Driven to Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  “And what’s wrong with that?”

  “We’re trying to destroy the Mob stereotype here in Vegas.”

  “We?”

  “Me and Steve Wynn.”

  “Oh, and you’re best buddies, are you?”

  He chuckled and put the black hat back on its mannequin head. “I’ve seen him.”

  “From a distance.”

  “In the men’s room.”

  “No.” I knew what he was saying.

  “Close enough to touch him,” he added.

  We fell laughing out of the store’s doorway, back into the mall. It was nice to think of something other than dead people and rats and blue cars for a little while.

  “I worked up an appetite,” Joel said.

  “I can’t have another burger. I’ll start mooing,” I said. “I’m sorry, Joel, but I need Chinese or even a hot dog.”

  The minute I said Chinese, he started salivating. “Noodles?” he said.

  “Opposite direction,” I said.

  We turned and almost ran back toward the Shoppes at the Palazzo, which were announced overhead on a sign at the end of the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes’s canal.

  We were circling around the walkway, about parallel with the magnificent yet incredibly wasteful waterfall, when I thought I saw someone familiar up ahead.

  I grabbed Joel’s arm and yanked him over to the edge of the walkway so I’d have a better view of the short elderly woman with a large cheetah-print tote bag hung over her shoulder. Her white hair was pulled up into something that looked like diamonds. A tiara, maybe. I was too far away to see exactly what it was.

  But I wasn’t too far away to see the tattoos.

  “That looks like Sylvia Coleman,” Joel said loudly.

  The woman turned. And waved.

  It was Sylvia Coleman.

  Chapter 25

  I was so stunned to see her that I couldn’t speak for a few minutes. She scurried over to us, her smile wide.

  “Fancy meeting you here!” she exclaimed.

  “My shop is just down there,” I said, pointing behind us.

  “Oh, that’s right, dear.” She waved her hand through the air absently. “This place confuses me. All these stores and that silly river. What’s a river doing in the middle of a mall anyway?”

  I totally agreed with her. But I didn’t have time to think about that. I wanted to know where she’d been and how she’d ended up here, now. I opened my mouth to ask, but she spoke first.

  “I’m looking for a bathroom.”

  I knew there was a ladies’ room downstairs and behind the escalator, near the Blue Man Group Theatre. It was tucked away in a corner that was fairly isolated when the Blue Man Group wasn’t performing, and there I’d be able to question her without anyone listening in. “I can take you,” I said, nodding at Joel. “Can you go get some take-out? I’ll meet you back at the shop.”

  Joel didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay and find out what was up with Sylvia, too, but he couldn’t come to the ladies’ room with us, so he nodded reluctantly. “Sure. What do you want?”

  “Anything but beef,” I said.

  “He’s a big one,” Sylvia said as we watched Joel lumber away. “But it looks like he’s losing some weight.”

  “He is,” I said.

  Sylvia tucked her hand into the crook of my arm. Her cheetah-print bag hung on her other shoulder. “Now, dear, I really do need that toilet.”

  Not wanting any sort of accident, I whisked her around and down the escalator, a little bit of the waterfall spray hitting our faces.

  “That feels good,” Sylvia said, “but rather unnatural in a desert, don’t you think?”

  Exactly.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she asked.

  “Where have you been? Jeff’s been all over looking for you. Your car was found at the Grand Canyon. We’ve been worried sick.” Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I hadn’t meant to say anything until we were alone.

  Sylvia rolled her eyes, threw a hand up in the air and said, “Oh, that. That car finally broke down. I told Bernie we should’ve taken the Gremlin.”

  “But how—”

  “We hitched a ride.”

  “Hitched?”

  She stuck out her thumb. “You know. You’re not that young, are you? Hitching was the only way to travel once upon a time.”

  And I could see her, too, throwing her thumb into the wind and seeing where it could get her.

  “But how—”

  “We got a ride on a bus. A bus full of old people. Can you imagine?” Sylvia chuckled. “They felt sorry for us. We took their tour to Sedona. We paid them,” she added quickly, as if she would be accused of being a moocher.

