by Randy Rawls
They shook hands, and Miguel placed the notebook on the counter. “Take your time. I have to clean up my work area, sterilize my pins.” He disappeared behind the curtain, then popped back out. “If it ain’t in there, you describe it, and I’ll draw it for you. I can do anything you can dream up.”
Jim shook his head, a sardonic smile on his face, hoping his daughter never dropped her panties for some scumbag like Miguel—or any other guy, for that matter. At least not until she married. Opening the binder, his eyebrows went up. The pictures were different—not at all like the others, even at the better shops. There were even a couple of police badges. He wondered who wore those.
But page after page turned with no Thorns on Roses. His disappointment grew, even as he recognized the level of Miguel’s talent. The detail in the drawings was superb. He stopped at an image of a Pomeranian. The brown eyes seemed to glow as if alive, and its red fur looked so real it could have just come from the groomer. A lavender bow perched on its head.
Richards turned the page. He was three-fourths of the way through. Looked like another dead end. Then, three pages from the back, he saw it. A long stemmed red rose with a single thorn, a drop of blood hanging from it.
He listened, heard Miguel moving around, then pulled a picture from his pocket. It was of the tattoo on Mary Lou Smithson. After comparing them, he had no doubts. He was looking at Miguel’s rendition of the same thing.
“I found something,” Jim called. “Want to come out here?”
Miguel stuck his head out, then walked into the front of the shop. “See. I told you I’m the best. Which one?”
Richards returned to the Pomeranian. “This is fantastic. Can you really make it look like this?”
“Not a problem, my friend. Wish I could show you the one I did. She brought her dog in, and I made the drawing. When she was happy with it, I tattooed it on her left boob. Hell, if she’d ask, I mighta done it for free. Just holding that gorgeous tit was payment enough.”
Richards chuckled. “You get to see a lot of your female customers, don’t you? And I do mean a lot.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen more twats and boobs than most guys see in a lifetime. Some mighty fine flesh out there. And a bunch of it is wearing my tattoos.”
Inside, Richards cringed, but he maintained his composure. “Maybe you could do my bulldog. That might be nice, having him on my arm. But there’s a rose I like, too.” He turned pages. “Here, this one.” He rotated the page toward Miguel. “This rose.”
“Yeah. Beauty, ain’t it? I’m really proud to say I dreamed it up.” He ran his fingers over the page. “Now, where do you want a tattoo?”
“How ’bout running from my deltoid up and over, toward my neck?” Richards motioned to show the positioning. “I want the drop of blood right on the clavicle.”
“Oh, you misunderstood me,” Miguel said, a frown on his face. “I didn’t mean this one. You see, that’s an exclusive. Guy paid me for the design. I just leave it in the book as an example of the kind of thing I can do. I’ll be happy to do you another one—or I could design your own special rose, maybe a triple-header. I did one of those once, and it looked good. A honey wanted it growing out of her pubic hair. Now that was something to see. The stem ran—”
“I like this one,” Richards said, removing his money clip. He had to move things along. His disgust was growing each moment. It was amazing what women and, he supposed, men would put themselves through. “Maybe I could get permission. Who’d you do it for?”
“Sorry. I keep the confidentiality of my customers. You know, like a doctor or a lawyer. You buy a design from me, it’s our secret.”
“What’s your price? I want to know who bought it. I’ll go as high as I need to.”
“What you talking about? Who are you? This ain’t just about no tattoo, is it?”
“Pretty sharp.” Richards showed his badge. “This says I need to be cut in on your little secret. Now, try again. Who’d you design it for?”
Miguel slammed the binder closed. “You bastard. I must be slippin’. Usually, I can smell a cop a block away. Of course, you stink so bad, the cop odor is covered up. I got nothing for you. Now, get out of my shop.”
Richards reached across the counter and grabbed a handful of ink-stained T-shirt. “Listen, you grubby little leech. We can do this easy, or we can do this hard. I can drag your ass downtown and stick you in the drunk tank by accident. When you come out of there, you won’t be able to smell anything but vomit.”
