came out from behind the curtain. Like a magic trick. It startled me.

  “Hey, what are you doing back here?” I asked.

  “Helping Charlotte get Trevor’s stuff.”

  Not a surprise. Bitsy might have attitude now and then, but she was always the first to help out.

  “There’s something here; I’m not sure it’s Trevor’s. I need Charlotte to tell me.”

  We went to the dressing room, where all the queens had gotten ready for their performances. Makeup was strewn across a long table in front of a long, wide mirror meant for sharing. The light caught sequins, and they sparkled against the feather boas; fabric draped over chairs and lay on the floor. Backpacks and duffel bags littered the corners of the room; shoes of all shapes and sizes-but all glittering-were scattered.

  MissTique stood by the table, holding a box of Uncle Ben’s rice.

  What in this picture doesn’t belong?

  Before I could ask about the rice, Bitsy tugged on my arm.

  I looked down to see her holding a gray hooded sweatshirt.

  “This was lying on Trevor’s backpack, but I don’t remember him wearing it,” she said.

  I didn’t remember him wearing it, either. But the guy who hit him with the cork had worn one exactly like it.

  I’d opened my mouth to say something when an unearthly sound filled the room.

  Bitsy and I looked up to see MissTique clutching the rice box to her chest, which was heaving with sobs. We glanced at each other, and Bitsy shrugged as if to say, What are we supposed to do? I shrugged back. No clue.

  MissTique dramatically fell into a chair next to her, holding on to the box as if it were a life preserver. The tears that rolled down her cheeks left grooves in her makeup like little mountain rivers.

  “It was supposed to be wonderful,” she choked, her eyes brimming over as they pleaded with us for some sort of sympathy.

  This was Charlotte and Joel’s territory. Bitsy and I were just here for the ride. And if I wasn’t a hugger, Bitsy really wasn’t.

  “It was good,” I tried. “Great, until, well…” My voice trailed off, because she knew what I was talking about and it was no use beating a dead horse.

  Fortunately, Charlotte just that moment swept into the room, assessed the situation, and went over to MissTique and put her arms around her. Joel stood awkwardly in the doorway. So I’d found his Achilles’ heel. Hugging is good, except in the case of a teary drag queen.

  Bitsy and I busied ourselves with Trevor’s duffel bag, stuffing his Britney Brassieres costumes inside. I found his makeup case on the table and began putting that together, although I wasn’t totally sure just what makeup was his as opposed to his fellow queens’.

  I picked up a stray stocking and held it up to show Charlotte, my eyebrows raised with the question.

  “Could be,” Charlotte said, not being much help at all.

  MissTique finally relaxed her grip on the rice box and held it out for me. “This is Trevor’s.”

  I took it from her. “What…”

  She chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that was like thunder.

  “He uses it for his boobs.”

  She must have seen my expression, because her chuckle turned into laughter. “He fills a sock with rice and then puts that in his bra. It’s quite ingenious, because while the rest of us just use plain socks or pantyhose, his boobs actually move like they’re real.”

  I contemplated the box for a second. I could sell the idea to middle school girls and make a fortune. I found a plastic bag on the table, wrapped the box up so no rice would fall out, and put it in the duffel bag.

  Joel had come into the room now and was shuffling around, looking at the dresses on the floor. I couldn’t tell whether he was wondering why men would dress like this and perform, or whether he wanted to try something on. It was difficult sometimes to read Joel.

  “I hope the cops find that guy and lock him up,” MissTique said, anger tinting her voice.

  I opened a case that had more shades of eye shadow than I even knew existed. “You know, he really didn’t do anything except disrupt everything. Trevor’s okay. So I’m not sure he’ll have the book thrown at him or anything,” I said.

  “What do you know about it?” she asked.

  “Her brother’s a police detective,” Charlotte said.

  “The one out there?” MissTique asked.

  I cringed. “No. I don’t know that guy.”

  “Good, because I had serious issues with him,” MissTique said. She got up and pulled off her wig. Long tresses of sleek black hair landed on the floor, and she didn’t bother picking them up. She kicked off her platform heels, reached under her dress, and tugged, pulling down her hose and sliding them off her legs.

  Joel looked away.

  Bitsy and I couldn’t tear our eyes away.

  The wide white plastic belt came off next, and then she tugged at the back of the white sequined minidress. Charlotte unzipped her, and the dress slid off.

  MissTique stood before us in her bra and panties, the hairy chest proof that we weren’t in Kansas anymore.

  Socks spilled out of the bra as he unhooked it, and I watched as he pulled off two pairs of incredibly tight Speedos that obviously had been holding his jewels in place.

  He didn’t seem self-conscious at all that he was standing in the middle of the room naked.

  Charlotte handed him a pair of jeans.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said.

  Bitsy and I turned back to our job at hand. I tried to remember MissTique’s real name but drew a blank. Joel’s pink face was reflected in the mirror. He hadn’t watched any of it. Unless he peeked.

  He might have. But I wasn’t going to ask.

