Blood, Ash, and Bone

by Tina Whittle

  “This goes directly to the security desk at the hotel. I’ll have my phone, of course, but in case you need to access my schedule, they’ll have it. Be careful.”

  I closed my fist tight around the number. “Careful and sensible. I promise.”

  ***

  Soul Ink resided on the west end of River Street in the shadow of the electric plant, the funkier section of the strip. It was where I’d met John, Skip too. During work hours, Hope and I would often rendezvous with the two of them in the long connecting passageway behind the shops —sometimes at Winston’s, sometimes at Train’s—smoking and sneaking beers before going back to our respective workplaces.

  The old tattoo parlor had been redecorated. It now felt like a slightly gothic day spa—big stained glass windows, a gold-washed concrete floor stamped with swirls, red leather seats. When I opened the door, I heard wind chimes and smelled incense.

  Train looked up from one of the art books. He grinned. “Tai!”

  He was a well-muscled guy, with chestnut hair and a penchant for tight white t-shirts, the better to see his intricately inked forearms and biceps, a garden of lush roses and finely-wrought crosses woven with Bible references. His face was boyish under a tough-looking goatee.

  “Hey, Train. How’s it going?”

  “Excellently, thank the Lord.”

  Train took the name of his shop seriously. Soul Ink was born as spiritual outreach. The plaque above his work station read Isaiah 44:5: “And a generation will write on their hands, ‘I belong to the Lord.’” But he welcomed anyone into the shop, Christian and heathen alike. I liked to imagine that if Jesus himself wanted a tattoo, he’d come to Train.

  He clapped his hands to his thighs. “So what’s up? You looking for new ink?”

  “Yes, but not today.”

  I pulled out my phone and showed him the photo Trey had snapped. Train’s eyes flashed with disappointment.

  “What’s he done now? Making fake IDs again?”

  “Maybe. But I’m not out to get him for that.”

  “What are you out to get?”

  “Information about the person who hired him.”

  Train looked at me skeptically. He volunteered in the prison. He knew that the vilest of all the sinners in the criminal world was a snitch.

  “I know,” I said, cutting him off. “Criminals don’t cough up information. But Skip isn’t a criminal, is he?”

  Train sighed. “No. That’s why he gets in trouble so much. No street smarts.”

  “He still work here?”

  “No, not for months.”

  “So how’s he paying the bills?”

  “He’s Big Nate’s newest sugar baby. He never finished his degree, but he’s cute, so now Nate pays for his errant ways.”

  “And lets him drive his convertible. A silver Mercedes, I’m guessing?”

  Train nodded. I looked at the photo again. Skip was attractive enough to be a kept man, yes. But if he was living the high life now, why was he at the shop arguing with Winston? And what were they arguing about?

  I put the phone away. “Trust me when I tell you that Skip has no idea the trouble he may have tapped. He’s working with some low level people, but they’ve provoked a killer, it seems.”

  Train got serious. “Murder?”

  “Maybe. Which is why I’m staying as far away from that end of it as I possibly can. I need to get to Skip before the people who killed Simmons get to him first. Do you know where to find him?”

  “It’s Thursday night—he’ll be catching the show at the Speakeasy. He’s got a crush on the bartender, the redhead.”

  “Does Nate know?”

  Train fixed me with a look. “You think he’d still be letting him drive that Mercedes if he did?”

  The Speakeasy. I hadn’t been there since Rico left town. It was a secret bar located within Club One, the infamous glitter den and dance club. You had to ask the bouncer to let you in. He’d tell you to go up the stairs, find the door marked Employees Only, then knock three times. A little panel would slide, and if you knew the password, they’d open up.

  It was all for show. The Speakeasy trafficked in secrecy and gimmick, but it wasn’t illegal. They liked to pretend, though, playing ragtime and serving absinthe and other supposedly illicit cocktails in a dark 1920s styled bar.

  Train shook his head. “If he sees you coming, he’s gonna run. They don’t call him Skippy for nothing.”