Miguel leaned away from him. “You best let me go and get out of here. There’s a video camera recording everything you do. How’d you like it if the mayor saw the tape?”
Richards scanned the ceiling. There it was, a small circular opening staring at him. He dropped the shirt. “Okay, let’s try this. I have every reason to believe the folks who wear this tattoo killed a teenage girl. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll be back with a warrant and will charge you with obstructing justice, maybe even as an accessory to murder. That should give you an interesting movie to watch after you get out of jail. What’s it gonna be?”
“I ain’t open tomorrow. Come back with your paper on Monday. You can meet my lawyer.”
TWENTY-ONE
“Welcome to the Maison de Bifteck, Mademoiselle Archer, Monsieur Jeffries,” the maitre d’ said. “Jacques will seat you and be at your disposal for the evening.” He snapped his fingers and a tall young man in a white shirt, black bow tie, and black trousers stepped forward. “Jacques, the amour nook for Mademoiselle Archer and Monsieur Jeffries, please.”
Jacques bowed. “This way, s’il vous plaît,” he said in a heavy French accent as he led them to an alcove with a table set for two. The white damask tablecloth gleamed and the linen napkins stood, folded in a bishop’s mitre. After holding the chair for Abby, he said, “The Maison de Bifteck is where France meets the American West—fine French food and the best western steaks. It is my pleasure to serve you tonight. My station will be there.” He pointed toward a barstool just outside the alcove. “Whenever you need me, simply raise a hand.” He turned and clapped.
A second waiter appeared carrying a tray.
“My assistant, Henri,” Jacques said. “He and I are here for you. Now, champagne. A complimentary apéritif.” With a flourish, he took two flutes from the tray, setting one in front of Abby, and handing the second to Tom. “In keeping with American custom, we also have water for you.” He put two water glasses on the table, then picked up menus from the platter, and lay them on the table. “As an appetizer, may I suggest—”
Abby held up her hand. “Tom, do you mind if I order?”
“Feel free. I’m beginning to think you lured me into one of your favorite haunts.”
Abby smiled. “We’d like a dozen escargots. Please prepare them in garlic and parsley butter and serve them bubbling hot. With them, bring us two glasses of Pinot Gris, slightly chilled.” She paused while Jacques turned to Henri and waved him toward the rear of the restaurant. When she had his attention again, she said, “We want steaks. What do you recommend?”
Jacques bowed. “Thank you for your confidence. The reputation of our Black Angus beef is known far and wide. For mademoiselle, may I suggest either a seven or ten-ounce filet mignon? You will never need to touch your knife. It is more tender than the escargots you ordered. Our chef will prepare it to your specifications.” He paused. “Anything except well-done. He says he refuses to desecrate such fine meat.”
He turned his attention to Tom. “For monsieur, perhaps a twenty-four ounce porterhouse. It is one and one-half inches thick with perfect marbling, instantly seared to seal in the juices. As with the filet, please do not order well-done. I fear facing the chef with such an order. The last time, he chased me from the kitchen with a cleaver.” He stopped speaking, smiled, and looked from Tom to Abby, then back.
“I’ll take your recommendation,” Abby said. “Medium, please. Is that a safe order?”
“Thank you, mademoiselle
. It will be my pleasure to submit your order. And you, monsieur?”
Tom pulled at his earlobe. “Why do I feel like a bit player in an extravaganza? The porterhouse, medium rare.”
“Très bon,” Jacques said. “May I recommend a Châteauneuf du Pape to savor with your steaks? It is the perfect complement. We have a recent shipment from home. Excellent vintage.”
Abby looked at Tom, who nodded. “I have to trust your judgment. In for a penny, in for a pound.” He raised his glass. “Vive La France.”
Abby returned to Jacques. “Fine. We will select dessert later.”
