by Karen Olson
He was trying for a smile, I think, but it came off more as a sneer, and he got up. Thank you for your time, Miss Kavanaugh.
As I walked him to the front door, I saw him glancing around the house.
I couldnt help myself.
Say hi to Shawna.
For a second, I saw his surprise; then he caught himself and masked it. I will, he said as he went out the door.
I shut it behind him and leaned against it, relieved he was gone. Tim came out wearing a pair of Dockers, his hair wet. He clapped his hands together. That was pretty good, little sis, he said. Thanks.
You wont get into trouble, will you?
He got to see the house, see if anythings changed since Shawna moved out, and he can report back to her. He got what he came for.
You think he just came here for that? Not to talk to me?
Tim laughed. He couldve just called and asked you to come to the department. But his expression grew serious again. You shouldve told him about the drag queens friends.
I dont know if that has anything to do with this.
True, but you didnt tell him everything you found out, and it could come back and bite you on the ass.
I slugged him on the shoulder. You mean it might come back and bite you on the ass.
Yeah, okay, maybe I meant that, he said sheepishly.
I walked back into the kitchen and put my cup on the table, noticing now that DeBurra hadnt taken the sketch with him. I picked it up and raised my eyebrows. Do you think he just forgot this?
Tim looked genuinely puzzled. Thats a clue. He wouldnt want to leave that behind.
I grabbed it and went toward the door. DeBurras car was backing out. I ran down the driveway, waving the sketch. He rolled the window down as I approached.
What is it? he asked, irritation lacing his words.
I shoved the drawing at him. You forgot this.
Why would I need that?
Its a clue.
He snorted. I know what Wesley Lambert looks like. I certainly dont need any amateur drawing of yours.
He gunned the accelerator, the car skidded into the street, and he took off with a cloud of exhaust following him.
Chapter 8
It was clear DeBurra was already on to Wesley Lambert for some reason, but Tim had no idea what sort of game he was playing. Tim promised to look Lambert up in the database when he got to work to see whether he had a rap sheet or some sort of alert out about him. He took the drawing with him.
I looked longingly at the mountains in the distance as I drove toward the Strip. Red Rock was beckoning. I hadnt been up there in a couple of weeks, and after the previous night I could have used some time chilling out. I wanted to fill my daypack with sandwiches and water and a sketchpad, and put on my too-expensive-but-I-couldnt-resist hiking boots.
Sometimes I sketched when I went up there, using pastels; their soft, pliable texture lent an Impressionistic look to my drawings. But most times, I just hiked, the desert hard beneath my boots, the air still enough so you could hear a coyote from miles away. The pale browns and pinks of the mountains were interrupted by bright red stripes, as if Christo had decided to wrap them, like hed wrapped those islands off Miami years ago.
During my first visit there, the ranger told me Red Rock was where the West Coast had ended once upon a time, which was why the mountains looked the way they did. I tried to imagine the ocean licking the same rocks that I gripped, the brown desert floor once the sea floor.
I was deep enough in thought that I missed my turn onto Koval Lane, which ran behind the MGM, Planet Hollywood, Paris, Ballys, the Flamingo, Harrahs, and finally the Venetian. I had to take the Strip now, which was annoying because of all the traffic and the lights. I was stopped at the one just before the turn off Tropicana. The MGM golden lion loomed large over me, a replica of the Statue of Liberty at New York New York across the way. Through the power of suggestion, I had a sudden hankering for bagels. Real bagels, like I could get at Il Fornaio Panetteria.
Parking was usually an issue, but for some reason the parking gods were with me today, and I managed to easily slide into a free self-parking slot in New York New Yorks parking garage.
Il Fornaio Panetteria was near the casino, which was enclosed in what the developers had hoped would look like Central Park. Fake trees hung over craps and blackjack and roulette tables, brownstone and other building facades on either side. Somehow it seemed wrong. The casino shouldnt be immersed in the illusion; it should just be what it is: a casino without all the bells and whistles. Not like the gamblers really cared.
I walked up the fake sidewalk to Il Fornaio Panetteria, a small shop that sold real New York bagels, fresh fruit cups, muffins, pastries, and coffee. I bought a dozen bagels to bring back with me to the shop and added some cream cheese to the tab. Despite the eggs Tim had served me that morning, I was still hungry, my mouth salivating as I watched the girl behind the counter fill the bag.
On impulse, I decided to play hooky for a few minutes and sit and enjoy one of the bagels there. I took out one with poppy seeds, slathered some cream cheese on it, and savored it. Since Id have to wait to go to Red Rock, this was going to have to be my Mecca for the moment.
Until my cell phone rang.
I dug it out of my messenger bag and looked at the caller ID. Bitsy.
Hey, there. Picking up some bagels, I said, hoping that would appease her if she was upset I wasnt there yet.
Good idea, she said. Just wanted to let you know your noon appointment canceled.
I sighed, but Id been doubtful that shed show. Emily Sokol was just eighteen and had been at the shop the day before with a gaggle of friends egging her on to get a tattoo. I told her that a tattoo is privateand permanent. If she had any second thoughts about it, she shouldnt do it. Emily insisted that she wanted to go through with it, told me she wanted a butterfly in pinks and golds. I said Id do a sketch and wed look at it when she came back, to make sure it was what she envisioned.
