Driven to Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  “Doesn’t know what?”

  Tim sighed. “Ray Lucci was Sylvia Coleman’s son. Jeff Coleman’s half brother.”

  Chapter 11

  As I drove toward Murder Ink the next morning, I thought about what Tim had told me. The police had found evidence of Lucci’s relationship to Sylvia in his apartment. Letters she had written to him in prison.

  When I asked Tim why he told me, he said that if I knew, maybe I’d keep more of an open mind. I could also keep an eye on Jeff Coleman, try to find out whether he knew about Lucci.

  “But you said you didn’t think he knows.”

  “He probably doesn’t. But he’s pretty good at covering stuff up.”

  No kidding. Even though he denied any sort of covert-operative job in the Marines, I wasn’t too quick to believe him.

  I was in the wrong lane. I missed my turn onto Koval, which meant I had to go up the Strip. Sitting at the intersection with the Statue of Liberty and the gold MGM lion hovering over me, I was again struck by the outrageousness of this part of Las Vegas. My neighborhood was a typical southwestern one, with stucco houses and faded red roofs and Home Depot and Target and strip malls interspersed among palm trees and banana yuccas. The mountains rose up in the distance, reminding me of my hike yesterday morning up at Red Rock, the hard red earth beneath my feet. The brownness of the desert was speckled with bits of green, and I couldn’t wait until the flowers bloomed bright against their plain backdrop, spectacular for such a short time.

  Being from New Jersey, I suppose I could say I missed the change of seasons, but we had it here, too, only in a different way. And I totally did not miss scraping ice and snow off my car. While I’m not that spiritual a person, despite Sister Mary Eucharista’s best efforts, when I first saw Red Rock, I felt as if I’d come home in a way. I knew I probably would never go back east.

  Tim felt the same way. Our sister, Cathleen, had moved to Southern California years before. Only my parents clung to the East, now in Florida in their retirement community, having cocktail parties and suffering the occasional hurricane.

  The light changed, and I turned right onto the Strip. During the day it wasn’t as glitzy, but the tall gold towers of Mandalay Bay, the Eiffel Tower at Paris, the dancing fountains at Bellagio, and the Roman columns at Caesars were proof that we weren’t in Kansas anymore.

  I passed the Venetian, wishing now that I’d gone to work instead of indulging Jeff Coleman’s little adventure.The replica of the Doge’s Palace might be realistic if there weren’t valets out front and St. Mark’s Square wasn’t trapped inside its walls instead of being spread out in front.

  Farther up, I went by Steve Wynn’s newest behemoth: Encore. The economy really wasn’t supporting these places, but Vegas is optimistic by nature; otherwise people wouldn’t keep coming here and tossing their money on the tables.

  Me, I didn’t gamble. Well, I did once and won a nice bit of cash. But that was a fluke. No one really won in Vegas, despite their hopes. It would be healthier for everyone if they came here with no expectations; then if they won a little, they’d be happier, and if they lost, they could chalk it up to the fact that the house always wins. Almost always.

  I was getting into a seedier part of town. The farther away from the Strip, the less glamour. Fremont Street, where Vegas started, sprouted up to my left, and I glanced over at the pedestrian mall and the Four Queens Casino.

  Murder Ink was just north, tucked next door to Goodfellas Bail Bonds and across the street from the Bright Lights Motel. The “B” was out on the sign, and it was flashing RIGHT LIGHTS, its neon barely discernible in the blast of sunlight that hit it.

  I parked in the motel parking lot—I’d done that before, and no one ever said anything—and crossed the street to Murder Ink.

  The door was locked, and the sign said it was closed.

  I cupped my eyes and peered through the glass.

  Suddenly, a figure moved in front of me, and I jumped back.

  The door swung open, and Jeff Coleman grinned. “You wouldn’t make a very good spy, Kavanaugh.”

  I stepped inside the shop. “I don’t want to be a spy.”