  “So you’ve been in Sedona this whole time?”

  “That’s right, dear.”

  “And what are you doing here?”

  She looked puzzled for a second, as if she didn’t quite know. Then, “We got here last night. This was the last stop on the tour. Since we paid, we got a room, like everyone else. Figured we might as well take advantage. Never stayed in one of these fancy-schmancy places before. Do you know how many pillows you get on the bed here? Unbelievable.”

  Yes, it was unbelievable. “You’ve been in town since last night?” I asked. “Why didn’t you let Jeff know?”

  Sylvia looked at me quizzically. “Am I supposed to check in with my son on my honeymoon?”

  “No, I guess not,” I said. “How long do you have your room here?”

  “Two nights. I’m starting to get a little antsy to get home, though. There are just so many pillows I can take after a while.”

  She was dead serious. And she wasn’t done yet.

  “Bernie did go out earlier to pick up the Gremlin, but he said something was wrong with it, so he ended up renting a car instead. Until we get the Buick back.”

  I wasn’t surprised something was “wrong” with the Gremlin. The almost-forty-year-old car shouldn’t have even been on the road.

  “Where’s Bernie now?” I asked.

  “Bernie likes to gamble. A little, not a lot. He’s in the casino, trying his hand at the tables. But me—Well, I need that toilet.”

  I didn’t want to point out that there were restrooms in the casino. How she ended up wandering around the Palazzo shops was a mystery. But then again, much about Sylvia didn’t make sense.

  We had walked around the waterfall, and I led Sylvia to the ladies’ room. As I suspected, there was no one else there.

  She unhooked herself from my arm and went into one of the stalls. I looked in the mirror and ran a hand through my short hair, tucking it back behind my ears and peering more closely at my face. I’d thought I was getting a zit this morning, but I still only saw a small red spot on my chin. I wondered whether Colin Bixby had noticed.

  The toilet flushed, and Sylvia emerged, a big grin on her face.

  “Now I feel better,” she said as she washed her hands.

  “So you haven’t talked to Jeff yet? He doesn’t know about the bus trip?” I asked.

  Sylvia pushed the button on the air hand dryer, and the motor roared, and for a few minutes she rubbed her hands under it and didn’t answer. When it finally stopped, she wiped her hands on her blue dress and cocked her head at me.

  “I’m not sure why you’re harping on this. I’ll call Jeff when I get home.”

  “He’s been looking for you. Worried about you,” I said.

  She chuckled. “He’s always worrying. Too much. I thought I taught him better. I need to have a life, too, you know.” She winked at me.

  I thought a second and then said, “The police have been looking for you, too. They found your car.”

  “I told Bernie not to leave the car there, but he didn’t want to call the Triple A. Was too angry at that car to do anything but abandon it, like a kitten or something.”

  I pictured them arguing about it by the side of the road, the big tour bus seeing them with their thumbs out. The image made me smile,
but then I remembered where I was going with this.

  “Well, Sylvia, it seems there was a problem after you left.” I paused, and Sylvia waited. “Did you know there was a body in the trunk of my car when you brought it back to me?”

  “Dear, I don’t like to judge, but have you had a drug-related hallucination?” She was totally serious.

  I sighed. “One of the Dean Martin impersonators was dead in my trunk. He was killed, I think, by being strangled with a clip cord around his neck.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, the police haven’t exactly told me the cause of death.”

  “Why don’t you ask your brother, that cute detective?”

  I’d have to tease Tim that an elderly woman thought he was cute.

  “That’s not the whole thing, either.” I wasn’t quite sure how to broach the next sentence but figured I’d just jump in. “The dead man was Ray Lucci.”

  Sylvia had put her hand on the restroom door to go out, and it froze there as her face turned white.

  “Ray?”

  I nodded.

  “And the police want to talk to me?” It was sinking in.

