Driven to Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  “What? What did I do?”

  “Dan Franklin. Why didn’t you tell me you tattooed ‘That’s Amore’ on him?”

  Joel shrugged. “What of it? He wanted the tat around his biceps. Easy. Why does this matter?”

  “The guy in my trunk was from the That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel.”

  “Really?” He looked from me to Bitsy and back to me. “I didn’t know that.”

  Bitsy slapped him on the forearm with Dan Franklin’s file. “You did so. I told you that’s where Sylvia and Bernie got married.”

  “But you didn’t tell me the dead guy was from there.”

  The folder, which was about to come down again, stopped midair. “Hmm,” Bitsy said thoughtfully. “Maybe in all the excitement I did leave that little tidbit out.”

  “You?” I teased. “You left out a tidbit? What else have you left out? Don’t you know we rely on your reporting to know what’s going on?”

  The folder changed direction and came down on my arm this time.

  “Don’t get smart with me.” She frowned, but I could tell she didn’t mind.

  “So do you think this Dan Franklin has something to do with that guy in your trunk?” Joel asked. God bless him, but he was slow on the uptake today. Maybe it was all that meat he was eating. Give the man a doughnut, and the sugar rush would spark his brain.

  “Could be,” I said.

  “Maybe you should go over there, to that wedding chapel,” Bitsy said. “See if anyone there knows this Dan Franklin.”

  Now that was an idea. Although I could hear Tim now, telling me I shouldn’t get involved in police business.

  But I was still on the fence about that. Franklin might not have anything to do with Mr. That’s Amore. It could be a coincidence.

  If it turned out not to be, then I could share what I found out with Tim.

  At least that was the way I was justifying it.

  Problem was, if I went over to the wedding chapel, would they tell me anything?

  I didn’t have time to play detective. I had a client coming in. And speak of the devil, but didn’t the door open right at that very moment.

  Carla Higgins had a Dr. Seuss fetish. She already had the Cat in the Hat on her right shoulder and the Lorax on her left, and today she was in for Yertle the Turtle in the center to balance them all out. She’d expressed a desire for Thing 1 and Thing 2, one on each biceps, but decided Yertle was more pressing.

  I took her into my room with a little shrug in Bitsy and Joel’s direction. Work before pleasure. Or at least before any snooping around.

  I put the stencil on Carla’s back and gave her a mirror to make sure it was in the right place.

  “It’s perfect,” she said as I pulled a disposable needle and needle bar out of their respective packages.

  As I pressed my foot on the pedal that turned on the machine, causing its familiar whine, and started to draw, I thought about Joel’s clip cord and why Dan Franklin might have thought to pocket it on his way out of here yesterday. Had he seen it and thought it would make a good murder weapon? Something that couldn’t be traced back to him directly?

  Who thought like that? Who went through their day looking for unusual murder weapons?

  I obviously was not in tune with the mind of a murderer.

  Which was a good thing.

  Yertle the Turtle was done in no time. Carla was thrilled as she went out to pay Bitsy. I started cleaning up my inks, throwing away the small containers. Everything had to be disposable or sterilized. Usually Bitsy cleaned up, but I wanted the busy work, something to keep my mind occupied, because I was still going over how I would talk to Tim about Dan Franklin. Halfway through Yertle, I’d realized I had to tell him, even if it was way off the mark.

  My gut told me it wasn’t, though.

  Bitsy stuck her head through my door, waving the phone. “Phone for you, Brett.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece.

  “It’s your brother,” she said in a stage whisper.

  I took the phone from her and said, “What’s up, Tim?”

  “We have an ID on your body. His name’s Ray Lucci. He’s a Dean Martin impersonator over at that wedding chapel.”

  So the resemblance was earning the guy a living. Who knew?

  “Lucci was an ex-con, like we thought. Remember the spiderweb tattoo?”

  I did. But I knew Tim wasn’t done yet. And when he spoke again, I suppose I should’ve been surprised, but I wasn’t.

