Driven to Ink

Chapter 50

The light from the window caught the wisps of his white hair, illuminating them.

“Bernie?” I asked, my heart racing.

Bernie Applebaum was holding some sort of quilted thing. He held it up, and I could see now that it was a bag.

“Sylvia wanted me to pick this up for her,” he said.

For a second, I wondered why. Jeff had been on his way to Sylvia’s for a change of clothes, and he could’ve stopped here and picked this up on the way. But then I remembered it was Sylvia, whose requests usually didn’t make much sense to anyone but her.

“So you let Will Parker in,” I said.

Bernie was staring out the window at the street, and the sound of my voice seemed to startle him. He ran a hand over the top of his head, smoothing out the sparse white hairs.

“Oh, oh, yes,” he said, looking at me again. “Is that his name? He said he was here for a tattoo.”

Really? Will Parker had just had his tattoo touched up-by yours truly. I doubted that’s why he was here, but couldn’t figure out another reason.

Of course it could’ve been my own vanity, wanting to think that Parker wouldn’t come to Jeff Coleman for another tattoo if he’d been happy with the one I gave him.

Okay, so I’d conveniently forgotten that Will Parker said he lived at an In-N-Out Burger and was driving a blue car that was all smashed up as though it had been in an accident and that Lou Marino was hit by maybe a blue car.

I hoped Jeff had caught him, but since he wasn’t back yet, they were probably halfway down the Strip by now.

“So you don’t know him?” I asked.

Bernie shook his head and indicated the quilted bag. “She said it was yellow. Is this yellow?”

It was a mishmash of fabrics, and some did have yellow in them. “I suppose,” I said and had another thought. “Why did you let him in? The shop is closed. You couldn’t help with a tattoo.”

Bernie sighed. “I don’t know. It was reflex, I think. He knocked on the door, and I saw him and let him in. I told him no one was here, no one could help him.”

But he had been in here longer than a couple of minutes, which was how long it should’ve taken Parker to get the message and get out of here. Unless he knew we were waiting for him outside. It’s possible he’d seen us pull up behind him.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?” Bernie asked tentatively. He didn’t wait for my answer, though; he started back toward the office, where he undoubtedly had found Sylvia’s quilted bag.

I took a step after him, but the bell on the front door made me jump, and I turned to see Jeff coming in. He was huffing and puffing now.

“Did you get him?” I asked.

He scowled at me. “Does it look like I got him?” he asked, his tone definitely testy.

“Bernie’s here,” I said to change the subject.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, still taking deep breaths.

“It’s a good thing you’re quitting smoking,” I said before I could stop myself.

“I think you need to shut up right now,” he said between breaths.

Okay, got the picture. I made like I was zipping my lips and then locking them.

In a flash, his face lightened and he laughed out loud. “You are way too sensitive, Kavanaugh.”

“So what happened with Parker? Where did he go?”

“I want to know what it is with these Dean Martins and public transportation. Guy hopped a bus. I think he paid the driver to close the doors before I could get on.”

“So what happened? In here, I mean. You were in here a little while with him.”

“He said he wanted a tattoo. I played along, but then I think he recognized me. You know, as the guy you were supposed to marry?”

“Don’t remind me.”

“It wouldn’t be that bad, would it, Kavanaugh?” He was teasing me again, that little glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

I ignored him.

“That’s when he took off?”

“Said he made a mistake. Apologized, then ran out the door. You know the rest.”

I knew what happened, but I didn’t know why. This didn’t set right with me. I couldn’t get past him having me touch up his tattoo only hours ago, and now he was visiting Murder Ink. Something wasn’t right. But then again, there wasn’t a whole lot right with the whole day.

A crash in the back of the shop made us both jump, and we went through the sixties-style beads into the office where Bernie stood over a metal ashtray that had apparently toppled to the ground. His eyes were wide.

“Sorry about that, buddy,” he said to Jeff, who picked up the ashtray and put it on top of the file cabinet. Bernie was no longer holding the quilted bag. In fact, I couldn’t see it anywhere.

“Where’s Sylvia’s bag?” I asked.

Bernie’s face turned red and he wrung his hands. “I put it out in the car. I parked in the back, like Sylvia said.”

Jeff put his arm around the elderly man’s shoulders. “That’s all right. Do you need a ride? It’s getting dark out. I can take you back to Rosalie’s.”

Relief washed over Bernie’s face. “That would be great. But what about the car?”

Jeff looked at me. “Kavanaugh can follow us in your car, and then I’ll take her home.” He raised his eyebrows at me with the question.

I nodded. “That’s fine. It works out perfectly. I just need to call my shop. Tell them I’m not coming back.”

I stepped back into the front of the shop. It was getting dark out. The neon from the Bright Lights Motel sign across the street slipped through the window and cast a red glow on the floor.

Bitsy seemed resigned to the fact that I had skipped out and wasn’t going to return.

“Joel’s done at ten. Ace is already gone. Can I leave with Joel?”

“Absolutely,” I said, eager to meet any demands she might have. The guilt was inching through me, and I could feel it settle between my shoulders. “And you can come in late tomorrow. I’ll open.”

“Thanks,” she said, although it wasn’t as heartfelt as I’d hoped. She was holding a grudge, and it was well deserved. I should wear a hair shirt to bed tonight.

Jeff stuck his head through the beads.

“Ready? We need to get Bernie back.”

“Sure,” I said, sticking my phone in my bag.

We all went out the back, and Bernie gave me the keys to the white rental, which I saw now was one of those little Chevy Aveos that are no bigger than my kitchen table.

“Drive safe,” Bernie said nervously.

Jeff chuckled. “She’s the safest driver I know. No worries.” He began to steer Bernie toward the alley so they could go out front where the Pontiac was parked. “I’ll wait out front for you,” he tossed back at me before they disappeared.

The car was small, and my head almost hit the ceiling. It was almost as bad as Bitsy’s Mini Cooper. But not quite.

Sylvia’s yellow quilted bag sat on the passenger seat next to me. I picked it up and fingered the fabric, which was frayed around the edges. Why would she want this old thing? I opened it up and peered inside. Nothing, except a small piece of paper at the bottom.

I couldn’t help myself. I plucked it out and turned on the overhead light to read it.

It was a bank withdrawal receipt. Sylvia had withdrawn ten thousand dollars from her account.