Pretty In Ink

by Karen Olson

  I thought about my brother, Detective Tim Kavanaugh. I wondered whether he’d show up. He might be a little surprised to find me here at Chez Tango.

  It was opening night of MissTique’s new Nylons and Tattoos show, featuring Britney, Miranda, Lola LaTuche, and Marva Luss.

  Drag queens.

  They’d chosen The Painted Lady, my tattoo shop, as the one they’d entrusted with designing their new ink, because Charlotte Sampson, our trainee, knew Britney, who was Trevor McKay when he wasn’t dolled up. In Charlotte’s other life, as an accountant, she’d done Trevor’s taxes the past couple of years. When Trevor found out Charlotte had ditched her former career choice to be a tattoo artist, he said it must be karma.

  Because of our contribution to the show, Charlotte; my shop manager, Bitsy Hendricks; my friend and tattooist Joel Sloane; and I had been given the VIP treatment: free drinks, a great table, a backstage tour. The only one in our shop who had chosen not to come was Ace van Nes, who had issues with the idea of a drag show—but he had issues with a lot of things. I’d been a little leery at first, too, for different reasons than Ace, but I easily caved to peer pressure when Charlotte, Bitsy, and Joel said we just had to be there.

  So that’s how we ended up covered in champagne, the music blasting, a strobe light cutting across Britney’s body as she lay sprawled on the stage, her five-inch red platform heels pointing toward the ceiling and looking oddly like the Wicked Witch of the West’s just after the house fell on her.

  My eyes were still smarting from the bubbly, and I closed them again for a second. When I did, my memory kicked back to the guy who’d sprayed me. I hadn’t seen his face. The strobe had created a cutout image, his outline flashing light, then dark too fast for me to remember many details, especially with the oversized hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans that hung precariously low from his hips, with bunched-up boxers protruding from the top as though he was some urban kid.

  But he’d had his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Maybe he didn’t want to get any of the Moët on himself. By doing that, however, he’d given me something I could share with my brother the detective. Something that I would never miss.

  He had a tattoo on the inside of his right forearm. A rather distinctive one.

  It was a queen-of-hearts playing card.

  Chapter 2

  Someone finally shut off the strobe when the cops showed up, and replaced the dim lights with bright ones that accentuated the weariness of the night: spilled booze, smudged martini glasses, a couple of shoeless heels. Even the hunky background dancers looked a bit worse for the wear. And while the champagne was spilled only halfway through the show, there had been enough cocktails beforehand to get a third world country drunk.

  I didn’t see my brother with the two uniforms who’d escorted the paramedics onstage to tend to Britney. Then again, it didn’t seem logical that a detective would be sent here. While it was clear to me that the guy who shot the cork at Britney was aiming for her, she may have gotten only a bump on the back of the head when she fell.

  But I remembered that actress who’d had what everyone initially thought was a minor bump on the head, too. She died just hours later. Maybe I should tell those uniformed cops that the cork was shot on purpose. I could at least give them a description of the tattoo, even though I hadn’t seen the guy’s face.

  I felt something tug on my foot as I started toward them. I glanced down. My shoe was stuck to some spirit gum and sporting a curly blond wig that had somehow lost its drag queen.

  “You know you’re dragging something that looks like a dead cat, don’t you?” Joel asked.

  I was one step ahead of him. I leaned against his arm and lifted my foot, pulling the wig off my shoe with a yank. I waved it in front of him, accidentally hitting Bitsy with it. I hadn’t seen her come around the other side of him.

  She made a face at me and brushed at the wig. “Where’d you get that?”

  I tossed it on one of the large speakers next to the stage, where male dancers had been performing as Britney lipsynched. “I saw him,” I said simply.

  Bitsy looked at me as if I had three heads. “What?”

  “I saw the guy with the champagne. The cork—it hit her. He aimed it at her.”

  Joel tugged my arm. “You have to tell them.” He indicated the cops. So even Joel thought it was a good idea.

  We made our way over to the stage. Joel is good in a crowd. He weighs about three hundred pounds and few people can get past him. Bitsy, however, was again missing.

  As we approached, I did see a detective, after all, near the edge of the stage. I could tell he was a detective because of the cheap-looking green sport jacket and gray Dockers frayed at the bottoms. His hair was cropped short and his ears stuck out, giving him the appearance of an impish Santa’s elf. And he had that look about him. That cop look. The one my dad had. The one my brother has.

  “Excuse me?” I said loudly, trying to get his attention.

  He didn’t hear me.

  “Excuse me!” I said more loudly.

  He turned and looked right through me.

  “Excuse me!” The third time is said to be a charm, but he hardly looked charmed. He frowned.

  “Yes?”

  “I saw the guy who hit her with the cork,” I said.

  He leaned over and whispered something to one of the uniforms before turning back to me, rolling his eyes and sighing. I didn’t hear the sigh, but I could see his chest rise and fall. I thought maybe he should think about asking MissTique for a job. He obviously had a flair for the dramatic. I wondered what he’d look like in a dress, then immediately tried to erase the image from my head. It wasn’t pretty.

