Pretty In Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  A direct reference to Tim.

  But obstruction? How serious was this?

  I didn’t get a chance to ask, however, because Frank DeBurra strode across my blond laminate flooring and went out the front glass door so quickly, he didn’t even say good-bye. Bitsy watched after him, her mouth forming a perfect “O.”

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  I frowned. “I wish I knew. You were eavesdropping.”

  “And wouldn’t you? He comes in here like gangbusters and I’m not supposed to make sure he’s not beating the crap out of you back there?”

  “Isn’t that a little extreme?”

  “Seems like it’s serious, whatever it is,” Bitsy said.

  “I guess. He wanted to see her stuff. I don’t get that. What’s he fishing for? It doesn’t make any sense. But if she calls or comes in, we’re supposed to call him. I don’t think so.” I waved his card. “He wouldn’t give it to me last night.”

  Bitsy took it and stuck it under the phone. “We’ll leave it here,” she said matter-of-factly. “So we all know where it is and we can call when we hear from Charlotte.”

  I knew that was her out. The card could get lost, easily.

  Even though I didn’t trust DeBurra, he had planted some doubts about Charlotte. Why had she lied about picking up Trevor and bringing him home this morning?

  It was exactly those doubts that made me push open the door to her room and stand on the threshold as I took everything in.

  She’d taken a fancy to a couple of Ace’s smaller works. They weren’t his comic-book versions of classic paintings; instead, they were his own cartoon creations: a superhero rat and a rooster playing baseball. I’m not one to judge someone’s artwork, but I was glad they were in here and not out where the public could see them.

  Charlotte’s own artwork hung on the walls, too. She created geometric and tribal designs in acrylics and then recreated them as tattoos.

  The chair almost glistened, it was so clean; Charlotte’s inkpots and tattoo machine were lined up along the waist-high counter. On a shelf below that, she had a supply of disposable needles, some stencils were scattered, and a cup held some fine-point markers.

  It was clean, thanks most likely to Bitsy’s efforts, and organized, again Bitsy’s doing. Other than the paintings, there were no personal items.

  I had a client in half an hour, so I went into the staff room and sat at the light table to finish up a stencil of palm trees, dice, and Hello Kitty. About twenty minutes later, Joel wandered in with a box of doughnuts, unaware that I’d brought in smashed bagels. He took one of each.

  Joel had started Weight Watchers, but we hadn’t seen any difference.

  I raised my eyebrows when he took a bite of bagel.

  “Oh, don’t get on my case,” he chided. “I count my points.”

  “And you probably round down, too,” I said.

  He made a face at me.

  I didn’t want to get into it any further, so I told him about Frank DeBurra and Charlotte.

  Joel actually stopped eating as I told him.

  Bitsy stuck her head in the door and nodded at me. “She’s here.” She meant my client.

  I glanced at the clock. Hello Kitty was just about done. “Tell her I’ll be a few. She can hang in the waiting area.”

  Bitsy disappeared.

  “Looking good,” Joel said, leaning over my shoulder, getting a little doughnut dust on the light table.

  I brushed it off. “I don’t want the stencil messed up. Stay over there if you’re eating.”

  “So this is the gambling Hello Kitty? I’ve never seen that one before.” Joel spoke as he moved over to the staff table and sat down.

  “Hello Kitty likes Vegas,” I said. “She’s one hot cat.” As I said it, I thought about Rebecca Sinclair, my client. Nice girl, first tattoo. As I surveyed my work, I didn’t think this would have to be one she’d regret. Hello Kitty was always in style.

  I finished up the stencil and carefully cut around it before bringing it out to Rebecca, whom I beckoned into my room.

  “Here it is,” I said, showing her. “And you want it just below your shoulder on your back on the left side?”

  Rebecca nodded. She was smiling, but her mouth was tight. First time was always a little nerve-wracking.

  With a baby wipe, I washed down the area where I’d do the ink and shaved it with a disposable razor so it would be completely hair free. I then rolled a little glycerin-based deodorant over the same area before placing the stencil down, rubbing it so it would transfer onto her skin. I pulled it off carefully, then surveyed it. Perfect.

