despite the obvious physical attraction, there wasn’t much else there. While back in college I might have gone for the superficial relationship, I didn’t want to do that now. Regardless of what Colin Bixby thought.
So, better to regret calling Jeff and asking him to be my escort than regret something a little more serious with Harry.
“I really only need a ride,” I said, a little more snippily than I should have since I was asking him a favor.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’ll be there.” And he hung up.
Again without saying good-bye.
I had asked Bitsy not to tell anyone where I was going. I didn’t want Joel to feel slighted, and I was afraid Harry would try to convince me he was the best person to come with me. But when Jeff showed up, it raised a few eyebrows.
Harry looked at him like he was sizing up the competition. Great.
Jeff gave him a short nod. I’d had my jean jacket and bag waiting at the front desk, so I grabbed them and I almost made it out before I heard Joel say, “Where are you going?”
I’d had my hand on the door, but paused. “Jeff’s giving me a ride,” I said simply, wishing I could give him more of an answer. I’d tell him the whole story tomorrow, I promised myself as Jeff and I slipped out.
“Surprised to see Harry there,” Jeff said as we turned the corner around the canal, a gondolier singing to his tourist passengers.
“Why?”
“Well, after last night and all.”
I felt my face flush. He kept talking, as though he didn’t notice.
“Asked around about Harry. He’s feeding you a line about being unemployed.”
“I knew it,” I said. “I knew something was up when I saw all that money in his wallet. Where’s he working?”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Here and there. Harry’s got a pretty good gig for himself. He does tattoo parties.”
I frowned.
“You know, Kavanaugh. Like Tupperware. Except instead of some plastic container, everyone gets a tattoo.”
That’s why he could hang out all day at my shop. Harry was working nights, going to parties and tattooing people, making a mint, apparently.
“Why wouldn’t he tell us about that, though?” I asked.
“Maybe he didn’t want you to think he was any sort of competition.” Jeff snorted. “Not that he is. I can’t imagine who’s hiring him to do these parties. They’re obviously not asking for references.” Jeff had started walking toward the exit again.
“Maybe he’s gotten better,” I ventured.
“And maybe you don’t have an impostor,” he said.
“You really hate him, don’t you?”
“He’s young and arrogant and a lousy tattooist.”
“Don’t hold back,” I said.
Jeff pushed the door open and we stepped outside at the front of the Venetian, the Doge’s Palace rising to our left, Madame Tussauds wax museum at the far end of the bridge that crossed yet another canal. We must have taken a wrong turn, because we weren’t in the self-parking garage.
“Valet,” Jeff said simply, reading my mind as he handed the bellman a ticket.
We moved to the side as we waited, watching the other hotel and casino guests coming and going, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I was still reeling from finding out about Harry’s party gigs. I’d done that a couple times, back in Jersey, to make a little extra cash. Usually, though, only one or two people at the party actually wanted to get a tattoo. I think they liked the
It was taking a long time for the valet to get Jeff’s Pontiac. I glanced over at the doors when they opened again.
Harry was coming out. He hadn’t looked in our direction, just kept going straight, so he didn’t see us. I tapped on Jeff’s arm and cocked my head.
“Where’s he going?” I wondered.
“Only one way to find out,” Jeff said, taking a step toward the driveway. At just that moment, the orange Pontiac slid to a stop in front of us. The valet got out, holding the keys out to Jeff, who shook his head. “Sorry, but can you take it back?”
The valet looked confused, but Jeff pushed the keys at him. “We’ll be back,” he said as he indicated I should follow him to see where Harry was headed.
Harry hadn’t even looked behind him, and we stayed far enough back so even if he did, he might not notice us. We passed the Walgreens and Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville, where a kid was standing with parrots on his shoulders as a photographer snapped his picture. Just as he did, one of the birds let loose all over the back of the kid’s shirt.
Jeff let out a snort of laughter but didn’t stop.
Harry was walking as if he were on a mission. Didn’t look one way or the other, just straight ahead. Not like me. Every time I saw a camera flash, I flinched, my eyes skirting around to make sure nothing was aimed at me. Since I hadn’t noticed the night before, I wasn’t sure how I’d see it this time, but at least I wasn’t drunk on absinthe now.
I was getting tired. We passed Harrah’s, the sounds of the casino spilling out onto the street, and the Imperial Palace, which didn’t look like much since you had to walk down a sort of alleyway to get to the entrance. It was one of the older casinos, but I’d been there a while back to see the poor man’s Cirque du Soleil: Matsuri, a Japanese acrobatic show that also had a magic act.
I wondered if we were walking to the MGM. Would’ve been easier on the feet if we’d taken the monorail.
But just as I thought we’d be walking forever, Harry veered left.
The entrance overhang was studded with lights. We hung back a little as Harry went inside and then up the escalator. When he was about halfway up, we followed.
It was the Flamingo. One of my favorite hotels and casinos because it still had that old-time feel to it, the feel of old Vegas, when Frank and Dean and the rest of the Rat Pack were kings and Bugsy Siegel felt this city in the desert was worth building and even dying for.
The black-and-white tiled floor reminded me of my grandmother’s bathroom back in Jersey, and the bronze statue of the flamingo stood sentry just above the steps that led down to the casino floor.
Harry was walking through the casino, not paying any more attention to the table games or slot machines than he had to the people on the sidewalk outside. Where was he going?
We had our answer when we saw him push the glass doors open to the outdoor aviary. Somehow I didn’t think he was here to check out the real pink flamingos that lived in the little watery alcove.
But maybe he was. Harry stopped on the footbridge overlooking the flamingos and leaned his elbows on the railing, watching the birds. Jeff touched my arm and indicated I should fall back, and we moved to the right, so Harry wouldn’t see us if he turned around.
“What’s he doing?” I whispered.
Jeff shrugged.
“Why are we following him anyway?” While it seemed like a no-brainer back at the Venetian, the question had started to nag at me.
“You wanted to know more about him,” Jeff whispered.