  “He’s got a new tattoo, too, Brett. It says ‘That’s Amore’ around his biceps. And he’s got Joel’s business card in his wallet.”

  Chapter 7

  Mr. That’s Amore was Dan Franklin? Hadn’t Tim said the guy’s name was Ray Lucci? I was trying to wrap my head around this.

  “Brett?” Tim said when I took too long to respond.

  “Yeah, I’m here. I’ve got something to tell you.” I launched into the story about Dan Franklin and Joel’s missing clip cord.

  Now it was Tim’s turn to be quiet.

  Finally, he said, “I appreciate you telling me this, Brett. Sounds like this guy was using an alias. I’m going to have to tell Flanigan about the clip cord, and he’s going to have to talk to Joel and Bitsy.”

  “Bitsy?”

  “She must have met Lucci yesterday, too, right?”

  “They’re not suspects or anything, are they?” I asked.

  It was a second of hesitation, but I noticed. “No, I don’t think so,” Tim said.

  “But you’re not in charge on this one. You told me it’s Flanigan. He doesn’t like me,” I added.

  “He doesn’t like anyone,” Tim said as he hung up.

  Joel was in his room with a client. I poked my head in the doorway.

  “A minute?”

  The machine stopped whirring, and he set it down, telling his client he’d be back in a second. He came out into the hall.

  I told him how Flanigan would be contacting him because my dead guy was someone named Ray Lucci, who’d called himself Dan Franklin here yesterday.

  Joel stared at me. “What’s up with that?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Obviously the man didn’t want anyone here to know his real name.”

  “But you’d think then that he’d be the one doing the killing, not the one being killed.”

  There was an odd logic to that.

  I shrugged. “What do I know?”

  Joel went back in with his client, and I went out to talk to Bitsy.

  “So this detective might think that a person of my stature might actually have stuffed that man in your trunk?” she asked.

  “He doesn’t know that you’re a little person,” I said, although I wasn’t sure why I was defending Flanigan. “And I’m sure he won’t think you killed him. He just wants to talk to you about Dan Franklin.”

  Bitsy tossed her blond hair to one side and said, “You know, Brett, when Flip owned the shop we never had the cops around asking about anything.”

  Great. I didn’t want to get into it, so I went into the staff room to finish up the portrait. I wondered how long it would take Flanigan to get in touch with us.

  As I drew, I thought again about Sylvia and Bernie and wondered whether Jeff was having any luck finding them. Because I was a little bored, I pulled my cell out of my bag and punched in his number.

  “Kavanaugh, to what do I owe this honor?” Jeff asked before I could even say hello. He must have my number queued in. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that.

  “Just wondering if you’ve found your mother.”

  “Not yet.”

  I could hear a radio playing in the background.

  “Are you in your shop?” I asked.

  “No. I’m out near Hoover Dam.”

  “You’re going to the Grand Canyon?”

  “Seems to be the only way. I called the hotels there, but no one’s seen my mother.”

  “So you’re going out there? You don’t believe them?”

  �
�Well, it’s not as though my mother is the typical whitehaired little old lady in a housecoat.” That was true. Sylvia’s ink would make her stand out anywhere. “So I do believe them. I’m going to check out all the hotels and motels on the way there, in case they decided to stop somewhere else instead.”

  “But what if they went off the beaten path and in the total opposite direction, like L.A. or something?” I wasn’t really meaning to play devil’s advocate, but I had nothing better to do.

  “My mother hates L.A. No, if they went anywhere, they stopped in the desert.”

  “So you are worried about them?” I teased, remembering how he’d insisted he wasn’t.

  “Maybe a little.” But from his tone it sounded like a lot more than that.

  I decided to let it slide. “You know, it would be easier if you told the cops about this, and they could put out one of those APBs on them.”

  “I thought I explained why I didn’t want to do that right now.”