Guess not.
Now I had a little more time to spare. I was only halfway done with my bagel.
Joels here. He told me about the sketch you did last night, Bitsy said. Like a police artist or something.
Yeah. And that detective who I talked to last night came to the house this morning. I quickly told her about Tim and Shawna and how DeBurra knew who the mystery guy was all along but didnt let on. His drag name is Shanda Leer. I chuckled. Get it? Chandelier? I had no idea why this amused me so much. Bits? I asked, wondering whether the call was dropped, it got so quiet.
Well, that police detective was here already. About ten minutes ago. I told him youd be here soon, and he said hed be back.
I sat up straighter, the anger moving through me. Was DeBurra going to start stalking me? First he comes to my house, and now to my shop? He was the one who wouldnt take the sketch. That wasnt my fault.
I tried to calm myself down by thinking that maybe hed changed his mind about the sketch and he figured hed catch me at the shop.
That must be it. Although something was still nagging at me about him.
I stared at the last bit of my bagel. Well, he was just going to have to wait for me. When did he say hed come back? I asked.
He didnt. Bitsy paused. Whats going on, Brett?
I have no idea. Ill be there as soon as I can. I stuffed the last of the bagel in my mouth as I closed the phone.
While the gods had been on my side today as far as parking, it seemed thats all they were going to be good for.
I put the bag with the bagels in it in my messenger bag. Times like this, I needed a real backpack. Instead of slinging the bag across my chest, like I usually did, I just put it over my shoulder and let it bounce against my side.
I wandered past the gaming tables in the faux Central
Park on the way out to my car. There were a few early-bird diehards eager to make their fortunes. I passed a couple of blackjack tables, ignored the craps, and stopped at the roulette table. The dealer was spinning the wheel.
But I wasnt watching the wheel. I stared at one of the players, a young guy, maybe late twenties, slight build, wearing a white, almost see-through T-shirt that clung to his frame. His arms were bare.
Except for the queen-of-hearts playing-card tattoo on his inside right forearm.
Care to place a bet?
The dealers voice shook me out of my trance. He was staring at me expectantly, as was the young man with the tattoo and an elderly gentleman wearing a straw hat.
Um, just watching, I said.
Need a chip? The young man tossed a chip toward me, and instinctively I reached out and caught it. Nice to know something stuck from those couple years playing softball in middle school.
Thanks, I guess, I said, moving closer to the table, noticing that he wasnt looking at me like I could identify him in a lineup. That was a good thing. The bad thing was, I had no idea just how to play this game. I turned the chip over in my hand and saw it was worth fifty bucks. Startled, I looked at the young man and held it out toward him. I cant take this.
He grinned and with a little wave of his hand indicated that the huge pile of chips on the table was his. Im on a streak. Have at it, he said.
Place your bet, the dealer said.
I studied the table, covered with red and black squares and numbers. Why not, I muttered, and put the chip on 18 red. It was a shot.
The wheel spun and then slowed. It stopped. The little ball fell into a slot.
Eighteen red.
My mouth hung open as the dealer added some chips to the one Id had. The young man still wonhe had put his chips on redbut I wasnt exactly sure how all this worked.
Whered you get your ink? I asked as we both moved our chips to other spots.
Sssh, the older gentleman said.
But the young man obviously didnt have any respect for his elders. Murder Ink. Know it?
Murder Ink was owned by Jeff Coleman. We had a complicated relationship in that while we were competitors and started out hating each other, we were growing on each other. His mother had done the Napoleon ink on my calf.
I nodded, and the wheel spun.
Go figure, but I won again. My head told me that I should quit while I was ahead, but my adrenaline was racing and I couldnt help myself.
Why dont you go for a split? the young man asked, and when he saw my confusion explained I could place chips on two adjoining numbers.
Why not?
I won again. The chips were piling up. The young man had started betting with me. Id forgotten about the bagels in my bag, how I had to get to my shop, why Frank DeBurra was stalking me. All I could think about was the game. I kept moving my chips around the table, and each square I put them on won. Well, not all of them, but because Id done the split I was doing better than if I was going for broke on just one square each time. My heart was pounding with each spin of the wheel, every time the dealer said, Place your bet.
The young man with the ink and I kept winning. The elderly gentleman disappeared at some point, and a few other people wandered over. And then the spell broke. Not because I lost. But because the young man spoke.
Were doing great, arent we, Brett?
I hadnt told him my name.
Chapter 9
It was like the volume had been pushed up to eleven. While my blood pressure had been racing with the adrenaline of the game, my heart began to pound even harder as I tried to catch my breath.
He realized his mistake. His eyes grew wide, and he swept up his chips faster than I could get mine.
Sure, I couldve just left them. Id been playing with his chip initially, after all, but hed given it to me. I grabbed my chips, too, shoving them into my bag around the bagel bag, and rushed off after him.
He wasnt heading to the cashier, but up the escalator, taking two steps at a time.