  Jeff closed the door behind me and locked it again. When I turned to face him, he was looking me up and down.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You couldn’t find something else to wear? I mean, it is your wedding day.” He was teasing me, but I wasn’t in the mood.

  I was wearing a cotton skirt that touched my knees, a black T-shirt, and my usual Tevas. “What’s wrong with this?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s more like you’re heading off to work at the local homeless shelter. You’d fit right in in that outfit.” The edges of his mouth twitched with amusement.

  “I didn’t think I should show off too much of my tattoos,” I said.

  “Oh, so it’s a disguise,” he said thoughtfully. “You don’t really wear that outfit in public normally, do you?”

  I wore this outfit every week or so, but the way he was trying not to laugh meant I was so not going to tell him that.

  “You could’ve worn a pair of jeans,” he added as he went toward the back of the shop and through a curtain of sixties beads into his office.

  I sighed and followed him. This was not going to be fun at all. I tried to remind myself why I went along with this in the first place, but I honestly couldn’t remember. Maybe it was because I was tired and he caught me off guard.

  Jeff didn’t stop in his office but went out a back door, his car keys jingling in his hand. He held the door open for me, and I saw the gold Pontiac parked in the alley.

  “If we’re supposed to be incognito, why are we going in that?” I asked.

  “I don’t think it’s going to matter,” he said as he opened the passenger door for me.

  I sunk down into the seat and fastened my seat belt as he climbed in. He gave me a sideways glance.

  “Sure you don’t want to stop somewhere and get a pair of jeans or something?”

  I took a deep breath. “Just drive, Jeff.”

  The smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he kept it at bay.

  We were a block away when I realized something.

  “Aren’t you even going to try to have a cigarette with me in the car?” I asked.

  Jeff did smile now, and he took his hand off the wheel for a second to pull up his short sleeve. A small beige patch was stuck to his bicep.

  “I’m quitting,” he said.

  “That’s great.”

  “I’m doing it for you, Kavanaugh.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I got tired of you telling me to put out my butts.”

  He couldn’t be serious. Could he? The problem was, I really couldn’t tell. And he knew it, too. He started to laugh.

  “I had a doctor’s appointment last week. The doc suggested it. Said I might not want to die of cancer or anything.”

  “I’m glad you’re listening to him,” I said, still not sure how he wanted me to respond.

  “Are you really glad, Kavanaugh? Would you miss me if I kicked?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.

  I turned my head and stared out the window. Would I miss him? Maybe. Jeff Coleman had grown on me since our first encounters, when we totally hated each other. He constantly teased me about my “upscale” shop and how I thought I was “too good” for a shop like Murder Ink. I knew my mother would tell me that he wouldn’t tease me if he didn’t like me, but the whole idea of girls suffering through boys’ teasing just because the girls think the boys like them seemed to be a precursor for women getting into abusive relationships. Oh, he verbally abuses you? He does it only because he likes you; so live with it.

  I’d like to think that women had advanced past that since it was the twenty-first century now, but unfortunately that sort of thing has never changed.

  Jeff took a toothpick out of his front shirt pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, chewing gently on it. His eyes were on the road, his finger
s tapping the steering wheel as if to music.

  The radio was off.

  It didn’t take too long to get to That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel. I knew it right away. The big white plastic heart sign hovered over the building, red and pink plastic ribbons weaving through the name of the chapel. And underneath, WEDDING CHAPEL flashed like a strobe. Below that, DRIVE-THROUGH, smaller. The building itself was long and squat, a long driveway, not unlike a bank drive-through, extending along the front of the building and out toward the side. The overhang dripped greenery and flowers, and as we pulled in, I could see they were fake. And not of very good quality, either. The stucco had been white at one point, but time had tinged it with gray.

  It bothered me that Sylvia and Bernie had chosen this worn-out remnant as the place where they’d exchanged vows. Maybe they should’ve gone across the street to the chapel that had a bigger-than-life cutout of Elvis in a tux and doing a dance move over the entrance.

  Surprisingly, however, there were three cars in line at That’s Amore as we turned the corner. And then I saw the probable reason why: a sign advertising a special rate of twenty-five dollars if you had your own car.