  Sure he had, but that was before my entire shop was going to be questioned by the police. I said as much, telling him about Dan Franklin, aka Ray Lucci.

  I heard a low whistle when I finished.

  “Sounds pretty weird,” he said. “Listen, Kavanaugh, I’ll give you a call later. If I haven’t found them by tomorrow morning, then I’ll go with you to the cops and we can report my mother missing. And if I do find her, then I’ll take her to headquarters, so she can talk to that detective. How’s that?”

  It was the best I would get, and I agreed, even though I knew tomorrow morning was the latest I could give him.

  I closed the phone and threw it back in my bag, turning back to my stencil. It was nearly done. I spent the next half hour working on it and then started another one I’d need the next day. I kept looking at the clock, expecting Flanigan to show up any moment.

  It was dinnertime when he finally came through the door. He looked as neat in his suit as he had this morning—surprising, since he’d spent all day in it. I tried to see whether he was rumpled in any way, but he caught me staring, and I felt my face flush.

  “I’m here to talk to a Joel Sloane and a Bitsy Hendricks,” he said.

  Problem was, both had gone down to the Mexican restaurant for dinner a few minutes before. They’d been on edge all day after I’d talked to Tim, and when it looked as though Flanigan wasn’t going to show, I said they should take a break and go have something to eat. I could hold down the fort.

  “It’s too bad you did that,” Flanigan said when I explained. “Because now I have to interrupt their dinner.”

  Okay, so I was the villain.

  “And I’d appreciate it if you stick around. I’ve got a few more questions for you, too,” he said as he went out the door.

  Great. Not that I was going anywhere, but now, because I couldn’t, I had an incredible desire to take off. Nowhere in particular. Just somewhere other than here.

  As I pondered my imaginary escape, the phone rang. I picked it up.

  “The Painted Lady.”

  “Is this a tattoo shop?” The voice on the other end was gruff.

  “Yes.” There were times when I regretted the name of the shop. Especially when we got the occasional call thinking we were an escort service. “May I help you?”

  “I got a message on my machine.”

  “Yes?” I prompted when he didn’t continue right away.

  “From this number. This shop. Saying you were checking up on a tattoo I got there.” He paused. “I’ve never been in your tattoo shop, so I don’t know what this is all about.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr.—”

  “Franklin. Dan Franklin.”

  Chapter 8

  I froze for a second, letting this new information seep in.

  “Excuse me? Are you there?” Dan Franklin asked.

  “Oh, yes, I’m here. I’m sorry about the confusion, but we had a gentleman in here yesterday who gave us your phone number and name. That’s why we thought it was you.” That was easy to explain. Ray Lucci stuffed in my car trunk wasn’t.

  “Who?”

  He did have a right to know.

  “Well, since we left you that message, we found out the gentleman who was in here was really someone named Ray Lucci.”

  The second I said the name, I heard him take a breath.

  “Lucci? Really? What’s he up to now?” Sounded like he knew him.

  “He’s dead,” I said before I thought.

  Silence, then, “Dead?”

  “Murdered. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

  “Don’t be sorry. He wasn’t a friend. In fact, the opposite.”

  “Do you know why he would use your name here?” I asked.

  “He’s been using my name all over the place. Thinks it’s funny or something. We sort of look alike.” His tone was laced with bitterness.

  “How do you know him?” I wasn’t totally sure I wanted to know. Lucci was an ex-con, and it was possible they’d met in prison.

  “We work together.”

  A lightbulb went off. “At That’s Amore wedding chapel?” I asked.

  “That’s right. We’re both Dean Martin impersonators.”

  “Really?” They probably did look alike, then.

  “There are five of us. We sing ‘That’s Amore’ at the end of each ceremony.”

  I could picture it, and it sounded ridiculous but sort of cool at the same time.

  “How long have you worked there?”

  “A year.”

  “How about Ray Lucci?”

  “About three months.”

  “So did you know Lucci had been in prison?”

