Ink Flamingos

“I know the Flamingos’ band manager,” Harry said. “He’s an old buddy of mine from way back.”

I thought about the man Daisy referred to as The Pincher. Apparently, every time she saw him, he pinched her-either on her arm or her waist or her butt. I asked her why she kept him on, and she said she could stand a little pinching if he kept getting them gigs that continued to catapult their careers. It seemed a little much, but the guy had done wonders for Daisy and the Flamingos, so who was I to question?

“Way back when?” I probed, since Harry was fairly young to have any sort of relationship that went too far back.

“He dated my sister for a couple years when they were in high school. She’s about your age, I’d say, Brett.” It was the way he said it that made me feel about a hundred years old, rather than my actual thirty-two. My expression must have indicated my thoughts, because he quickly added, “I didn’t mean it that way, Brett, really. I mean, you’re not exactly a cougar or anything, not like Bitsy here.” He flashed a quick grin at Bitsy, who was beaming, as though being called a cougar was the best thing she’d heard in a long time.

I actually thought Bitsy had a crush on Harry, but if they ever did go out, it would definitely be a December/ May sort of thing.

“In fact,” Harry continued, now that he was back in everyone’s good graces, “I saw Sherman last night. At Caesars. Cleopatra’s Barge.”

Cleopatra’s Barge was a bar designed like an actual Egyptian barge. It sat in a pool of water, oars pretending to push it along as it gently rocked its customers while they sipped their cocktails and listened to whatever band had been booked that night.

Harry was still talking. “I was surprised to see him there, since, you know, the Flamingos are playing the East Coast.”

He didn’t seem to realize what he was saying. If the Flamingos were on the East Coast, then what was their manager doing here in Vegas? And, more importantly, what was Daisy doing here, too? She should have been safe in New York or New Jersey or wherever, rather than in the Golden Palace getting a tattoo from someone who didn’t seem to know what she was doing.

Bitsy caught my eye. She’d picked up on that, too. “So did you talk to Sherman, uh…” I couldn’t remember the guy’s last name. Like I said, he was just The Pincher to me.

“Potter,” Harry said. “Sherman Potter. Sure, I talked to him. Nice guy, really nice guy.”

“Did you ask him why he was here and not with the band?” Bitsy asked, eager to get to the point.

Harry looked perplexed for a moment; then the grin spread across his face again. “He said he was finalizing a deal with the Golden Palace.”

Chapter 7

Bitsy and I shared a look. The Golden Palace? Where Daisy’s body was found? And why would he book the Flamingos into that scummy place anyway? That wasn’t exactly the kind of venue the band was used to playing these days. Maybe two years ago when they were just starting out, but not now. They’d played the Bellagio on New Year’s Eve; that was more their speed.

“That’s where they found Daisy,” Joel piped up.

“Where?” Harry wasn’t too quick on the upswing sometimes. Like I said, sort of perpetually stoned.

“The Golden Palace,” Joel said.

“That’s right,” Harry said thoughtfully as he ran a hand through his mop of brown hair, finally putting two and two together.

“Is he staying there?” I asked.

“Who?”

I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Although it wasn’t as though if we drove Harry away we’d be losing a client. What was I thinking? Harry wasn’t going to leave.

“Sherman Potter. The Flamingos’ manager.”

Harry’s right eyebrow rose slightly higher than his left. “Oh, right. No, Sherman always stays in the Venetian.”

He didn’t seem to realize that we were in the Venetian right this very minute. But I did. And I got that little flutter of excitement that always started in my gut and spread out through my body. That little flutter that always showed up when I started asking questions Tim wouldn’t want me asking. That little flutter I told myself I was going to ignore from now on.

So I didn’t have much self-control.

“He stays here?” I asked.

Bitsy and Joel’s heads swiveled around so fast that they looked like that girl’s in The Exorcist.

“What?” I asked.

“You promised,” Joel said.

“Not to get involved again,” Bitsy added. “Wasn’t it bad enough the last time?”

I didn’t need reminding. It had been pretty awful, and I’d thought I was cured.

“What are you talking about?” Harry was understandably confused. I couldn’t blame it on the weed this time.

Bitsy pursed her lips, then said, “Brett has this, well, um, habit.”

For a second, Harry looked at me with happy anticipation. As though my habit were the same as his and maybe we could party together.

Not.

I shrugged. “So I like to snoop a little.”

Joel snorted. “You’re worse than Nancy Drew.”

“Yeah, but I don’t go looking for these things, they just seem to fall into my lap.” Which was totally true, thank you very much.

“You’re some sort of detective?” Harry asked, his eyes brighter than usual. “You mean, you’re like a private eye or something?”

“Or something,” Bitsy muttered.

I ignored her. “I’m not a detective,” I said scornfully, wishing I had a client coming in so I could walk away from this conversation. No such luck, however. I had at least an hour to try to explain how I managed to get myself all tangled up in things I had no business being tangled up in.

Lucky me.

“Do you want to meet him?” Harry asked me.

“Who?”

“Sherman Potter.”

That flutter I mentioned accelerated.

“No, she doesn’t,” Bitsy said sternly.

I made a face at her. “What would it hurt?” I asked. “I mean, I did know Daisy, and I’d like to find out how to contact her family to express my condolences.” As I spoke, I realized I had a perfectly legitimate reason to go talk to Sherman Potter. And from the look on Bitsy’s face, she knew exactly what I was thinking.

She sighed-a deep, heavy sigh that told me I was being ridiculous.

Harry straightened himself up and put out his arm for me to take. I gave Bitsy and Joel a little shrug as I hooked my hand into the crook of Harry’s elbow.

“Don’t wait up,” I teased as Harry and I went out the door.

They were so not happy with me. But I couldn’t help thinking Sherman Potter’s appearance in Vegas wasn’t a coincidence.

Between Harry’s outfit and my tattoos, we drew a few stares as we walked past the gondolas and tourists. Harry was a little taller than me, maybe even a little taller than Tim, who stood six feet. And as I studied his profile, I realized that because he was so much younger than me-not to mention the glassy eyes-I hadn’t noticed before how good-looking he was.