I had longer legs than he did and gained ground, noticing that he didnt have a bag like I did, and he was trying to put the chips in his pockets. He had a lot of chipsa lot more than I didand he wasnt completely successful, leaving a trail of them sort of like Hansel and Gretel in the forest.
He pushed open the glass doors and went outside.
I followed him out, but the sun was blinding, so I blinked a few times to focus, glanced around, and saw him running across the concrete footbridge that connected New York New York with the MGM Grand. A huge video display ahead of me advertised Journeys next concert in Vegas. So they were still performing. Who knew?
I sprinted off the concrete as I followed the mysterious guy.
He took a quick right, and as I got closer I saw him running down the escalator steps.
I went after him.
At the bottom, he was crossing the street, going back toward New York New York, making a circle. It was harder this way, though, since dodging traffic was part of the equation.
He crossed between cars, and I got lucky because the light had turned and the traffic was stopped.
I kept my eye on him and turned right toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
Of course its not the real one, but a smaller, accurate replica.
It was the first time I was going across it, but I didnt have time to stop to admire the workmanship, which was pretty remarkable. Just as I reached the end of the bridge and was about to hit the sidewalk, a family of six, including a baby stroller, stepped into my path. I tried to sidestep them, but Id been going too fast and found myself spinning like that roulette wheel toward the ground.
The bagels broke my fall.
The father leaned down. Are you all right? he asked, although I could see his wife frowning, wishing that he hadnt bothered to try to be a Good Samaritan in Sin City. Her eyes traveled over my tattoos disapprovingly.
Yes, Im fine, thank you, I said, and the wife looked surprised, as if she didnt think someone like me would be able to speak such good English and be so polite.
I brushed off my cotton skirt, noticing now that Id skinned my knee and blood was trickling down the front of my leg. The family walked past me as I rummaged in my bag for a napkin from the bagel place.
I didnt even want to look at the bagels. It wouldnt be pretty.
I dabbed at the wound and looked up, trying to see whether the guy was anywhere in sight, but no. Id lost himand any chance of finding out how he knew my name. I thought about his ink and wondered if he was the guy from last night, the guy who shot Trevor with the cork.
I shook the thought away. Was I going to think that every guy with a queen-of-hearts tattoo had been the one who attacked Trevor last night? Odds were that Wesley Lambert was the true culprit, since hed been poking around Chez Tango and had sent Trevor a warning through Eduardo. That would make the most sense. Kyle said he didnt remember Lambert having a tattoo, but he couldve easily gotten one in the time since hed last been at the club.
Something bugged me, though, about this roulette guy. The ink was in the right place; it was the same design Id seen. And he knew my name.
I had to get back to my car, which was in the self-parking garage. The sun was blasting, and even though late September isnt as steamy as, say, July, the asphalt absorbed the heat and sent ribbons of it into the air.
The chips made little clicking noises in my bag. I wondered how much they were worth. I pushed the glass doors to the casino open, and as I passed the escalator I noticed a couple of stray chips on the up side, the ones the guy had dropped. For a second, I had a crazy thought that I could go back and collect them, adding to my winnings.
I knew I shouldnt be so greedy. Technically, the chips I won might not even be mine because I wasnt playing with my own money. And considering what had just happened with that guy, I was unc
omfortable with the whole situation.
Still, I found myself at the cashier window, pushing the chips through the little slot. While I waited for the cashier to count them, I looked around at the fake trees, the fake brownstones, the fake New York City. I missed the city. The real one. There was something vibrant about it that no other city could match.
I was distracted by my thoughts enough so when the cashier pushed the wads of money through the slot, it surprised me. I glanced at the receipt.
Id won more than sixty thousand dollars.
I stopped breathing for a second.
The cashier grinned. Congratulations, he said.
Thanks, I said, carefully putting the bills in my bag next to the smashed bagels. I needed to get to a bank before I got mugged.
Where have you been? Bitsy demanded when I walked into the shop about an hour later.
I didnt answer right away. I wasnt quite sure how to explain everything so it wouldnt sound like I was nuts.
My eyes skirted around the shop, my home away from home, checking everything out, sort of like when a cat goes on the prowl to make sure everythings still where it was an hour ago. The blond laminate flooring was sleek; the mahogany desk near the door was shining. A spray of light pink orchids from Bitsys greenhouse gave the place elegance, as did Aces new paintings wed just hung: comic-book versions of Caravaggios Lute Player, Dürers Adoration of the Magi, Holbeins Henry VIII, and Corots View of Venicewhich offset the canal and gondolas and St. Marks Square just outside our shop at the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes.
Four private rooms were closed off in the middle of the shop, and a waiting area fitted with a black leather sofa and glass-topped coffee table was behind the rooms to the left. A staff room was to the right, and an office off that. It was classy, no flashstock tattooslining the walls like in a street shop. We prided ourselves on the custom designs we created. And since Charlotte had arrived, wed bought a new Apple computer for even more design options. I didnt have a background in computer graphicsI was a painterbut Charlotte had been teaching herself and had begun to show us some of her tricks. Joel was getting into it more than anyone; hed started in street shops and didnt have formal art training like Ace and me, but he somehow managed to take his raw talent and transfer it to the computer.