Swift Edge

by Laura Disilverio

  Gigi shifted from foot to foot. “Well, thanks for talking to me, guys.” She’d almost said “boys” but caught herself in time. “If you think of anything, anything at all, that might help us find Kungfu, please let me know.” She passed business cards to each of the teens and men. They filtered out of the room until only the man with the tattoo was left, neatly pushing the chairs under the table.

  “Thanks, Jerome,” Roger Nutt said. He gestured for Gigi to precede him out the door.

  Gigi smiled at the man, wondering about the burn scar that disfigured his face from cheekbone to jaw and the air of apprehension that clung to him, despite the tough-seeming tattoo and leather clothes.

  “Kungfu had a…” His voice trailed off so Gigi couldn’t hear him. His hand drifted to his cheek, as if to hide the scar.

  “What, sugah?”

  He cleared his throat. “Kungfu was getting a tattoo,” he said. “Is that the kind of thing you want to know?” He blinked several times.

  “Exactly,” Gigi said warmly, wanting to hug him—he wasn’t that much older than Dexter. “How do you know? Did Kungfu mention it?”

  “I saw him at Tattoo4U. That’s where I got Saracen and Scimitar.”

  “Who?”

  “My dragons.” He flexed his biceps so the dragon tattoos seemed to writhe.

  Gigi fought to control her distaste. Who named his tattoos? “Uh, they’re very pretty,” she offered.

  Jerome frowned. “Fierce. They’re fierce. They protect me.” He stepped toward Gigi, neck poking forward.

  Gigi sent a “help me” look to Roger Nutt, who made a calming motion. Jerome nodded jerkily and stepped back. “I’m cool, I’m cool.”

  “When did you see him?” Gigi asked. She dug a roll of Life Savers out of her purse. “Want one?” Jerome took three and popped them all in his mouth. She offered them to Roger, and he shook his head. Letting a lime Life Saver melt on her tongue, Gigi waited for Jerome to think.

  “Monday,” he said. “Yeah, it was Monday. I was thinking about getting another tat, but I can’t really afford it. Kungfu came in as I was leaving.” He juddered from foot to foot and edged toward the door.

  “You’ve been very, very helpful, Jerome,” Gigi said. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re on lunch duty this week, aren’t you?” Nutt asked the man. “Better scoot.”

  Jerome slipped away without another word, and Gigi watched him until he disappeared through a swinging door at the far end of the corridor. The smell of spaghetti drifted into the hall.

  “So sad,” she murmured.

  “That burn on his face is from a curling iron,” Nutt said, his voice grim. “His mother … He’s been here off and on since he was fifteen.” He shook his head. “You said you wanted to see the stuff Kungfu left. C’mon.”

  He led the way up a wide staircase to the second floor of the old house. A hallway branched off to either side of the stairs. “We have room for four in each room,” Nutt said, “but we’re only half full now. Minors on this wing, men over there.” He gestured left and then right.

  “How many live here?”

  “We can hold a max of sixteen,” he said. “We’ve got nine right now; most of them are at work. Sometimes they rotate out quickly—they go back home or they don’t like to follow our rules. We’re pretty strict. Other times, like with Jerome, they hang here longer.”

  He ushered Gigi into a room with two sets of bunk beds neatly made with white sheets and army blankets. Milk crates stacked at the ends of the beds held personal belongings, while clothes hung from multicolored pegs along the walls. “That’s Kungfu’s stuff,” Nutt said, pointing to a blue milk crate and the blue pegs.

  It was a pitifully small collection. A pair of jeans and a sweatshirt hung from the pegs, and Gigi quickly patted the pockets. Nothing. A couple of pairs of socks and a pair of BVDs were neatly folded in the milk crate along with a battered paperback stamped with the name of a used-book store. A five-dollar bill fell out of the book when Gigi held it upside down and riffled the pages. “Would Kungfu have left without this?” Gigi asked Nutt, waving the bill.

  He stroked his beard and shrugged. “Hard to know. Maybe he forgot it was there.”

