“I used the extra one yesterday,” Joel was saying. “I don’t know what I did with it.”
Bitsy was riffling underneath Joel’s shelves, where he kept extra baby wipes, boxes of latex gloves, and inks. Her face was bright red, her breath ragged. I’d never seen her so undone. She was obviously making the connection, too, between what had happened this morning and Joel’s missing cord.
“I knew it was here,” she kept saying. “I put it right down here. I know I did.”
Joel and I shook our heads at each other and shrugged.
“Who was in here yesterday?” I asked Joel.
“Well, besides me and Bitsy, I did a couple of tattoos in the morning and three, I think, after lunch. It was a busy day.”
Bitsy stood up with her hands on her hips, staring at the space where she insisted she’d put the clip cord, as if it would miraculously appear telekinetically.
“So Ace didn’t borrow it?”
“Why would he?” Joel asked. “He’s got a couple in his room.”
I knew that, but I had to ask. I had two clip cords in my room, too, so would have no need to borrow anyone else’s.
“A client wouldn’t take it,” Joel said. “Would they?”
“It’s got to be here somewhere,” Bitsy muttered, shoving between me and Joel as she left the room.
“It probably got put somewhere, and we’ll find it later,” I said. “She’s jumping to conclusions.”
“You have to admit it’s a little weird,” Joel said, going over to his shelves and taking another look.
I didn’t help. I really was beginning to think this was just hysteria. There was absolutely no reason why anyone would take a clip cord from our shop.
Bitsy was scouring the appointment book when I came back out, leaving Joel to his own search. Ace was nowhere to be seen.
“He went out to that oxygen bar for his fix,” Bitsy said, referring to Breathe just down the walkway from the shop. Ace was addicted to the aromatherapy oxygen pumped through his nostrils at the trendy “bar.” He said the pretty Asian girl who massaged his back while he was hooked up wasn’t bad, either.
Joel lumbered past, his hefty frame looking-dare I say it-maybe a little less hefty.
I forgot about the clip cord for a second and asked, “Joel, have you lost weight?”
He grinned. “I’m on the Atkins diet. I’ve lost twenty-five pounds. You noticed?”
While I was pleased he was losing weight, I was dubious about Atkins. “You mean you’re only eating meat?”
“Haven’t you noticed he’s not eating the buns with the burgers?” Bitsy asked without looking up from the appointment book. She was the queen of multitasking.
I guess I’d been remiss. But Joel wasn’t holding it against me.
“I’m eating salads, too.”
“How long?”
“About two weeks.”
“No, I mean, how long are you going to be on it?”
“Brett”-he scowled-“there’s no time limit.” He reached for the door.
“Where are you going?” Bitsy looked up from the book. “You’ve got a client coming in ten minutes.”
“I want to take a walk around the canal. I’ll be back.”
As the door closed slowly behind him, Bitsy and I looked at each other.
“Exercise?” I asked.
“It won’t last,” Bitsy said. “You know how many times he tried that Weight Watchers.” She went back to her book. “His clients yesterday were a Ronald Haugen, Jessica Storey, Mark Wilkinson, Dan Franklin, and Tony Perez. But not in that order. Franklin was first. Then Perez, then Storey, Haugen, and Wilkinson.”
“Why does it matter what order?” I asked.
Her head shot up, and she stared at me, her bright blue eyes flashing. “Maybe because it makes me feel good to think there’s some sort of order in this chaos.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so I asked, “When’s my first client?”
“Not until three o’clock.” Her head was buried in the book again. “I rescheduled you.”
I figured I’d get some stencils done in the meantime, so I went into the staff room and sat at the light table. I’d been working on a portrait of a woman’s daughter who’d passed away earlier in the year. A pile of manila folders sat perched on the edge of the table, and I picked them up and leafed through them, looking for mine.
One of the folders slipped out of my hand and fell to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere.
It was one of Joel’s. I recognized his bold lines. As I stuffed the drawings and stencil back into the folder, one caught my eye.
I picked it out from the rest.
It was merely an Old English script, but what it said made my heart start to pound.
“That’s Amore.”
Chapter 6
The name on the folder was Dan Franklin. Joel’s first client of the day yesterday. The day the clip cord went missing. The day Mr. That’s Amore ended up in my trunk.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
I was faced with a dilemma now, though. Did I call Tim and tell him about this? Maybe one thing didn’t have anything to do with the other. Maybe this Dan Franklin had come in wanting the title of a Dean Martin song embedded on him somewhere because he was a Rat Pack fan.
Rat Pack. Dino, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford, Joey Bishop. Vegas and the Rat Pack were interchangeable in the fifties and sixties. One of my favorite movies is
Had someone been sending a message with that rat in the trunk?
If I did call Tim, that Detective Flanigan might get suspicious of Joel. After all, Franklin was his client, and it was his clip cord that was missing.
On the other hand, if I told Tim, he could look for this Dan Franklin to find out whether he had any connection to the guy in my trunk. And we couldn’t be sure that the cord around Mr. That’s Amore’s neck was Joel’s.
I looked through the file folder but saw only the sketches Joel had done. I took it out to the front desk, where Bitsy was sitting with her head tucked in her arms.
“Dan Franklin,” I said loudly, startling her.
She jumped up and stared at me with wide eyes. “What?”
“Where’s the paperwork for Dan Franklin? Joel’s first client yesterday.” While I spoke, I waved the “That’s Amore” sketch at her.
Bitsy’s mouth formed a perfect “O” as she pulled out the drawer in the bottom of the desk and retrieved yet another file folder. This one, however, held the copy of the receipt and the release form Dan Franklin had filled out before his appointment.
“He paid cash,” Bitsy said as I scanned the form.
The release form included the client’s name, address, phone number, and a statement the client had to sign, claiming he was over eighteen years old. We made photocopies of the client’s driver’s license to prove he was of age. It was similar to the form you’d fill out at the doctor’s office, because it asked about health issues. We needed to know whether the client had any condition that might mean the tattoo would be dangerous to him or to us. The documents also included a waiver we asked clients to sign, saying we weren’t responsible for infection or aftercare.
Even Jeff Coleman, in his street shop up near Fremont and next to Goodfellas Bail Bonds, had client forms like this. Any reputable shop does.
Dan Franklin’s form said he lived in Henderson. Not too far from where I lived, actually. I picked up the phone, but I stopped before dialing. What would I ask him?