  “I can run too, you know.”

  “Not like Skippy. Especially since he does not want to get caught there, you know what I mean?”

  I did. And while Skippy’s illicit crush was certainly leverage I could use, it did mean I’d have to act fast. Or have a Plan B.

  ***

  Plan B was sitting at his desk when I got back to the hotel. I was happy to see him there—a few hours crunching numbers always recalibrated his composure back to the cool and steady range.

  I perched on the edge of his desk. “Hey you.”

  He didn’t look up. “Hey.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Profit and loss calculation. Did you know that hole-in-one insurance costs three times as much as a rain cancellation policy?” He sat back and looked my way. “A fax came for you.”

  “A fax? Who faxes anymore?”

  Trey handed me an official-looking piece of paper. “Police departments.”

  I scanned the information quickly and got a buzz of excitement. “Who sent this?”

  “Garrity.”

  It was a letter from the detective in Jacksonville. Thanks to Rico’s tip, they’d done some extra puttering into Vincent DiSilva’s life. E-mails led to PO boxes, which led to certain dealings with a whiff of scam about them.

  I looked at Trey. “He was making private antique trades using assumed names.”

  “He was, ever since his retirement. Documents and letters mostly, some books. The Jacksonville PD will be tracking down his customers next.”

  “Wanna bet his wares were as fake as that treasure map? He was a drafter, after all. He had the copywork skills to make an excellent forger.”

  “Whatever he was doing, it seems to be small scale; they’ve found only one or two trades a year. The money trail is insubstantial.”

  A mild-mannered retiree trafficking in forgery for beer and bingo money. It would not be the weirdest crime spree I’d heard of. I ran a finger along the edge of Trey’s desk.

  “So, on that note, I have this idea.”

  “What idea?”

  “It involves going to the club.”

  “What club?”

  “The Speakeasy.”

  He frowned, waiting to see where I was headed.

  “Skip will be there tonight, and I would like to hear his side of things. And no, it’s not illegal, or dangerous. It’s a two-person job, that’s all.”

  He tapped his pen on the yellow tablet. I told him what I’d learned at the tattoo shop. Trey listened, then shook his head.

  “Criminals sometimes react violently to being confronted.”

  “Not this guy. I know Skip, and he knows me. Which is why when he sees me, he’ll know the gig’s up. Which is where you come in.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I need somebody to block his escape route.”

  “Tai—”

  “All you do is stand there. He won’t try to go past you. Otherwise, I might have to chase him down in the parking lot and tackle the fool.”

  He considered that scenario. “When are you going?”

  “Tonight.”

  He nodded reluctantly. “Okay. But there are rules.”

  “Of course there are. I have some too, starting with that suit.”

  “What’s wrong with my suit?”

  “People will think you’re a drug dealer who can’t find his way back to I-95. You have to blend.”

  Now he looked like he was seriously regretting his commitment. “Blend?”

  I held out my hand. “Give me your phone.
I know who to call.”

  ***

  Gabriella was equally incredulous. “Blend? Tai, darling, Trey doesn’t blend.”

  I could hear the sounds of her boutique around her—the electronic pings of the cash registers, the soft laughter of pampered customers.

  “He only needs to fit in for a little while,” I said. “Something between the extremes of workout wear and business formal. Normal person clothes.”

  “I’ve been trying to get him into Boglioli, but you know how he is, a Virgo all the way. Luckily, Prada’s doing nice things in casual wear.”

  “Can he get it in Savannah?”

  “I know a place. But I’m afraid he’ll reject it.”

  “He might surprise you.”

  “Really? How intriguing.” I heard keyboard tapping at her end. “In that case, I’ll make the arrangements and let him know. And I’ll have them throw in a nice shiny t-shirt for you, ma chère.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  For decades, Club One has ruled Savannah’s nightlife as the most well-known party-glam establishment for gay and straight and all the shades between. It has multiple levels, expensive drinks, and well-maintained billiard tables. Back in the day, I’d been good enough with the stick to shake down the arrogant and inebriated, but my skills were too rusty to try that trick now.