  “If you’re down to your last few bucks, you don’t forget it’s there,” Gigi said, thinking of the hundred dollars she had squirreled away in her lingerie drawer and the sixty-three dollars in her purse. Since Les dumped her and ran off with all their money, leaving her nothing but the house, the Hummer, and a half interest in Swift Investigations, she’d had to keep close track of all her pennies.

  “Not much of anyplace to keep valuables, is there?”

  “These men mostly don’t have valuables, Gigi,” Nutt pointed out. “What they value, they keep with them. Kungfu had a backpack, as I recall, a red one. I’m sure his camera’s in there.”

  “Camera?”

  “That boy was always taking pictures.” Nutt smiled. “He had a digital camera, a nice one, he said was a present for his sixteenth birthday.”

  “Where was he from?”

  “China, I think.”

  Gigi was startled, having expected him to say California or New York or even Denver. “Is he an illegal?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Nutt said, amused by her shock. “He didn’t share his story with me, but his English was sketchy, and I got the feeling he wasn’t in the country legally. It’s not unusual, you know.”

  “I know.” Certainly she knew there were plenty of illegals in El Paso County, but she’d thought most of them were Mexicans like the domestic staff and yard workers employed in her Broadmoor neighborhood. She thought about Angelica, the maid who’d cleaned for her BLL (Before Les Left), and her insistence on being paid in cash. Maybe she had aided and abetted an illegal alien. “How did he end up here, then?” she asked Nutt. “Are you allowed to take in illegals?” She bent to replace the book in Kungfu’s milk crate.

  “Our charter is a liberal one,” he said proudly, putting a hand to her elbow to usher her out of the room. “We don’t ask questions. Sometimes a social worker will refer a teen here, but more often they just show up on the doorstep. Word of mouth on the street, I guess. As long as they’re drug free and adhere to our rules, we take them in if we have room.”

  They descended the stairs to the entry hall. “How do you fund this place?” Gigi asked.

  “Donations,” Nutt said. “Jill, our director of development, spends all her time writing grants, planning fund-raisers, and hobnobbing with all the agencies and people most likely to open their wallets. It keeps us afloat, barely.”

  “It’s a great cause,” Gigi said. She pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her purse and handed it to him, wishing it could be more. “I’d like to help.”

  “How kind.” He smiled again.

  Gigi felt herself flush. This was not a good moment for a hot flash.

  “Is there a Mr. Goldman?”

  “Les? He’s not … I mean, we’re not … I’m divorced.” Gigi fanned herself and wished she could take off her jacket, but it would look odd since she was on the verge of leaving.

  “Me, too,” Nutt said. “Look, would you like to have dinner sometime?”

  Gigi hardly registered that he was asking her for a date. Every inch of flesh on her body prickled with heat. She was going to explode if she couldn’t cool down. Gasping, she reached for the door and yanked it open. A refreshing blast straight from the Arctic blew in. Nutt stared at her as she stepped through the door and turned her face into the wind like a dog at a car window, arms held away from her body. “I’m late … late for another appointment,” she said over her shoulder. An appointment made a less humiliating excuse for her headlong departure than “I’m a menopausal wreck being tortured by hormones run amok.” She tripped stepping off the stoop but caught herself before she fell.

  “Are you okay?” Nutt’s voice held equal parts concern and confusion. He took a step toward her but stopped when she held up a hand.

  “Fi
ne. Thank you … most helpful … yes.” She could feel herself turning even redder, if possible, this time from embarrassment.

  “Yes?”

  “Dinner.”

  * * *

  She’d walk to Tattoo4U, Gigi decided, although the hot flash was starting to subside. Exercising more was one of her New Year’s resolutions—along with lose thirty pounds—and a brisk two-block walk would be a good start. It would also give her time to plan her strategy. She had the photo of Kungfu Father Dan had given Charlie; it wasn’t much to work with. Mature trees stretched their bare branches overhead, and their roots buckled the sidewalk, making walking hazardous. She passed a Laundromat, a small liquor store, and a convenience store with advertisements in Spanish and some Oriental language before sighting Tattoo4U.

