Pretty In Ink

He let out a large chortle. “You did, didn’t you? Kavanaugh, no one wins at roulette. At least not to live to tell about it.”

Okay, I got it, the reference to Russian roulette. I wasn’t born yesterday.

“How much did you win?”

“None of your business.”

“You were playing with this guy?”

The conversation veered so fast back on track that I got dizzy for a second. I found myself telling him the whole story, how we kept winning, and then how he said my name and took off trailing chips when he realized his mistake.

“You inked those tran-I mean, drag queens-for that show, didn’t you?” Jeff asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“And this guy was with drag queens when I inked him.”

“Okay.” And then I got it. “You think that he knew me because of Trevor and Stephan and Kyle?”

“If the dress fits.”

I snorted. “Ha-ha, funny.” I had another thought. “Did you tell him about me? I was talking to a guy in a pawnshop this morning who knew me because you’d told him about me and my ink.”

“What are you doing in pawnshops?”

I shrugged, indicating I wasn’t going to elaborate. He made a face at me.

“Okay, be that way. Maybe I’m just trying to help you out, get you some business.”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

“Oh, I forgot, you’re above all this.” He cocked his head to indicate the flash on the walls. “So maybe I told a couple people about you.”

“This guy, too?”

“Could be I mentioned you; I don’t remember.”

“But then why did he run away from me?”

“I’m not a freaking psychic, Kavanaugh.” Jeff turned back to his client. “Ready?” he asked him, picking up his machine.

“Hey, you didn’t tell me his name,” I said. “Can you show me his file?”

“Client confidentiality,” Jeff said, touching the needle to the guy’s back again.

I couldn’t fault him for not telling me. I probably wouldn’t tell me, either. As tattoo artists, we do have an obligation to our clients to keep their information confidential, sort of like psychiatrists and doctors. Getting a tattoo is deeply personal, and I’ve had clients tell me stuff they’d probably never told anyone else. Still, I got up off the chair and shoved it away with maybe a little too much force. It rolled back toward the cabinet and slammed into it with a loud crash.

Jeff didn’t even look up.

I slung my messenger bag across my chest and started to walk out. “Thanks for nothing,” I tossed behind me.

“Rusty Abbott.”

I stopped and turned. Jeff was grinning at me, and he was waving the tattoo machine around like a cowboy with a six-shooter.

“His name is Rusty Abbott. He’s Lester Fine’s personal assistant.”

Lester Fine, the actor running for a senate seat.

Chapter 15

I headed back to the Venetian, my thoughts all mixed up like scrambled eggs. Now that I knew his name and whom he worked for, I could track Rusty Abbott down. I could ask him why he ran at the casino this morning, and why he took off on me this afternoon in that truck. But I had an uneasy feeling that he wouldn’t want to talk to me and might keep ducking me. He did run away from me. Twice.

What if he was the guy with the champagne last night? Jeff said he inked two other guys at the same time. Why didn’t I push for their names, too, while I was at it? That was stupid of me. Jeff had caved more easily than I thought he would when I asked about Rusty, surprising me into forgetting about the other two guys. Now he might just give me those names, although I was sure he’d try to make me beg. It would be out of character if he didn’t. I’d just have to suck it up and call him later about it. Granted, playing-card tattoos weren’t exactly a rarity, especially in Vegas. I had no reason to think Rusty Abbott or the other two he was with that night had anything to do with what happened at Chez Tango.

Except a nagging feeling.

Why had he run?

I kept coming back to that.

I was stopped at a light when I looked over at a strip mall and saw another pawnshop. It was a block up from Cash & Carry, just past the Sahara, like Trevor had said. Why not check this place out, too? I was here.

I inched over into the left-hand-turn lane, hearing the horns behind me. Too bad. The light turned green, and I pulled into the parking lot. The name of the shop was Pawned-clever. There were some wordsmiths at work here. It wore the same ubiquitous bars over its windows as Cash & Carry, and again neon signs advertised I’d get a good price for my gold jewelry.

Maybe if nothing else, this was a sign that I should get rid of that engagement ring. I really had no idea why I was holding on to it. It wasn’t as if I was waiting for Paul to come find me. It had been two years. I’d moved on; he’d moved on.

Pawned was not as tidy as Cash & Carry. It looked like the local landfill. Piles of discarded bicycles, kids’ toys, skateboards, Rollerblades, televisions, computers, and various sporting equipment were scattered throughout the small space. It, too, had a long glass case, but instead of the neat displays, jewelry and watches were clumped together in spots, with large empty spaces between them.

A short, emaciated guy with a couple of teeth missing and tattoos crawling up his arms and across his neck leered at me.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice unnaturally high.

“Was there some sort of incident here this morning?” I asked, noting now the cameras in the corners of the room.

“Incident?”

“Were the police here for any reason?” I wished that Joel were with me. Guys tended to talk to other guys in a way they’d never talk to me.

“Where’d you get your ink?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“Most of it in Jersey,” I said. “You?” I added, to be polite.

“Murder Ink.”

I nodded. “I know Jeff Coleman.” Maybe that would give me an in with this guy.

“Nice guy.”

Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but I nodded again.

“You a cop?” he asked.

Same question as in Cash & Carry. I didn’t think I looked like a cop, but maybe some of Tim and my dad had rubbed off on me.

I shook my head.

“Private dick?”

Now, that would be an interesting career choice. But I shook my head again.