“Tres bien. I shall place your order and ensure your escargots are on schedule. Trust me to deliver your dishes at exactly the right moment. One must have time between courses for the palate to prepare itself—and for amour to assert itself. In the meantime, I will bring potage and du pain.” He bowed and left the table.
Tom rubbed his face and laughed. “If this is your payback for Hank’s, I believe I owe you change. Never have I seen such a performance. You and Jacques must have worked on it for hours—or you’ve used him as your foil before. Listening to the two of you made me do a mental inventory of my credit cards. Will three cover the tab?”
Abby ran her fingernails over the back of his hand. “Depends on their limits.”
They were still chuckling when Jacques and Henri appeared with a tureen and a loaf of French bread. “Soupe de pomme de terre. The perfect beginning for the perfect meal.” Jacques slid shallow bowls in front of them. He filled each. “Bon appétit.”
* * * *
While Tom and Abby enjoyed their night out, Rubin Bernstein hosted the Chief of Police to a quiet dinner at home. The food was every bit as exquisite as that of the Maison de Bifteck.
Over an after-dinner cocktail, Rubin said, “Do you mind if I talk shop for a moment?”
The chief chuckled. “Rubin, one of the reasons I enjoy you so much is you’re so transparent. And that manifests itself most when you’re nice to me. What’s my price of admission tonight?”
“You misinterpret me. One might think I invited you only because you’re Chief of Police, rather than for your excellent repartee.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“Okay, I do happen to have a question—a small one, but a question.”
The chief sipped his drink. “Let’s hear it.”
“A PI named Tom Jeffries. Is he working with your detectives?”
Swirling the liquid in his glass, the chief appeared to think. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Do you mean a specific case or as a general source?”
“The former. As I understand it, a young woman named…” He fumbled for a moment. “Smithson. Mary Ann or something like that.”
“Mary Lou,” the chief said. “I’m familiar with that one. The media hammered us for an arrest. Fortunately, the latest car chase diverted their attention. What’s your interest?”
“Jeffries is on retainer with us. We heard a rumor he’s undercover for you. Now, mind you, if he is, we’re proud to have him on our payroll. If not…”
“Let’s cut the subterfuge, Rubin. You wouldn’t ask if you weren’t already suspicious of Jeffries. If he’s working with us, you’re happy because it’ll give you more leverage with the department. But if he isn’t, you want to cut him loose.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped from his glass.
Rubin grinned, then took the chief’s drink. “Perhaps I should freshen that.” He poured. “Can I expect to hear from you Monday?”
“No later than Tuesday.”
* * * *
Tom pulled into Abby’s driveway, killed the engine, then turned toward her. “Thank you for a wonderful evening. I’m not sure I’ve ever had one quite like it before. French restaurant, French staff, Texas steak, and a beautiful woman. What more could a man want?”
“Escargot?” Abby said, a question in her voice.
“Yeah, those, too.” Tom said, a pretend frown on his face. “However, some creepy-crawly things should be left in the garden. Wonder who was hungry enough to eat the first one.”
“Really?” Abby said, touching his hand. “You ate them with such gusto.” She paused, allowing a soft chuckle to escape, then went serious. “I had an excellent time. To paraphrase you, what more could a woman want?”
Tom took her hand. “Is this when you invite me in for a nightcap?”
“I thought we had that at the restaurant.”
“Not the kind I’m thinking about,” Tom said, a broad smile on his face.
“Hmm.” Abby covered her face and ducked her head as if bashful. “You sure you won’t think I’m being forward?”
“It’ll be our secret.” He leaned across the center console, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her. “Maybe a cup of coffee?”
“You’re not giving up, are you?”
“No.”
“Good.” She paused and ran her tongue over her lips while looking at him through suggestive eyes. “Care to come in for a nightcap?”
“What a wonderful idea. I’d love to, Miss Archer.” He got out, walked around, and opened her door. “May I escort you?”
“Please.” She took his arm.
They held hands as they walked into her house. Once inside, she turned to him. “Are you sure you want a drink?”