  “I don’t think they think you had anything to do with it,” I said quickly, “but they think maybe you saw something that might put you in danger.”

  She took a deep breath and pushed the door open. I followed her out to a small bench a few feet away, where we sat.

  I’d never seen Sylvia’s face sag, and I put my hand over hers. She gave me a small, sad smile and patted my hand with her other one, the cheetah-print tote still hanging from her shoulder.

  “You know, don’t you, dear?”

  “About Ray?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes. My brother told me.”

  “Does Jeff know?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think so. Why didn’t you tell him?”

  “It was a long time ago. I met a man I thought I was in love with. When I told him about the baby, he left me.” Her hand stopped patting mine, and she stared into my eyes. “Abortion was illegal, and I was afraid. I gave him up after he was born, but I never forgot him. I found him a few years ago. We’ve been corresponding.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  “He was trying to turn his life around. I gave him some money; Bernie’s son-in-law got him that job over there at the wedding chapel.” Her voice faltered. “I don’t remember anything that day, except he sang for us. A beautiful voice that boy has. Not like Jeff. Jeff sounds like a toad.”

  I couldn’t say anything. I’m tone-deaf myself.

  Sylvia bowed her head and turned her face away. I could see a tear slip down her cheek.

  The tattoos crept out over the scoop neck of her dress. Swirls of color: birds, flowers, butterflies. Most were faded from time, their edges leaking into her wrinkles, but a new one, one I hadn’t seen before on the side of her neck, was bright and sharp.

  “That’s Amore,” in script.

  Chapter 26

  “When did you get that?”I asked. “What?” Sylvia looked up and wiped her eyes.

  “The new ink. ‘That’s Amore.’ ”

  Her eyes flickered a second, as though she was trying to think of what to say. Then, “I got it in Sedona. Bernie wasn’t happy, but I said I wanted a souvenir of our wedding.”

  I thought a second before saying, “Ray got one, too. It said the same thing. Came to my shop for it. Joel did it. And then his clip cord went missing.”

  Sylvia didn’t say anything right away, as if she was taking all this in and deciding what it meant. Finally, she said, “I didn’t know Ray was getting a tattoo. And do you think he took the clip cord?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “He told us his name was Dan Franklin. When he came to the shop. And we found out that Dan Franklin works with him at the chapel. Did you ever meet him?”

  “My dear, I meet a lot of people, but at my age, I’m lucky if I remember one of them. So no, I don’t know this Franklin fellow. And I don’t know why Ray would impersonate him.”

  I opened my mouth to ask another question when my cell phone rang deep in my bag. I took my hand out from under Sylvia’s and swung my bag around, digging until I found it.

  I glanced at the number on the display, flipped the phone open, and said, “Hey, Jeff. Guess who I’m sitting with.”

  “I don’t have time for games, Kavanaugh.”

  “You’ll have time for this, Jeff. I’m with your mother.”

  Silence, then, “How?”

  I told him how I’d seen her on my way to Noodles and we were hanging out near the Blue Man Group Theatre.

  “Can I talk to her?”

  I handed Sylvia the phone, and she got up and walked several feet away for more privacy. I studied the plants in the planter behind the benches. I thought about Sylvia and how she found her son after all those years and wondered how she’d tell Jeff. Because he was going to find out, and it would be best to tell him before the police did. While Tim was sensitive about the issue, I was willing to bet Flanigan wouldn’t be.

  My thoughts wandered back to Sylvia’s new ink. It seemed too much of a coincidence that she and Ray Lucci got the exact same tattoo, albeit in different places, at the same time. She’d hesitated before telling me where she got hers. Was she lying?

  I thought about how new the ink was. How it still had that pinkish hue. It had a sort of wet look, too, which meant she could be using Tattoo Goo, a product I gave my clients to keep the area lubricated right after giving them the tattoo.

  Ray Lucci had gotten his tattoo the morning of Sylvia and Bernie’s wedding. It was possible he’d told Sylvia about it. Maybe that was how she got the idea for it, and it would mean something even more special than just her wedding day. It was the same tattoo her long-lost son had.