  “Kyle, is there anything else here that’s Trevor’s?” Charlotte asked, kicking my brain into gear and reminding me that MissTique was really Kyle Albrecht.

  I was too young to start having senior moments.

  Kyle looked around and shrugged. “Honey, if you leave something behind, he can get it tomorrow.”

  I’d filled the top of the makeup kit, so I slid open a drawer at the bottom of the case. Trevor had more makeup than I’d managed to acquire in a lifetime. The fact that he was a man made this wrong somehow. Although it could be argued that my ink was a substitute for the stuff I’d put on my face.

  I grabbed a lipstick off the table, hoping it was Trevor’s, and stuffed it in the drawer. But it went in only halfway. Something was blocking the back of the drawer.

  I pulled it out as far as I could, then tried to push it back in. Something had gotten stuck behind it, so I took the whole drawer out and set it on the table before taking the case and leaning it on an angle so I could see what was in there.

  I reached my hand inside.

  And pulled out a large brooch.

  It was covered in sparkling clear and red stones. I had no idea whether they were real or not. But it was the design that made me catch my breath.

  It was a queen-of-hearts playing card.

  Chapter 4

  Kyle had been taking his makeup off with a baby wipe when he saw the brooch in my hand. He waved his hand in the air.

  “Trevor made such a big deal over that thing.”

  I turned it over in my hand. “Where did he get it?”

  “At a fund-raiser about a year ago.”

  Bitsy looked over my elbow at the brooch.

  “Pretty,” she said, but I knew she didn’t mean it. It was garish and over the
top, not something either of us would like.

  Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop staring at it.

  “It’s the queen of hearts,” I said softly.

  “Like the tattoo you saw.” Joel had joined the party, now that Kyle was Kyle and wearing jeans and a white T-shirt.

  Kyle put the baby wipe down. His eyes looked a lot smaller without all the shadow and eyeliner and lashes. “What tattoo?”

  I told him about the guy who’d shot the cork at Trevor.

  “So you think because of this pin that there’s some sort of connection?”

  His tone indicated his doubts about that. He was probably right. This was Vegas. Over-the-top brooches and playing-card tattoos were part of the fabric of Sin City.

  I put the brooch in the makeup-kit drawer, added the lipstick, and shoved it back into the case. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s just a coincidence, I guess.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.” Wouldn’t you know we’d hear from Bitsy the peanut gallery.

  Kyle cleared his throat. “The fund-raiser where Trevor got the pin? It was the Queen of Hearts Ball. They were raising money for AIDS research.”

  So maybe I wasn’t completely off base. But I was hard-pressed to see how the tattoo would be a part of that.

  “This isn’t the first time someone’s gotten hit with a champagne cork.”

  I’d almost forgotten Charlotte was in the room, she was so quiet.

  “That’s right,” Joel piped up.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  Joel said, “Some guy’s been going to clubs all over the city for months now, spraying champagne on people. I can’t believe you haven’t heard about that.”

  So sue me for not paying attention to the local news. The story, however, indicated that perhaps Trevor was just another victim, and the queen of hearts thing was just a coincidence, despite Bitsy’s belief. It also would explain why the detective was here. A serial champagne-cork shooter could warrant that.

  “He got beat up,” Charlotte continued when Joel went silent. “The guy who was spraying the champagne. He got some guy soaked, and the guy went nuts and beat the crap out of him. Cops arrested the guy who did the beating, but they let the champagne sprayer go.”

  “So why would he keep doing it if the cops know who he is? I mean, he must have pressed charges after getting beat up,” I said, then wondered again about the detective. Wouldn’t he already know who the guy was?

  Unless it was a copycat.

  This was the problem being brought up in a family of cops. I always think of all the angles.

  Kyle finished taking off his makeup. He had been a gorgeous woman, but he was a good-looking guy, too. The makeup had made his face look even longer and thinner, but without it he looked more normal, less anorexic, perhaps. A little stubble had started to sprout on his jawline and chin.

  “Where are the rest of the girls?” Charlotte asked him.

  Kyle shrugged. “They’re probably drinking for free out there.” He got up. “I need to make sure they’re all going to come back tomorrow night for the next show.” He saw me with a piece of shiny fabric in my hand. “That’s Miranda’s, not Britney’s.” He picked up the gray hooded sweatshirt and studied it a second. “I’ll see if this belongs to anyone. If it doesn’t, we can give it to the police.” His eyes skirted around the room. “I think you’ve got everything. Thanks much.” And with that, Kyle disappeared out the door.

  I tried not to think about the brooch as we lugged Trevor’s makeup case and duffel bag back out into the front of the club.

  Kyle was right: Everyone was standing around with cocktails in their hands, gossiping about what had happened. The police had gone; I was glad I wouldn’t have to interact with that detective again. Miranda Rites came over to us, her sequins blinding me for a second.

  She reached out for the makeup case I carried.

  “I’ll take that.”

  “Trevor asked me to take his things back to his place,” Charlotte said. I could see the strain on her face; dark circles were starting to form under her eyes, which sagged a little under the weight of exhaustion. This had taken a toll on her. She was Trevor’s friend and because of that seemed to take responsibility for him.

