Driven to Ink

Chapter 39

He was a big guy, not just heavy but maybe about two hundred pounds overweight. His jowls sagged into his ample neck, which pillowed above his broad chest. Because of his size, he wasn’t really walking. It was more like waddling.

He stopped next to me, his hands clutched together in front of his big belly. He had a swath of jet-black hair in a pompadour, like Elvis’s, and wore a stretchy white satin bodysuit that should not have been part of such a large man’s wardrobe. He totally needed What Not to Wear.

“No walk-ups,” he repeated, staring at me as if I had three heads.

“I’m just pricing,” I tried, wishing for the first time that Jeff Coleman was with me. He was much better at this than I was. “My boyfriend-um-fiancé and I want a wedding that will be memorable.”

A wide smile that matched his girth spread across his face. “You’ll get that here, at the Love Shack.”

I hadn’t noticed the name of the chapel on the heart-shaped sign because the Elvis cutout was so large. But Love Shack? Really? I mean, didn’t he realize that was the B-52s and not Elvis? At least Tony DellaRocco kept the Dean Martin theme in the name of his chapel.

He stuck out his hand. “Martin Sanderson.”

I took his hand, and he gripped mine tightly, pumping it up and down as if he were trying to get water from a well. I tried gently to pull away, finally having to resort to force. I yanked back so fast I almost fell over. Sanderson laughed.

“You’re a skinny little thing,” he commented. “So have you been across the street?”

He must have seen me at the crosswalk.

I nodded. “They’ve got a good special going.”

“I can do better. I’ve also got one of their former singers. He’s much better as Elvis than Dean Martin.”

Until a couple of days ago I had no idea there were wedding-chapel-theme feuds going on.

“I-um-like Dino,” I tried.

“Elvis was the King,” Sanderson said flatly.

“True,” I agreed, “but he died on the toilet.”

“Adds to the man’s mystique.” He was totally serious.

“So what are your rates?” I asked.

“Bring your own car, ten bucks.”

Really? “How can you keep your business going with that price?” I asked.

He grinned. “Most couples don’t want the quickie. They want the limo”-he pointed over to a limo with an image of Elvis plastered on its side-“and the rest of the amenities.”

“Which are what?”

“Flowers. Serenading.”

“So if I got the ten-buck special, I don’t get Elvis serenading me?”

“Sorry.” But he certainly didn’t seem sorry.

“I can get the Dean Martins with any package across the street.”

He snorted. Not a pleasant sound.

“That chapel’s on its way out. No one wants to get married in a place where people are getting murdered.”

That was my in. “Murdered?”

Sanderson waved a hand in the air. “Oh, one of the Dinos was killed a couple of days ago. Another one got hit by a car and killed. One of them has disappeared. Fortunately one of them came over here and probably saved his life.”

“He switched sides?”

Sanderson gave me a look and then bellowed with laughter. “You’re a card.”

Right.

I wondered how I could talk to Alan, the guy who shed his Dino persona for Elvis. There wasn’t really a segue into that, it seemed. It would tip off Sanderson that I was here for something other than pricing weddings.

“Would you like to come in and see what we can offer?” Sanderson asked, indicating I should follow him into the building, which seemed to replicate That’s Amore.

I glanced across the street to see whether Tim had emerged. So far, no. The Impala sat by itself in the lot. I wondered what was taking so long, what he was finding out about Will Parker.

I followed Sanderson.

Rather than the bland concrete of That’s Amore, the decor of the Love Shack was much more elaborate, like a real church chapel dressed up for Halloween. The walls were draped with white satin; marble stands sported simple vases with sprays of flowers. As we passed them, I touched one and found that the flowers were fake. We walked along a long red-carpeted hallway down to an actual chapel, although Sister Mary Eucharista would no doubt beg to differ. The whole place was white, with more flowers attached to long white pews. An altar sat at the end of the runner, but there were no crosses or communion plates or baptismal fonts. Instead, large speakers dominated the corners, and the strains of “Blue Suede Shoes” were emanating softly from them.

This was Elvis’s chapel. Not God’s. Although I’m sure Elvis fans would think those were one and the same.

I much preferred the Rat Pack across the street.

“This,” Sanderson said, sweeping his arm across the room for effect, “is our alternative for those couples who might want a real church rather than the front seats of their cars.”

I did have to hand it to him. It made good business sense.

“Oh, I didn’t realize-”

The female voice from behind us startled me, and I turned to see a rather homely older woman in an unflattering brown tweed skirt and a wrinkled button-down blouse. She shifted slightly, tugging at the skirt as though it were tight. It wasn’t.

The whole Love Shack staff needed Stacy and Clinton’s fashion expertise.

“Miss Gardner, this is…” Sanderson turned to me, his eyebrows high, asking me without asking me what my name was.

“Bitsy,” I said without thinking. “Bitsy Hendricks.” She would kill me if she found out I was taking her name in vain, but I wasn’t willing to give my real name here.

Miss Gardner’s eyes traveled down the tattoo sleeves on my arms, and I could swear she was channeling Sister Mary Eucharista. Not good for me.

“Are you here with your beloved?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No. He’s working. I told him I’d come over and check it out.” I’m not a good liar, and I felt my face flush.

She was onto me. Her face hardened and her eyes narrowed for a second before she turned to Sanderson.

“You’ve got a phone call,” she said. “It’s urgent.” Her tone left no doubt that if he didn’t answer this call right now, something horrible would happen, like world peace would never be achieved.

Sanderson gave me a sheepish smile. “Excuse me a minute, Miss Hendricks,” he said, and went out of the chapel and out of sight.

Miss Gardner and I stood awkwardly facing each other. I shifted from foot to foot, not quite sure what to say.

She broke the ice first.

“You’re not here to get married, are you?”

I couldn’t get this one past her. “No,” I admitted.

“Why are you here?”

She reminded me too much of my childhood and how I’d been reminded every day I’d go to hell if I lied. So I came clean.

“It’s the Dean Martins at That’s Amore. They’re being killed, and I heard that the owner over there and Sanderson have some sort of feud.”

Her lips twitched, as if she wanted to smile, but she didn’t say anything. So I continued.

“I was wondering if I could talk to Alan, the guy who came over here from there.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s not here today.” She paused. “I’m not really sure what you’re looking for, Miss Hendricks. If that’s your real name.”

I sighed. “It’s not.”

“My advice to you, miss, is that you go home and forget about all of this.”

She was trying to be kind, but a warning laced her voice.

“Forget about what?” I asked.

Miss Gardner reached out and clutched my forearm tight as a vise. She leaned toward me, her breath brushing my cheek. “That Ray Lucci was trouble. The world is better off without him.”