  Even though Sylvia was covered in body art, she’d once given me the grand tour and told me the stories of each tattoo. Each had meaning to her. It was a long, but very interesting, afternoon.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and looked down to see Sylvia handing me the phone. I stuck it in my bag. “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “He’s meeting us in the casino,” she said. “He’s going to take us to Rosalie’s. I hope she’s got supper.”

  My antennae went up. “Rosalie’s?” I thought about how I’d left her only a little while ago at the university lab. Jeff must’ve been mistaken. “You need to talk to the police, let them know you’re all right. You might remember, too, if you saw anything that could help in the investigation.”

  She threw up her hands, the cheetah-print bag swinging violently back and forth. “If you want to argue with Jeff, be my guest.”

  I didn’t really, but I didn’t think I had a choice. He had to realize that going to the police would be the right thing.

  Sylvia tucked her hand in the crook of my arm again, and we started walking back toward the casino.

  “Are you sure you didn’t see anything that day? Something unusual?” I pressed.

  Sylvia gave me a sad smile. “I saw my son. And two other Dean Martins. They were pretty good, although sober as a preacher. It wasn’t exactly realistic. I asked them if they wanted to go get a martini or something, on me.”

  I chuckled.

  “Lou was one of them—you know, Bernie’s son-in-law.” She tsk-tsked. “I don’t know what Rosalie is doing with that man. He treats her like dirt. No woman should let a man treat her that way.”

  “I heard someone mugged Lou,” I said.

  Sylvia made a face. “Serves him right. Flashing his money clip all the time, his big gold rings and chains around his neck. He’s such a guido.”

  She didn’t have any problems being politically incorrect.

  “I guess the mugger cut him with a knife.”

  “I bet he cut himself just to tell that story,” she said.

  I frowned. “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he always needs to be the center of attention.”

  “Yo
u don’t like him.”

  “No.”

  We paused on the edge of the casino, the sounds echoing in my head: the slapping of the cards on the table, the clink of ice in glasses, the soft music that replaced the clatter of coins as they fell from the slot machines. Everything was automated now. Tickets took the place of quarters and nickels and dimes. I missed the little buckets whose weight indicated how lucky I’d been. Or how unlucky. It was too quiet in here.

  But even with the changes, a casino is a casino: the black orbs in the ceiling, where the cameras watched our every move; the bright carpet patterns that made you look up at the tables, which enticed with their promise of luck; the dealers flipping the cards or turning the wheel or pushing chips across the tables.

  Sylvia stood on tiptoe, and her head swiveled from side to side like a bird as she surveyed the room. I had a better view and said, “Over here.”

  Bernie sat at one of the blackjack tables. He had a pile of chips in front of him and wasn’t ready to leave.

  “In a minute, in a minute,” he said without taking his eyes off the table.

  Bernie Applebaum was bald, with wisps of white hair around his ears and on the back of his head. He was a little stocky, a little hunchbacked. But he had a quick, warm smile, and the wrinkles around his brown eyes accentuated his kindness. He’d owned a deli in northern New Jersey, not too far from where I grew up, but I didn’t think I’d ever had one of what he called his “famous” pastrami-and-Swiss-on-rye sandwiches. Rosalie finally talked him into selling the business and moving out here with her after he’d had a heart attack a few years back. If I had to guess, I’d say Bernie was older than Sylvia, probably around eighty. He was in good shape now, swimming every day, which was how they met.

  We watched Bernie play a few hands. I was still trying to figure out how to persuade them to talk to Flanigan about Ray Lucci, but when I started to make my case again, Bernie waved his hand in dismissal and Sylvia shushed me.

  I felt a light touch on my shoulder and turned to see Jeff Coleman. His other hand was on his mother’s shoulder.

  “How are my girls doing?” he drawled, his grin wide as he leaned down to kiss his mother’s cheek.