  As he jumped down off the stage to join me and Joel—Bitsy had somehow scrambled up onstage and was talking to Charlotte now—I noticed that he was older than I’d originally thought. Or maybe it was the lighting that showed off the wrinkles around his eyes and the sag of his jaw. I wondered what I looked like in this dreadful light.

  Sister Mary Eucharista, my teacher at Our Lady of Perpetual Mercy School, would’ve said I shouldn’t be so vain while Britney was being moved onto a gurney.

  A gurney?

  “Are they taking her to the hospital? I thought she was okay.”

  The cop shrugged. “Hit her head pretty hard on the floor. Paramedics want to make sure she doesn’t have a concussion.” He was distracted, checking out my tattoos. His eyes followed the Monet water lily garden up my arm to the dragon poking its head up through the low neckline of my silk blouse, which was sticking to me because it was wet from the champagne. Fortunately, it was black, so he couldn’t see the rest of the dragon curling around my torso, meeting up with the tiger lily that slinked down from my breast to my hip. My jeans hid Napoleon riding his horse up the Alps on my right calf, the ink so new it still had a bubblegum pinkish hue, and my blouse also covered the Celtic cross on my upper back.

  In a moment of solidarity, the cop moved his sleeve up to show a snake curled around his left arm just above his wrist.

  “Nice,” I said politely, although it was probably flash, a stock tattoo. At The Painted Lady, we do only custom ink.

  He grinned. “So, what happened here? We can’t get a real answer out of any of those fags.”

  My own smile disappeared. “They’re drag queens,” I said coldly. “Performers.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he said, not seeming to notice it had gotten frosty in here. “What’s your name?”

  “Brett Kavanaugh.” I watched him write it down in his little cop notebook, an eyebrow rising as he took a better look at me, not my tattoos this time.

  “Kavanaugh?”

  “You probably know my brother.” Tim and I are carbon copies of each other, except he shaves and has freckles. Sort of natural ink as opposed to my self-imposed ink. A lot of people think we’re twins, with our red hair and thin frames, although he’s got more muscles while I’ve got more angles. At six feet, he’s taller than I am by three inches, but most people don’t notice because I don’t shy away from wearing heels.

&nbs
p; The cop’s expression changed slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening, and he nodded in that way people do when they’re just being polite. I wondered whether there was bad blood between him and Tim. Which reminded me . . .

  “I didn’t get your name.”

  He gave me a smirk. “So, tell me what happened here.”

  Definitely bad blood.

  I stood up a little straighter, forcing myself not to pay attention to my wet blouse. “There was a guy standing next to the stage. He had a champagne bottle, Moët White Star, I think. He pointed it at Trevor and hit him with the cork.”

  “Trevor?”

  “You do know his name is Trevor McKay?” I indicated the gurney, which was now being wheeled across the floor toward the door.

  He blinked at me a couple of times, then asked, “What did this guy look like?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t see his features. He had a big gray hooded sweatshirt on, and baggy jeans.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t even a guy; maybe it was a woman.”

  “No, it was a guy. He had his sleeves pushed up. Definitely man’s arms.”

  “But these guys”—the cop waved his hand, indicating the stage—“all look like women. Maybe it was a woman who looks like a guy.”

  I stared at him to see whether he was joking. He was dead serious.

  “No, it was a guy,” I insisted. “He had a tattoo,” I added.

  The pencil paused over the pad. “What sort of tattoo?”

  “A queen-of-hearts playing card. On his inner forearm. His right arm.”

  “So you can’t tell me anything else about this guy, but you’re sure about the tattoo?”

  “I own a tattoo shop. The Painted Lady.”

  The eyebrows went back up again, and his arms fell to his sides. “At the Venetian?”

  He seemed to know it. “Yeah,” I said.

  “Pricey place.”

  I didn’t know whether he was referring to the upscale shops that made up the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes or my custom tattoos.

  “You can get cheaper ink on Fremont.”

  Sure. I should’ve known. He was determined to take me down a notch. I had to ask Tim about this guy who wouldn’t give me his name.

  “There’s no cork,” he said curtly.

  I frowned. “What?”

  “No one has seen the cork that you say hit him. You’re sure it was a cork?”

  “No, a frog flew out of that bottle.” I rolled my eyes at him, irritated that he was questioning everything I was telling him. As if I would lie.

  “No frogs, either,” he said humorlessly as he stuffed the notebook in his jacket pocket. “Do you have a card or something? In case I need to ask you more questions?”

  “Maybe you can give me your card,” I suggested.

  I thought it might work. And for a second, he considered it. But then he grinned and said, “I know where to find you,” before heading back to the stage.

  Chapter 3

  “That was smooth,” Joel said.

  “You could’ve helped me out here.”

  “You seemed to have it under control.”

  I was going to say something snarky, but I was distracted as I glanced around the club. The pandemonium had quieted down with the arrival of the police and paramedics, who were now rolling Trevor out on the gurney. He’d propped himself up on one elbow and was batting his eyes at the guy holding a blood pressure cuff but who seemed interested in what Trevor was saying. Maybe he’d get a date out of this. Seemed only right, since the rest of the night was a bust.

  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.