The Missing Ink

Sylvia Coleman.

“Your young man came to the shop,” Sylvia said when I approached her. “Dear, do you know he’s gay?”

It took me a second to realize she was talking about Joel. “He’s not my young man.”

She grinned. “That’s a relief.”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

I wondered again about dementia. “Joel. My young man. He was supposed to meet me here.”

“Oh, yes, dear, I know. He’s in the men’s room.”

Why was she here? Did Joel bring her? Why had he gone to Murder Ink? We were supposed to go to that Super 8.

As I was asking myself those questions, he somehow managed to appear without my noticing his approach. “How was lunch? Did you have the filet?”

I tugged on his arm, asked Sylvia to excuse us a moment, and led him a few feet away. Keeping my voice low, I asked, “What’s going on? Why are you here with Sylvia?”

“I just thought I’d run past there before I picked you up to see if I could get any more information. She was hanging around, bugging everyone.”

“So you decided to do them a favor and have her tag along with you so she could bug us?”

“She said she’d bring us to Jeff.”

That stopped me. Okay, I could live with this. “He’s not at the Super 8?”

“No. Why would he be there?” Sylvia’s voice startled me. She’d sneaked up behind us. “It’s not nice to keep secrets,” she admonished me.

No kidding. But there were a lot of them floating around these days; what was another one?

“You can take us to him? I really need to talk to him,” I said.

Sylvia grinned. “He wants to talk to you, too.” She looked up at Joel. “Him, well, not so much.”

“She’s not going without me,” Joel piped up.

Sylvia crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, then maybe no one will go.”

At that moment, I saw Bruce Manning out of the corner of my eye. He was heading back our way with Simon Chase. I grabbed elbows and steered Joel and Sylvia through the lobby and out the front revolving door.

“What’s going on?” Joel asked.

“Let go of me,” Sylvia demanded, trying to wrench her arm free.

Who was bullying whom now? I dropped their elbows and apologized. “It seems I’ve been banned from Versailles,” I said with a slight twitter. “Bruce Manning has made me an enemy for life.”

“Oh, dear, he’s full of hot air,” Sylvia said, pooh-poohing me. “He’s a nice man, just a little too full of himself sometimes.”

“And how do you know Bruce Manning?” I asked sarcastically.

“I happen to know him at least as well as you probably do,” Sylvia said, puffing up her chest. “He was just in the shop this morning. He wanted to know where Jeff was, too.”

Chapter 30

So the cops and Manning were both after Jeff Coleman. Interesting.

“Let me guess,” Joel said, his expression showing his surprise at this revelation as well. “He didn’t want any ink, did he?” The valet had come over, and Joel handed him his ticket.

Sylvia looked slightly uncomfortable and didn’t answer.

“What did he say he wanted Jeff for?” I pressed.

She shrugged. “He didn’t exactly say.”

“What did he say?”

“He came up in one of those big black cars and asked if Jeff was there. I said no, he was out of town. He didn’t like that, but then asked if someone named Ellis, Ellen, something like that, had been around.”

I raised my eyebrows at Joel.

“I told him I didn’t know any Ellis, that Jeff didn’t either, and if he wanted a tat, I could do a nice skull on his chest for five hundred. He left then.”

I could picture Sylvia wielding her tattoo machine, the ink on her arms and chest and legs most likely intimidating Manning and making her look taller than her five-foot frame.

So Manning had wanted to know about Elise. Why would he assume Elise would’ve been to Murder Ink? Unless he knew about Kelly Masters’s connection to Jeff.

The valet pulled up with Joel’s Toyota Prius. I didn’t know how he managed to squeeze his body into the driver’s seat, but somehow he did. He said he wouldn’t drive anything else; he had to conserve energy and use less gas. Water was my issue; climate change his. But I guess you could argue they were one and the same.

I let Sylvia sit up front next to Joel and settled in the backseat, my knees up under my chin. “Where are we heading?” I asked as Joel eased the Prius down the drive and past the hedge animals.

Sylvia shifted in her seat so she could face me. “Circus Circus.”

Joel made the appropriate turn out of the drive. I pondered this. Circus Circus looked on the outside like a red and white-striped circus tent. The big neon sign sporting a clown creeped me out-mainly because all clowns creep me out, one reason why I never go to Circus Circus even though the roller coaster in the Adventuredome is supposed to be pretty cool.

None of us said anything for a few minutes as we made our way up the Strip.

“Uh, Brett?” Joel broke the silence.

“Yeah?”

“Look out the back, will you?”

Sylvia and I turned at the same time, peering out the back window.

A white Dodge Dakota was behind us.

“Is that the same truck that was following you?” Joel asked.

All big trucks looked alike to me, although the possibility of coincidence was unlikely. Again I tried to see if I could recognize the driver, but the window was tinted slightly and the sun was glaring off it, so it was impossible.

“I have no idea,” I said.

“Who is following you, dear?” Sylvia asked.

“A bald guy with an eagle tattooed on his neck.”

“Oh, that’s just Matthew.”

I remembered that she hadn’t been concerned about him when I’d spoken to her before, either. “What’s his story?”

“He just has a bit of a temper. You have to know how to handle him.”

“How is that?”

“Be nice to his sister.”

Kelly? “You know Kelly is dead, right?” I asked tentatively. That possible dementia kept rearing its ugly head.

Sylvia sighed and shook her head, her expression indicating that I was a sad excuse for a human being. “I wish you wouldn’t doubt me. And I wish you’d come in for that other sleeve. Really, dear, a naked arm is like a naked breast. It just shouldn’t be out in public.”

Joel glanced back and rolled his eyes at me.

We reached Circus Circus, and Joel pulled into the front, even though the self-parking was in the back. The Dakota drove past.

“Maybe it wasn’t Matthew after all,” I said.

“Why would it be Matthew?” Sylvia asked.

“Because he’s following me.” I spoke slowly, as if to a small child.

“But Matthew drives a Harley. He doesn’t own a truck.”