  Up ahead, I could see a Dean Martin impersonator singing in front of the first car parked at a small window. The bank analogy wasn’t far off the mark. As we got closer, the impersonator’s voice rang through the open car windows.

  He wasn’t half bad. Actually, it sounded pretty good. Not better than Dino, of course, but close enough to make someone’s wedding day special. If they chose this particular type of nuptials.

  Even if he had been awful, I wasn’t one to judge. My voice was flat and lacking any sort of lyrical sound.

  A white stretch limo was parked along the driveway, “That’s Amore” in red cursive letters sliding across its side and the address of the chapel below, along with its phone number.

  Looking ahead, I saw a couple on a motorcycle in the rear of the line, a big black SUV in front of it, and a sporty convertible at the window. That was the one being serenaded, and the bride had a long white veil over her head as she stood on the seat, waving something that acted as a bouquet but clearly wasn’t. It was bulkier and very possibly yellow. I squinted to see what it was. I didn’t want to ask Jeff to drive closer, or he’d think I was truly interested in this.

  “What’s that?” he asked, echoing my own thoughts.

  “It’s a bunch of bananas.” We hadn’t heard him approach. He wore a tuxedo identical to the one Ray Lucci had worn in my trunk.

  “Bananas?” I asked.

  “She’s from one of those islands—Costa Rica, I think. It’s a tribute to her heritage.” The man spoke seriously, as if this were perfectly normal. “You here for a ceremony?”

  Jeff nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Pay here, and it’s only a short wait,” he said.

  I figured Jeff would give him some song and dance about how we were just checking this out, but instead he pulled out his wallet, handing over a fifty-dollar bill. As if we really were going to get married after all.

  Chapter 12

  The fact that I started to hyperventilate did not escape the man in the tux as he handed Jeff his change. He leaned into the window and cocked his head at me as he asked Jeff, “Cold feet?”

  I’d say freezing feet was more like it.

  “Do you have a ladies’ room or something where she might be able to freshen up?” Jeff asked, his voice perfectly normal. As any groom would be concerned about his bride.

  At the thought, even more panic bubbled up in my chest, and I tried to catch my breath.

  “Your head between your knees,” Jeff said, his hand on the back of my neck, forcing me down. “Breathe deeply.”

  With my head down, I couldn’t see him, but I heard him say, “I think we really do need a ladies’ room.”

  “Park over there,” the man said, “and go in the front door.”

  The car jerked around and then stopped again, and Jeff cut the engine.

  “Kavanaugh, that was brilliant,” he whispered.

  I peeked up over my knee.

  “You paid him,” I said, barely able to hear myself over my pounding heart.

  “Best way to get information,” he whispered. “Now get out of the car and keep pretending like you’re going to be sick.”

  “Who’s pretending?” I hissed as I pushed open the car door.

  I missed the glass doors in the front because potted palms practically covered them. I guess they didn’t want just anyone wandering in and preferred that patrons stay in their cars.

  The foyer was dingy white with a pink tinge, the color of underwear that got caught in the color wash. I could hear the strains of “That’s Amore” coming from somewhere, probably the Dean Martin outside. I wondered whether it was Dan Franklin.

  The man in the tux materialized suddenly next to me. He took my arm and led me to a door with a cutout image of a bride on it. “Here you go,” he said.

  I glanced back at Jeff, who nodded. I didn’t want to go in there. I wanted to stay out here while Jeff asked this guy questions. But maybe this was Jeff’s plan all along. I was only a pawn in his own investigation. He certainly couldn’t come to a wedding chapel all by himself.

  I went into the bathroom. I didn’t have much choice.

  This room was no more inviting than the foyer. The same dingy walls, old-fashioned sink and vanity. It was a one-seater, everything in one room. It was clean; had to give them that.

  But it wasn’t soundproof. I could hear Jeff outside.

  “Heard that one of your singers got murdered.”