  Miranda smiled at her. “That’s nice of you. But I can help.”

  “We’re all set to go,” I butted in. “We’ve packed up all his stuff, and Charlotte ’s just going to drop it off.”

  Miranda’s face fell slightly. “I want to do something.”

  Couldn’t fault her for that. But I still hung on to the case.

  “You could go by the hospital and keep him company until I get there,” Charlotte suggested.

  Bitsy, Joel, and I stared at her.

  “You’re not thinking of going over there tonight?” Bitsy asked, sounding like Charlotte ’s mother.

  Charlotte ’s smile was tired. “I promised.”

  I could feel all my energy dissipating the longer we stood there. I clutched the makeup kit tighter and nodded at Miranda. “Maybe that’s a plan. Come on, guys; let’s go.”

  Miranda drained her martini glass. “Fine,” she said with an edge in her voice. So she wasn’t happy. I was too tired to care.

  We stepped outside into the cool desert night. The sky was clear; the stars flickered over the shadows of the distant mountains. I thought about Red Rock Canyon, with its weathered cliffs, banana yuccas, and Joshua trees, and how I could totally use a hike tomorrow if I could find time for it. Now that it was the end of September, the temperatures had moved from blistering in the nineties and hundreds to perfect in the eighties, and I’d switched from my summer swimming schedule back to anything outdoors.

  My Mustang Bullitt looked like a thug next to Joel’s sleek green Prius and Bitsy’s dainty MINI Cooper that she’d outfitted so she could reach the foot pedals. A few spaces away, Charlotte ’s Honda Fit had a look similar to a mailbox, all squat and square. She opened the hatch in the back and I put the makeup case next to the duffel bag.

  “Thanks,” she said, then leaned toward me a little and whispered, “You talked to that cop?”

  “I told him everything I saw,” I said. “I hope they can find the guy.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He didn’t tell me about the other champagne incidents,” I said, not quite sure, though, whether that was what she meant.

  “Okay,” she said, and I guess it was. She went around to the driver’s-side door.

  “Don’t stay out too late,” Bitsy said, although it was already after midnight, so who knew when “late” was.

  Charlotte gave a short wave and climbed into her car. We watched her drive off before going over to our respective vehicles.

  We were bidding each other good-bye when the door to the club opened and Kyle came out and walked toward us.

  “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about Trevor’s pin.”

  On reflex, I glanced over to where Charlotte ’s Fit was pulling out onto the main drag.

  “You might want to leave it with me.”

  I frowned. “Why?” The Fit was getting farther and farther away.

  “Eduardo, one of the dancing boys-remember him?”

  There had been so many. We all shook our heads.

  “Well,” Kyle continued, “he said some guy came around the club looking for Trevor this afternoon. He told Eduardo that Trevor had pawned something last week and bought it back today. But the guy said there was a mistake.”

  “What sort of mistake?” I asked.

  Kyle shrugged. “Not sure. But it had to be that pin. Trevor’s pawned it before, so he probably did again. I can’t think of anything else Trevor had that was worth pawning.”

  “Are they real stones?” I asked, but Bitsy interrupted.

  “We can talk to Trevor about it. Charlotte already took it with her. We don’t have it anymore.” Bitsy
was just as tired as I was, and I could see she just wanted to get going.

  Something crossed Kyle’s face, but I couldn’t read it. “Okay, that’s okay,” he said after a few seconds, but I could tell by his tone that it wasn’t.

  “What’s wrong, Kyle?” I nudged.

  He sighed and put his hands on his hips, staring off into the distance before answering.

  “Eduardo is feeling guilty.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “He told the guy he’d give Trevor the message. But the guy said he’d send his own message, one that Trevor wouldn’t be able to ignore.”

  Chapter 5

  I could put two and two together. “So Eduardo thinks that this is the guy who hit Trevor with the cork?” I asked.

  Kyle nodded. “He says everything that happened tonight was all his fault, just because he didn’t tell Trevor about this before the show. But he said there wasn’t time.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself that Eduardo was telling the truth. Had there been time? Maybe, maybe not. It was water under the bridge now. Or, rather, champagne under the bridge.

  “Did the guy leave a card or anything?” Bitsy asked, ever practical.

  “No,” Kyle said. “He didn’t even tell Eduardo his name.”

  “So he could’ve been lying,” Joel piped up. “Maybe he knows about Trevor’s pin and for some reason he just wants to get his hands on it.”

  Kyle sighed. “Maybe. There was a big basket full of those pins at that fund-raiser. Trevor says all the other ones were fake, but this one is real. He says Lester Fine gave it to him.” I could tell by his tone that he was doubtful.

  Lester Fine was an Academy Award-winning actor who was running for a senate seat. You couldn’t look at a newspaper front page in the last month or so that didn’t have his picture plastered all over it. Granted, he was a good-looking older man, and he was a shoo-in for the seat because of his celebrity.

  “Was Lester Fine at the fund-raiser?” I asked.