  Billie had accompanied me for the preliminary portion of my plan—spotting the mark. Together we kept a close eye on the street-level entrance as we racked up for eight-ball. She’d curled her hair for the occasion and sported a short pink dress that showed off her blossoming décolletage. I kept glancing at her belly, then yanking my eyes back to her face.

  She sat on the edge of the table, cue in hand. “Skip’s in trouble again, huh?”

  I banked a clean one off the side, taking down the two. “Maybe a little. But I’m hoping I can prevent that from turning into a lot.”

  “I thought he’d settled down with Nate.”

  “You know Skip. Can’t resist a redhead.”

  I got a flash of Gabriella suddenly and hit the shot too hard, scratching. Billie took advantage of the table and sank the eleven and the nine without even blinking.

  “So when’s this boyfriend of yours showing up?” she said.

  “Ten sharp. He had to pick up a change of clothes.”

  She put a little too much spin on the cue ball, and it wobbled short of its mark. I bounced an easy rebound off the side and sank the five with a satisfying click.

  Billy leaned in close. “Our mutual friend has arrived early.”

  I looked over her shoulder and spotted Skip, headed straight upstairs to the Speakeasy. Part one of the plan was working—Skip was effectively a rabbit in a trap now. Our plan was for me to follow him up, let him get a look at me, and then when he bolted—as he would—he’d smack right into Trey, who had a way of convincing people to do whatever he told them to do.

  I checked the neon clock over the bar. Three till ten. I adjusted my Sand Gnats cap and cued up for my next shot.

  Billie frowned. “Tai?”

  “Yeah?”

  “About your boyfriend…did you say black hair, six feet tall, dressed in black and white?”

  “Yeah?”

  She grinned. “Girl, your vocabulary sucks if that was the best you could do.”

  She nodded toward the door. I turned. And I almost choked on my beer.

  It was Trey, all right, but not any Trey I knew. This Trey wore black low-slung jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket complemented by—I clutched the edge of pool table—black leather boots.

  I exhaled slowly. “Oh god. That’s him. I think.”

  Billie gave a low whistle. “Wow. You must have been good in some former life.”

  Trey spotted me, and I beckoned him toward the bar with a tiny tilt of the head. He took a seat. I banged the six into the corner pocket and laid my cue on the green, then headed his way, taking my beer with me.

  “A Pellegrino,” Trey said. “In the bottle, the glass separate. No ice, one lime.”

  His presence caused a ripple of excitement to run down the bar like an electric current. He kept his eyes straight ahead, however, his finger tapping the counter.

  I slid onto the seat beside him. “Skip’s already here. He went into the Speakeasy two minutes ago.”

  “So I’m…what was your word?”

  “Blending.”

  “Yes. Blending. I’m blending for no reason.”

  The bartender brought his Pellegrino, and Trey arranged the bottle in the exact center of the napkin, glass to the left.

  I put my hand on his leg. “I’ll give you a reason later. But for right now, do you remember the plan?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then finish your water and let’s go.”

  He poured the Pellegrino into the glass. I stood and took off my hat, shaking out the tousled curls hidden underneath. Then I pulled off my jacket, revealing my spanking new t-shirt, a red silk Gucci number with rhinestone accents.

  I grinned at him. “Hurry up. I’m dying to see Skippy talk his way out of this one.”

  ***

  I entered the Speakeasy to George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue,” Gabriella’s t-shirt vamping and sparkling like a disco ball. As I’d expected, Skip had a seat at the bar. The bartender laughed at some story he was spinning, a big laugh that had strut and volume to it. She was impossible to ignore, an island of flaming red hair and bosom and luminous eyes with lashes like bottle brushes. Her manicure was impeccable, even if her hands were as big as Rico’s.

  I took a seat, and her eyes twinkled. “Hello, sweetie!”

  I smiled. “Hello!”