“No, what I really want is to kiss you with all the passion I feel.”
“You talk too much.” She slipped her arms around his neck, went up on tiptoes, and, pulling his head down, kissed him.
He responded, sliding his hands up her arms.
“The zipper is in the back. Careful, it snags sometimes.”
Tom pulled his head back, gazed into her eyes, then picked up the kiss where he’d left it. In the meantime, his fingers worked, Abby wiggled, and the little black dress settled to the floor around her feet.
He held her at arm’s length and stared. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”
“And you have too many clothes on,” she responded, her voice husky. “Come. We’ll fix that.” She took his hand, stepped out of her dress, and led him toward her bedroom.
TWENTY-TWO
Two hours later, Abby and Tom sat on her couch, satiated from lovemaking. Their first was wild and rushed with Abby’s bra and panties and Tom’s clothes flung in all directions. After that, their starvation for one another satisfied, they found a rhythm that served both, bringing maximum sweetness to their coupling.
Abby wore a terry cloth robe that wrapped her from neck to ankles. Under it, she was naked, a fact Tom found almost as titillating as his earlier views of her. Her head rested on his shoulder.
He had slipped into his slacks and dress shirt, the shirt unbuttoned and hanging out. Abby ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, sending soft shivers through him.
Each nursed a scotch and water.
“Abby,” Tom whispered into her hair, “you’re…you’ve…” His voice trailed away.
“Say it. Maybe it’s something I want to hear.”
Tom stayed quiet, his mind swirling, wanting to tell Abby the emotions that surged inside him, but unable to do so. The feelings were strange, deeper than anything he’d felt toward a woman before. “I’m no good at this. I mean, this explaining stuff. Remember, I told you about Charlie rescuing me from that bar slut? I vowed it would never happen again—no woman would ever get close enough to make a fool of me. And, as you may have guessed, when I make up my mind, it pretty well stays made up. Between her and tonight, there have been some women, mostly when I was drunk. But tonight there was one woman—one woman who reached me in ways I’ve never felt before.” He paused. “I can’t say it any better than that. I hope you understand what I mean.”
Abby sat up and looked into his face. “That’s one hell of an admission of something. I’ll work on it tomorrow. But tonight, I see everything I need to know. Some poet said the eyes are the windows of the soul. I like what I see inside you.” She hesitated. “I guess it’s my tu
rn to make a statement. I won’t say there have been many men because that would be untrue. Yes, I’ve been in love, and I’ve shared my love. But somehow, what has happened in the last few weeks makes all the previous experiences seem like high school infatuations. And the way I feel tonight reduces every other experience to something I read in a book.” She sat up and took a sip of her drink. “I don’t know what daylight will bring, but I’m happy right now.”
Tom placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her. “Let the future worry about itself. I’m satisfied living in the present, living this moment.”
Abby ran her fingers along Tom’s thigh. “Will you stay tonight?”
“It would take a platoon of Marines and a Presidential Directive to get me out of here.” He kissed her again. “Maybe we could take our drinks to the bedroom.”
* * * *
The sun streaming between the slats of the blinds failed to wake Tom and Abby. They lay face to face, his leg resting over her hip, no clothing separating the two. The newspaper landed on the sidewalk with a thud, and they slept. Exhaustion showed on their faces, yet each wore a smile as if living a wonderful dream.
The sun’s rays moved around the room, highlighting Abby’s black lace panties, then her bra. Tom’s pants and shirt were a clump on his side of the bed.
And they continued to sleep, their smiles in place.
Morning traffic picked up as folks began their normal Sunday activities. Some jogged along the sidewalk, nodding to those who walked their dogs, or simply walked for exercise.
Tom and Abby slept—and smiled.
Car engines revved as people headed out to church, to sporting events, or ran errands. Happy chatter came from the automobiles and the people on the sidewalk. It was a day off for most, and each appeared to have plans for enjoying it.
Tom and Abby continued to sleep—and smile.