  Silence for a second, then, “Oh, yeah, Ray. He was an ex-con.” He said it as though all ex-cons find themselves murdered at some point. “The cops were here all afternoon yesterday. Bad for business.”

  “Who owns this place? Seems like it would be a gold mine.”

  “It is. And I do. Own the place. Anthony DellaRocco.”

  “Great idea with the Dean Martins.”

  “A wig and a tux, and any guy can look like Dino.”

  “But they all can’t sing, can they?”

  “They can all act drunk.”

  I wished Jeff would get on with it. All this chitchat about Dean Martins and who owns the place—who cared? We were here to find out about Lucci, weren’t we?

  “So Lucci was an ex-con?”

  “Um, yeah.” I could tell Jeff’s change of subject threw DellaRocco for a second. “He stole cars. I got a little worried with him here because every now and then he’d talk about how great a car that came through was. Like that red Mustang Bullitt a couple days ago. I was sure he was going after that one.”

  I froze. That was what Dan Franklin had said, that Lucci was eyeing my car.

  “That’s the car he was found in,” Jeff said casually.

  “Really? How do you know that?”

  “I’ve got a friend on the police force. He told me a few things off the record.”

  “Like what?” Everyone liked a bit of gossip.

  “He and another guy named Dan Franklin had some sort of rift. Franklin works here, too, right?”

  It dawned on me that if I could hear them, they could hear me, too. Or not hear me, since I wasn’t doing anything. I turned on the water, which, unfortunately, drowned out the conversation.

  Another glance around told me there was another door on the other side of the bathroom. Turning the water on a little higher to make more noise, I tiptoed over to the other door and tugged on it.

  It swung open, and I peered around the corner. Seemed like it led into a sort of dressing room, although instead of a wide mirror across one wall, there was only a long vertical one stuck on the back of a door across the room, like you’d see in a store dressing room. A clothes rack was a sort of open closet; tuxedos hung side by side. Must have been ten of them. On a table that reminded me of those you see at a church craft fair, foam heads wore black wigs. Lockers lined the far side of the room. Must have been
where the Dean Martins stashed their stuff while they were crooning to newlyweds.

  A quick look around, and I stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind me. Even though the cops had already been here, I wondered whether they missed something that Ray Lucci had left behind.

  A rat’s cage, maybe?

  As I stepped closer, I saw masking tape with names stuck on the locker doors. WILL, ALAN, DAN, LOU, and RAY. Dan must have been Dan Franklin; Ray was Lucci. I didn’t know whether I should care about the others, but I went over the names a few times in my head so I wouldn’t forget them.

  I paused, trying to hear whether anyone was coming. I couldn’t hear Jeff and DellaRocco anymore, and the other door to the ladies’ room must have been more soundproof because I couldn’t hear the running water, either.

  I didn’t want to tarry too long, so I stepped up to Ray’s locker and pulled it open.

  Nothing inside. Not a scrap of paper or even a crumb. It was as though someone had vacuumed it. Like the cops. Who’d been here yesterday, interrupting business.

  I shut the door.

  Curiosity got the better of me, and I moved to the locker marked DAN. There were clothes in here: jeans, a T-shirt, a pair of running shoes. Because I’m almost six feet tall, I didn’t even need to stand on my toes to see what was on the shelf.

  A wallet.

  Must have been pretty trusting.

  I snatched it down and opened it. Credit cards, a few dollar bills, and a driver’s license.

  Dan Franklin should have had his picture taken again.

  Because he was the spitting image of Ray Lucci, the guy in my trunk.

  While I was always a fan of the Rat Pack, Dean Martin wasn’t my favorite. I had a soft spot for Sammy. Maybe it’s because I have two left feet and am tone-deaf, but Sammy’s moves have always impressed me. Dino, on the other hand, was Frank’s sidekick, the amusing drunk who seemed to be along for the ride.

  It was interesting how That’s Amore was breathing new life into him.

  I stared at the picture of Dan Franklin and could totally see how Ray Lucci could pass himself off as Franklin. Who would know?