  Skip looked down the row at me. He was a good-looking guy in a boy-toy way, with a sulky mouth and pecan-brown curls tumbling over his forehead. He recognized me instantly, and even in the dark, I saw him pale. I waved two fingers at him.

  He nodded my way. And then he bolted.

  I hopped up, jumped over a middle-aged couple in matching sweaters, banged into a waitress coming up the steps, then took off after him. All I saw was a flash of movement at the bottom of the stairs, and then a quick whip to the left, headed for the back exit.

  I stopped running. Rabbits and snares, I thought, as I pushed open the exit door into the alley. Sure enough, there was Skip, face to face with Trey, who was examining him curiously.

  Skip caught his breath, then jerked a thumb in Trey’s direction. “The muscle’s with you, huh?”

  I nodded.

  He sighed, resigned now to his fate. “What do you want?”

  Trey glanced at me, puzzled. I was guessing that in his experience, criminals didn’t roll over at the tiniest bit of intimidation from some guy in stiff new jeans and unscuffed boots. He was accustomed to SWAT raids, where the thugs got their heads banged together first, then started talking.

  I sidled up to Skip, wishing I had a cigarette to tap out of the pack and offer to him. All I had was gum, however. So I pulled out a stick and held it in his direction. “Have you seen Hope Lyle lately?”

  He took the gum. “Nope.”

  “What about Winston?”

  “Nope.”

  I held up my phone and showed him the photograph Trey had taken. “This isn’t you and Winston, arguing behind his shop?”

  Skip glanced at it, his jaw working the gum. “Nope. Not me. I haven’t been there in months.”

  “Really?” I plucked a bit of bright green down from his sleeve and showed it to him. “A little birdie says you’re lying.”

  “So?”

  “So this little birdie also says she’ll tell Big Nate you were hanging around making eyes at the bartender if you don’t cooperate.”

  Skip swallowed the gum. “She said it was a prank.”

  “Who did?”

  “Hope. She promised me good money for the work, and it seemed harmless enough. A treasure map, for crying out loud. Like a party favor.”

  “Did you know what she had plann
ed for it?”

  “Didn’t ask.”

  “You made yourself an accessory to a crime and didn’t ask what it was?”

  He snorted. “Now you sound like a cop.”

  Trey took a step forward, and Skip’s attitude crumbled. He pressed himself against the concrete wall like he wanted to become a splotch of graffiti.

  Trey put his hands on his hips. “This meeting is Tai’s idea. She believes that if she explains herself clearly, you’ll understand the seriousness of the situation and give her the information she needs.”

  He reached into his pocket, and both Skip and I froze. Trey pulled out his cell phone.

  “I don’t think that way,” he said. “I think that since you admitted to a criminal act, I need to call the authorities and have them arrest you. And unless she gives me a good reason—”

  “What the hell, Tai?” Skip stared at me incredulously. “Your muscle is threatening to call the five-oh!”

  I folded my arms. “It’s what he does. Which is why I’d start cooperating if I were you. My muscle used to be a cop, but he resigned after he shot some uncooperative punk right through the heart. And he hasn’t shot anybody since. Don’t tempt him.”

  Skip looked at Trey. Trey examined him calmly, looking for all the world like a particularly stylish serial killer.

  Skip sighed. “Fine. What else do you want to know?”

  “I want to know what you were doing at Winston’s shop.”

  “We argued.”

  “About what?”

  “I wanted out. I read about that old guy’s death in the news, and I wanted Winston to take his shit back and pay me what Hope promised.”

  “What shit?”

  “A forger’s kit, a nice one too. Old ink, old paper, old pens, like somebody robbed an antiques store. I dumped it off there and left, but he still didn’t pay me.”

  My instincts went zing, but I kept my voice calm. “Start explaining, Skip, from the beginning.”

  And he did, with only a few sputters and false starts. Hope had looked him up when she got back to Savannah, he said, offering him a pretty price for what she said was a prank. She supplied the materials—paper, ink, a rough sketch—and he created the treasure map.

  “Were the materials in a paper box?”