Pretty In Ink

My own smile disappeared. “They’re drag queens,” I said coldly. “Performers.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said, not seeming to notice it had gotten frosty in here. “What’s your name?”

“Brett Kavanaugh.” I watched him write it down in his little cop notebook, an eyebrow rising as he took a better look at me, not my tattoos this time.

“Kavanaugh?”

“You probably know my brother.” Tim and I are carbon copies of each other, except he shaves and has freckles. Sort of natural ink as opposed to my self-imposed ink. A lot of people think we’re twins, with our red hair and thin frames, although he’s got more muscles while I’ve got more angles. At six feet, he’s taller than I am by three inches, but most people don’t notice because I don’t shy away from wearing heels.

The cop’s expression changed slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening, and he nodded in that way people do when they’re just being polite. I wondered whether there was bad blood between him and Tim. Which reminded me…

“I didn’t get your name.”

He gave me a smirk. “So, tell me what happened here.”

Definitely bad blood.

I stood up a little straighter, forcing myself not to pay attention to my wet blouse. “There was a guy standing next to the stage. He had a champagne bottle, Moet White Star, I think. He pointed it at Trevor and hit him with the cork.”

“Trevor?”

“You do know his name is Trevor McKay?” I indicated the gurney, which was now being wheeled across the floor toward the door.

He blinked at me a couple of times, then asked, “What did this guy look like?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t see his features. He had a big gray hooded sweatshirt on, and baggy jeans.”

“Maybe it wasn’t even a guy; maybe it was a woman.”

“No, it was a guy. He had his sleeves pushed up. Definitely man’s arms.”

“But these guys”-the cop waved his hand, indicating the stage-“all look like women. Maybe it was a woman who looks like a guy.”

I stared at him to see whether he was joking. He was dead serious.

“No, it was a guy,” I insisted. “He had a tattoo,” I added.

The pencil paused over the pad. “What sort of tattoo?”

“A queen-of-hearts playing card. On his inner forearm. His right arm.”

“So you can’t tell me anything else about this guy, but you’re sure about the tattoo?”

“I own a tattoo shop. The Painted Lady.”

The eyebrows went back up again, and his arms fell to his sides. “At the Venetian?”

He seemed to know it. “Yeah,” I said.

“Pricey place.”

I didn’t know whether he was referring to the upscale shops that made up the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes or my custom tattoos.

“You can get cheaper ink on Fremont.”

Sure. I should’ve known. He was determined to take me down a notch. I had to ask Tim about this guy who wouldn’t give me his name.

“There’s no cork,” he said curtly.

I frowned. “What?”

“No one has seen the cork that you say hit him. You’re sure it was a cork?”

“No, a frog flew out of that bottle.” I rolled my eyes at him, irritated that he was questioning everything I was telling him. As if I would lie.

“No frogs, either,” he said humorlessly as he stuffed the notebook in his jacket pocket. “Do you have a card or something? In case I need to ask you more questions?”

“Maybe you can give me your card,” I suggested.

I thought it might work. And for a second, he considered it. But then he grinned and said, “I know where to find you,” before heading back to the stage.

Chapter 3

“That was smooth,” Joel said.

“You could’ve helped me out here.”

“You seemed to have it under control.”

I was going to say something snarky, but I was distracted as I glanced around the club. The pandemonium had quieted down with the arrival of the police and paramedics, who were now rolling Trevor out on the gurney. He’d propped himself up on one elbow and was batting his eyes at the guy holding a blood pressure cuff but who seemed interested in what Trevor was saying. Maybe he’d get a date out of this. Seemed only right, since the rest of the night was a bust.

Charlotte was beckoning us to come up onstage. Joel and I weaved around a couple of tables and climbed the steps.

“Trevor asked if I’d bring his stuff to his apartment,” she said. “I’m just so relieved he’s okay.”

Joel caught her in a hug.

I shifted from foot to foot. I’m not a hugger. At least not to the extent Joel is. Joel would hug anyone anytime for anything.

I started across the stage, figuring they’d join me when they were done.

Bitsy came out from behind the curtain. Like a magic trick. It startled me.

“Hey, what are you doing back here?” I asked.

“Helping Charlotte get Trevor’s stuff.”

Not a surprise. Bitsy might have attitude now and then, but she was always the first to help out.

“There’s something here; I’m not sure it’s Trevor’s. I need Charlotte to tell me.”

We went to the dressing room, where all the queens had gotten ready for their performances. Makeup was strewn across a long table in front of a long, wide mirror meant for sharing. The light caught sequins, and they sparkled against the feather boas; fabric draped over chairs and lay on the floor. Backpacks and duffel bags littered the corners of the room; shoes of all shapes and sizes-but all glittering-were scattered.

MissTique stood by the table, holding a box of Uncle Ben’s rice.

What in this picture doesn’t belong?

Before I could ask about the rice, Bitsy tugged on my arm.

I looked down to see her holding a gray hooded sweatshirt.

“This was lying on Trevor’s backpack, but I don’t remember him wearing it,” she said.

I didn’t remember him wearing it, either. But the guy who hit him with the cork had worn one exactly like it.

I’d opened my mouth to say something when an unearthly sound filled the room.

Bitsy and I looked up to see MissTique clutching the rice box to her chest, which was heaving with sobs. We glanced at each other, and Bitsy shrugged as if to say, What are we supposed to do? I shrugged back. No clue.

MissTique dramatically fell into a chair next to her, holding on to the box as if it were a life preserver. The tears that rolled down her cheeks left grooves in her makeup like little mountain rivers.

“It was supposed to be wonderful,” she choked, her eyes brimming over as they pleaded with us for some sort