  She’d never been in a tattoo parlor, but the small storefront across the street seemed innocuous. Lighted letters spelled out TAT OO4U over the windows. She waited for the light, then crossed, a twinge of apprehension tweaking her. The shop had painted-over windows so she couldn’t see inside. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door. A bell jingled. Inside, Gigi spotted a counter with a cash register, walls full of photos and drawings of tattoo designs, a young couple arguing in the back, and a middle-aged woman studying a selection of butterfly designs to the right of the door. A large bald man with a long gingery beard was applying a tattoo, Gigi assumed, to the inside of a young man’s forearm. He sat in a chair with his arm stretched across a table, watching closely as the tattooer—tattooist?—worked a foot pedal and maneuvered the needle contraption that looked like some of the power tools Les used to buy at Home Depot. Gigi shuddered and looked away, not wanting to see how the needle punctured the skin, or whatever it did.

  Without looking up, the man said, “Be right with you, doll.” His accent sounded Australian.

  “No hurry,” Gigi said faintly.

  “What do you think of this one?” the woman to her right asked, holding up a picture of a green butterfly about one inch square. She was shorter than Gigi with badly permed mouse-brown hair. Hazel eyes framed with stubby lashes regarded Gigi expectantly.

  “Pardon me?” Gigi asked, not sure the woman was talking to her.

  “Or do you like this one better?” The woman held up another butterfly, this one in yellow and black with a swallowtail.

  Was this woman, who must certainly be her age or older, really going to get a tattoo? Gigi goggled at her. “Is it … are you … where…?”

  “Right here,” the woman said, slapping her right butt cheek. She chortled at Gigi’s expression. “It’s my sixtieth birthday tomorrow, and I decided that it was time for a new me. I got my hair done”—she fluffed the mousy curls—“and now I’m getting a butterfly on my derriere.”

  Gigi hoped the tattoo turned out better than the hair.

  “You only live once, you know. That’s what I told Burt. He’s all for it.” She nodded decisively. “What are you getting?”

  “Me?” Gigi took a step back. “I’m not—” She stopped, wondering if she might get more information from the shop owner if she were a potential customer. “That is, I’m thinking about it. I’m not sure what…” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Can’t you get hepatitis or something from tattoos?”

  “Only if the needles aren’t sterile,” she said, “but they use a new needle for every customer here. Isn’t that right, Graham?”

  “Right, doll,” the bald man said, still not looking up. Gigi was pretty sure he had no idea what the woman had said.

  The arguing couple pushed past Gigi to get to the door.

  “If you really loved me, you’d get it,” the girl said, tucking her hands into the kangaroo pouch of her sweatshirt and bumping the door open with her shoulder.

  “But ‘Christina Elizabeth’ is too long,” the boy said, trying to reason with her. “It would go all the way around my—”

  The door closed behind them, leaving Gigi to imagine where the tattoo was supposed to go.

  “The green one,” the woman beside Gigi announced. “I’ve made my decision, Graham,” she called to the man still hunched over the man’s forearm. “I’m going with the green butterfly.”

  “Great, doll.” The machine stopped whirring, and he looked up, sizing up Gigi and her companion. “Now? I’m about done here.” He carefully applied a square Band-Aid to the customer’s arm, but not before Gigi noticed how red and puffy the skin was. She looked away.

  “Leave the bandage on for twenty-four hours, mate, and then use the Tattoo Goo three times a day. You know the drill.” He slipped a tube of ointment into a small brown paper bag and handed it to the young man.

  “Right, Graham. Thanks, dude.” The newly tattooed man left, holding his right arm at a funny angle.

  Gigi waited while the other woman talked to Graham and agreed to come back at nine the next morning to have her green butterfly applied. “Happy birthday,” Gigi said as the woman left.

  “So, what were you thinking about, doll?” Graham asked Gigi as the door closed. “You look like a daffodil, or maybe a ladybug.” He rose and got a binder from the counter. Flipping pages, he turned it for Gigi to see a photo of a ladybug tattoo on a smooth, cellulite-free thigh. It was kind of cute.

  Aghast at the thought, Gigi said, “I’m not sure yet. I’m not even sure I want a tattoo, but a friend of mine recommended this place.”