  I handed Rebecca a hand mirror and told her to go out and look at it in the full-length mirror in the waiting area. While she was gone, I organized my inks, took a new needle out of a package, and slid it into my tattoo machine.

  “It looks good,” she said softly when she returned.

  “It’ll be fine,” I said as soothingly as I could as I put the chair flat so she could lie down on her stomach. “You’ll feel it sting at first-I won’t lie about that-but then your endorphins will kick in and it won’t hurt as much.” I couldn’t tell her it wouldn’t hurt at all. In fact, tattoos over bone hurt more than when they were inked on more fleshy areas. But she’d been insistent about placement.

  When she was as comfortable as she would be, I pulled on my latex gloves, dipped the needle in black ink, pressed the foot pedal, and the machine whirred to life. I pressed the needle to her skin and felt her jump slightly.

  “Try to stay as still as possible,” I advised as I began outlining Hello Kitty.

  By the time I started filling in the palm trees, Rebecca was chatting up a storm, telling me about the classes she was taking at the university.

  It didn’t take too long before I was taping plastic wrap over the tattoo and handing Rebecca a typewritten sheet of paper that explained how to take care of it for the next few days. She shouldn’t keep the plastic wrap on long, just until she got home. Washing it with unscented antibacterial soap and an antibacterial gel would be the next step, but it would still peel like a sunburn.

  “It’ll look a little faded for a while, but don’t worry. The color will come back once it’s healed.”

  I followed her out to the front desk, where Bitsy would take her credit card.

  But Bitsy wasn’t there.

  Trevor McKay was.

  Chapter 12

  “Where’s Bitsy?” I asked as I took the credit card machine out of the drawer in the mahogany desk.

  “Joel needed her for something. I said I’d wait,” Trevor, aka Britney Brassieres, said. Without his Britney costume, he looked like any normal guy: close-cropped bleached blond hair, brown eyes, long nose, short chin. He was slightly shorter than me, and I stand about five-nine. He wore his clothes-a pair of faded jeans and loose T-shirt-with casual style.

  I’d asked him why he decided to do drag, and he said it was a lark at first, a Halloween costume. But something had clicked; MissTique saw him and convinced him to try performing. He loved it, the acting, the dancing, the lip-synching.

  “Not that I want to be a woman,” he’d said. “Believe me, I like being a boy.”

  He looked all boy today. I gave him a look that I hoped would convey that he was to stay put while I took care of Rebecca. It was just a few minutes; Rebecca signed her receipt and left with a smile.

  I took a breath when the door closed, turned to Trevor, and asked, “Are you okay?” His shirt didn’t conceal the outline of a bandage in the center of his chest.

  He saw me looking at it, and he touched it gently. “Broke skin. Can you believe it? Got blood on my dress. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get it out.”

  I murmured my sympathy, then asked, “Where’s Charlotte?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you,” he said. “I’m worried about her. She said she’d stay at the hospital with me, but they wouldn’t let her. She called early this morning, said she’d com
e get me, but she never did. I’ve tried her cell, but there’s no answer, just voice mail. That’s not like her.”

  None of this was like her.

  I shook the thoughts away. “The police were here looking for her.”

  Trevor’s eyes skittered across the wall behind me. “What for?”

  Hmmm. Did he know something? “Said they wanted to question her about some sort of incident at a pawnshop this morning.” I mentally kicked myself for not getting the name of the place out of DeBurra.

  Trevor still didn’t meet my eye. “Really?” He didn’t sound too surprised, but he was trying. I could tell.

  I played along. I told him the little that Frank DeBurra had said, how he wanted to see her things. I studied his facial expressions as I spoke, and now I noticed that his eyes were a little too bright and his skin was flushed.

  “A guy was looking for you yesterday at the club. Wesley Lambert.”

  “Wes? Looking for me?”

  “You know him?”