  “Six years. He stole cars. Liked the flashy ones. Not sure he was done with that, either. He told me he had his eye on a red Mustang Bullitt convertible.”

  I stopped breathing for a second. He’d described my car. The one Lucci was found dead in. Had Lucci been planning on stealing my car when he ended up strangled and dead inside the trunk? Had he first seen it at That’s Amore, or had he been tracking me? Was it maybe not a coincidence that it was my trunk he ended up in?

  “You know,” I said, struggling to get back to Dan Franklin, “the police may want to talk to you.”

  “The police?” His voice went up an octave.

  “Well, Lucci was found strangled, so I’m sure anything you can tell them could help figure out what happened.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” he said slowly, making me wonder whether he didn’t have something to hide.

  “Can I give them your number?” I asked. “It might be really helpful.”

  He sighed in resignation. “Well, maybe. Sure, I guess so.” He probably figured that I already knew where he worked, so the cops could find him anyway.

  “I really appreciate this,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “Okay, sure,” he said and hung up.

  I put the phone back in its cradle and stared out at the canal. A gondola was sailing past, the gondolier smoothly pushing it along the water, a couple of tourists smiling at each other as they fed into the illusion. I heard the faint strains of a harpsichord and knew the dancing was about to start in St. Mark’s Square, the men dressed in hose and ornate coats, the women in corsets and long, flouncy gowns. I spotted a mime scurrying past on the other side of the canal, not bothering to stop for the camera flashes. His shift must be up.

  Joel and Bitsy and Flanigan were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they had invited Flanigan for a margarita.

  I could so use one myself right now.

  I pondered what Dan Franklin had told me, wondered about his reaction to the police contacting him, his obvious dislike of Lucci.

  And then there was my car. Maybe I shouldn’t drive such a flashy car, but Bullitt was one of my favorite movies and I had a crush on Steve McQueen. When I’d first seen the red Mustang, I fell in love with it and the idea that I was living my own movie.

  I’d driven all the way out here from New Jersey in that car, leaving my parents’ hous
e for only the second time in my thirty years. The first time I’d gone to Philadelphia, to the University of the Arts. I moved back in with my parents afterward, wondering what I’d do with my life. That was when I hooked up with Mickey at the Ink Spot and began my tattooing career.

  My mother still had issues with my choice. My father, a former Jersey cop, not so much. He encouraged me to be creative in any way I could. If I couldn’t set up an easel along the Seine in Paris, then I’d tattoo body parts in northern New Jersey.

  Owning my own shop had been only a dream, but when Tim called me to tell me about his friend Flip Armstrong, who wanted to sell his business in Vegas, I jumped at the chance.

  I’d gotten a little stagnant with Mickey, not that we weren’t having fun, but I was ready to move on. Both from the Ink Spot and from my fiancé, Paul, who felt that, as his new wife, I shouldn’t have a career, but only support his. So wasn’t going to happen.

  Tim’s girlfriend, Shawna, had moved out, too, and he needed a roommate to help pay his mortgage. It was win-win all around.

  Joel’s big frame came around the corner, interrupting my thoughts. Bitsy after him, and Flanigan at the rear.

  Showtime.

  I met them at the door, opening it as they all came in the shop.

  Flanigan gave me a nod, Bitsy rolled her eyes, and Joel looked as if he was about to cry.

  This should be fun. Not.

  “Do you have a place where I can speak with Mr. Sloane alone?” Flanigan asked.

  Joel’s eyes grew wide, and I gave him a pat on the arm to try to reassure him.

  “You can use the office,” I said. “It’s in the back there.”

  Flanigan allowed Joel to lead the way, and Bitsy and I stared after them until we heard the door shut. I turned to her.

  “What has he said?”

  She shook her head. “Not much. Just that he wants to talk to Joel about the clip cord and this Dan Franklin guy.”

  “I just got off the phone with the real Dan Franklin,” I said softly, not wanting Flanigan to hear. I told her about the conversation.