  Looking as if he didn’t particularly care whether Gigi got a tattoo or not, Graham replaced the binder and said, “Yeah? Who?”

  “His name is Kungfu,” Gigi said, pulling the photo out of her purse. She unfolded it and spread it on the counter. “Him.” She pointed.

  “I don’t remember anyone like him,” Graham said after a brief glance. His response was too quick, Gigi thought. He combed his fingers through his wiry beard, gaze straying back to the photo. “What did he get?”

  “Get?”

  “The tat?”

  “Oh,” Gigi said. “Um, he never showed me.”

  Graham shrugged lumpy shoulders as a phone rang in the back room. “Gotta get the phone,” he said, already turning his back to Gigi. “Whyn’t you come back when you make a decision, doll, ’kay?” He lumbered into the back room, closing the door behind him.

  Gigi refolded the photo and tucked it into her purse, convinced Graham was lying—but why? It was clear the photo meant something to the man, but Gigi recognized a brick wall when she came up against one. Maybe I need to stake the place out, she thought with anticipation. She could use some of the new PI gadgets she’d found online and hadn’t had a chance to try out yet. Charlie thought they were a waste of money, but Gigi just knew the technology would boost their bottom line. She was only slightly dismayed when she remembered this was a pro bono case. Well, the stakeout would be a good trial for the gadgets, anyway. She tried to keep up her cover story by glancing at a few designs on the way out but barely slowed down as she headed for the door.

  11

  I offered to treat Kendall to a late breakfast at Denny’s and listened to her dish on the way about the international skating community with its rivalries, judging controversies, love affairs, and endorsement deals.

  “When does anyone find time to skate?” I asked, fascinated despite myself. We settled into a booth. The smells of coffee and syrup wafted around us, along with the sounds of clattering silverware and a baby crying. “It sounds like The Young and the Restless on ice.”

  “Except it’s real,” she said, prepared to be pissed off if I was dissing her sport. She ordered an egg white omelet and dry toast from the hovering waitress and correctly interpreted my raised eyebrows. “I can’t afford to gain an ounce and have my costumes not fit. They’re expensive.”

  “What’s it cost to become a skater?” I only ordered a Pepsi, earning a look from the server that either meant she was worried about her tip or she disapproved of cold caffeine for breakfast.

  “You mean an Olympic-caliber skater? Including coaching fees, ice time, travel,
skates, costumes, and everything?”

  I nodded.

  “About a hundred thousand a year.”

  I spewed Pepsi across the table. “Dollars?”

  “Uh-huh.” She ticked items off on her fingers. “An hour of ice time alone is over a hundred bucks, and the top skaters train up to six hours a day. There’s also PT—physical therapy—a sports psychologist, massages, ballet classes, the choreographer … I could go on.”

  “Is that what your mom pays for you to skate?” I was suddenly looking at Gigi’s money troubles in a whole new light.

  “Not half that,” Kendall said. “I don’t go to a lot of competitions, and we can’t afford that many lessons.” She pouted. “If only my mom—”

  I forestalled the whining. “How good are you?”

  “I was nineteenth at the national championships last year. Junior,” she explained.

  I looked at the slim girl opposite me with new respect. “That sounds pretty good to me, to be nineteenth in the country.”

  “It’s not good enough,” she said. “Not good enough for the BSC—Broadmoor Skating Club—or United States Figure Skating to contribute to my training. And I’m not getting any younger.” She gathered up her purse and let her napkin fall to the floor. “Are we going or what?” She stalked toward the door.

  I took my time finishing my Pepsi, paying the bill, and visiting the restroom. Kendall was waiting for me on the sidewalk when I emerged, the tip of her pert nose red, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her teal hoodie because she’d refused to wear a jacket when Gigi prompted her. Why are teenagers allergic to outerwear? I frequently saw high schoolers waiting for the bus near my house wearing nothing but T-shirts, jeans, and flip-flops in subfreezing temperatures.

  “Ready?” I asked pleasantly, unlocking the Outback’s door.

  She plunked onto the seat without answering and stared pointedly out the passenger window as I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. “Where are we going?” she asked after a moment, still not looking at me.