  Again he looked a little uncomfortable. “Sure. But I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  “He was talking about how you’d pawned something, but he seemed to think it was a mistake. Do you think Charlotte went to the pawnshop about that and something happened while she was there?”

  Trevor wiped some sweat off his forehead. “I’m not feeling very good.”

  I didn’t want to let him off that easy, but he really wasn’t looking well.

  “Are you okay?”

  He took a deep breath. “Maybe if I sit down. Last night took a lot out of me.”

  I motioned that he should sit in the leather chair behind the desk, and he plopped down like a rock, his head in his hands.

  Bitsy and Joel came out of the staff room. “You’re still here,” Bitsy said to Trevor, adding, “Are you sick?”

  Trevor looked up, his eyes now twice as bright. “I think so.”

  “You should’ve stayed home. You could’ve just called to ask about Charlotte,” I said.

  “Charlotte? What about Charlotte?” Bitsy and Joel asked the same thing just seconds apart, giving it sort of an echo effect.

  “Charlotte was supposed to pick Trevor up this morning but didn’t show,” I said, then turned back to Trevor. “What pawnshop did you take the pin to?” I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that it would be the same pawnshop Charlotte had been to this morning, but it was a place to start, anyway, even if it wasn’t.

  “Pin?”

  I didn’t know whether it was because he was ill or because he was just being cagey, but he was certainly not answering my questions.

  “Oh, come on, I know about the queen-of-hearts pin from the fund-raiser. I just need to know which pawnshop. Maybe this is all just a huge misunderstanding. I’m sure there’s some explanation.” Even as I said it, I knew that if Charlotte had gone there to straighten out Trevor’s “mistake,” it had gone wrong somehow.

  “It’s up on Las Vegas Boulevard, just up from the Sahara.” Trevor had turned green. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Joel was one step ahead of him. He’d slung his arm under Trevor’s armpits and was carrying him to the bathroom.

  I’d wanted to ask Trevor whether he knew anyone with a tattoo of a queen-of-hearts playing card, but the sounds that were coming from the bathroom indicated that he wasn’t in a state to have a chat at the moment.

  Joel emerged from the back of the shop. He was moving faster than I’d ever seen him move, and his expression showed his worry. “I think we should call for an ambulance,” he said.

  “It’s that bad?” I asked, but Bitsy was one step ahead of me.

  She had the phone in her hand and was giving our location.

  The paramedics showed up in less than ten minutes. Trevor was still in the bathroom. I hoped our next client would be late, because Trevor being sick wouldn’t be good for business.

  Two paramedics guided a gurney toward the back of the shop, and after several minutes they wheeled Trevor out quickly. Mall shoppers stopped and watched the gurney rolling off into the distance. One paramedic stuck around and asked questions: When did Trevor become ill? What had he been like when he arrived? How long had he been in the bathroom?

  We answered as well as we could. I wanted to tell him I still had questions of my own, but they would have to wait until Trevor was feeling better.

  “He was in the hospital overnight,” I offered and found myself telling the paramedic about the incident at Chez Tango last night. “But that wouldn’t make him sick like this, would it?” I asked.

  The paramedic shook his head. “You never know. Or it could be flu.” He added that maybe we should disinfect everything, just in case Trevor was contagious. Great.

  He left Bitsy and Joel and me staring at one another, looking at our hands-had we touched anything Trevor had touched? Contagious was never good.

  The phone startled us. Bitsy answered, “The Painted Lady,” then listened a few seconds, said, “Okay,” and hung up.

  She turned back to us.

  “Client?” Joel asked.

  She shook her head.

  “That was Ace. He’s with Charlotte.”

  Chapter 13

  Ace didn’t tell Bitsy where they were, just that Charlotte was okay and knew the police were looking for her. He said he’d call back later.

  Talk about obstruction of justice.

  I tried his cell, but it was turned off. I left a message.

  I needed to know more about what happened at that pawnshop this morning. I wouldn’t get anything out of DeBurra. But I might get something out of my brother.

  Unfortunately, I got his voice mail. I left a cryptic message and hung up.

  “What’s my schedule like this afternoon?” I asked Bitsy.

  She leafed through the appointment book. “You’ve got a client at seven.” Bitsy tossed her head back at Joel. “You’ve got someone coming in any moment.”

  Shoot. I’d wanted to ask Joel to come with me when I hunted down that pawnshop, but I’d have to go alone.

  He knew what I was up to.

  “Don’t go playing detective, Brett,” Joel said, putting his arm around my shoulders.

  “I have to do something,” I said. “And when I see Ace, I’m going to wring his neck for not telling us where he and Charlotte are.” I gave Bitsy a glare. “I don’t know what you were thinking, letting him just hang up without getting any information out of him.”

  “He said to trust him. I do, so there.” She stuck her tongue out at me.

  It looked so ridiculous, I couldn’t help but chuckle. “I guess I’m just on edge,” I said, and Red Rock Canyon flashed through my thoughts again.

  Bitsy went off to try to disinfect the bathroom and get the stench out of the air that we now noticed was hanging like an invisible cloud.

  I went into the staff room to get my bag, and the tracing paper on the light table caught my eye. I didn’t have the sketch of Wesley Lambert, but I had a name. I could ask about him. But the guy this morning at the roulette table was still nameless. I couldn’t help but think that his ink was a clue; he was possibly the champagne shooter from last night. I wondered whether I could make a sketch of his face, too, and get an ID on him.

  I put my bag down and sat at the table, grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil. I closed my eyes and willed myself to see the guy’s face. I began to sketch.

  I’d had to do a similar exercise in school. It wasn’t easy, and the face I’d drawn was all over the place.

  Like this one. I peeked.

  I erased a few lines, drew new ones; the guy’s face was etched in my memory, and an image slowly began to emerge. I couldn’t remember some of his features-the cheekbones might be too wide-but others, like the length of his nose and his eyes, were clear.

  Bitsy walked through the room spraying Lysol. I coughed.

  “I thought you left,” she said, standing behind me.

  “Just trying something,” I said.

  S
he looked over my shoulder. “Who is he?”

  “The guy at the roulette wheel this morning.”

  “He looks like a girl.”

  A closer look indicated that she was right. If I drew long locks of hair, he definitely would be mistaken for a girl.

  He was that pretty.

  Why hadn’t I noticed that this morning? Oh, yeah, I was possessed by the gambling devil and distracted by that spinning wheel.

  I drew the spikes of hair, and he began to look a little like Annie Lennox.

  “He looked more like a boy in person,” I said to Bitsy. This could all be a skewed image in my head; memory was a slippery thing.

  I didn’t have time for more than this, though. It would have to do. I folded the drawing up and stuck it in my bag. “I’m off,” I said.

  “You’ll be back for your appointment?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for holding down the fort,” I said as I swept past her and went out of the shop.

  I heard music-a harpsichord maybe, definitely violins-and I looked over at St. Mark’s Square-not the real one, but the Vegas imitation-to see a group of costumed dancers bowing and curtsying to one another. A gondola glided by on the canal, the gondolier expertly guiding it. The ceiling was a bright blue, with fluffy white clouds that seemed to move. Sometimes when I stopped for a moment and took it all in, rather than just as a backdrop, I could see why the tourists would fall for it. Even though it seemed so wrong on so many levels.

  There was a small strip mall on the far side of the Sahara. It housed a convenience store, a nail salon, and a pawnshop. Cash & Carry. According to the signs in the window, they’d take my gold and silver jewelry off my hands for a good price.

  I had rows of silver hoops lining each ear, but I didn’t think any of them were worth anything. I didn’t wear rings because I’d found early on that they get caught in the latex gloves. My watch was a simple Timex. It kept on ticking.

  At home, in my jewelry box, was the engagement ring Paul had given me. He hadn’t wanted it back. I tried to give it to him when I broke it off. Maybe Cash & Carry could give me a good price for it. Although with all that money I’d won at roulette, I certainly didn’t need to pawn it.