Ink Flamingos

Chapter 8

Avoiding the cops didn’t sound like a very good idea. Neither did coming here, after all. But before I could backtrack to the elevators and make my escape, Harry had dragged me into the room with him and the door closed behind us.

It was a mess. The curtains were pulled shut, although a small sliver of light still managed to slip through and pooled on the floor. Clothes were strewn everywhere; a suitcase lay open near the wardrobe; stray shoes were scattered. A pizza box sat on the desk, the aroma of pepperoni and onions permeating the air. Instead of disgusting me, as it should, it made me hungry. I hadn’t had lunch yet.

Two champagne flutes sat side by side next to the pizza box; a bottle floated in water that had clearly started out as ice. Their presence, and the sound of the shower being turned off, indicated that Sherman might have been avoiding the police, but he had company.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Sherman asked, pulling the champagne bottle out of the water and managing to pour a few drops into one of the flutes. He picked it up and raised it, as if he was giving a toast.

Harry stared at the glass, and I could see he was wishing there were more to go around.

“I asked Harry to bring me up here,” I started, when it was clear Harry wasn’t going to answer.

Sherman Potter leered at me. Really. Like Harry was loaning me out for the afternoon. I shook off my disgust and said quickly, “I wanted to know how to reach Daisy-I mean, Dee Carmichael’s family to express my sympathies.”

The leer turned into an expression of curiosity. “And you are?’

I didn’t want to shake this man’s hand, so I merely shoved my hands in my pockets and said, “Brett Kavanaugh. I did all of Daisy’s-um, Dee’s tattoos.”

“Even the one that killed her?”

The voice came from behind. A tall redhead was wrapped in a very small white towel, her hair wet and hanging down around her shoulders. Her face was long, horselike, if I were going to be mean like a middle school girl, but her eyes turned her rather plain features into something spectacular: They were big and clear blue, as if she’d invested in those colored contact lenses. Which she may have.

It helped, too, that she had a spectacular body that the towel was doing nothing to conceal.

Harry looked like someone had slapped him silly. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off her. If I were a guy, I probably would be gaping, too. But since she’d basically just accused me of murdering Daisy, I wasn’t exactly her biggest fan.

“I haven’t heard how Daisy died,” I said matter-of-factly.

The girl, and I say that because she didn’t look more than twenty-one, cocked her head at Sherman. “He said that’s how she died. That’s what the police told him.” She cast an eye at Harry, as if daring him to say something to her.

Sherman Potter apparently had better police sources than I did, which was bothersome, since my own brother had stonewalled me.

“I thought you were avoiding the police,” I said to Sherman.

He shot me a look that told me to shut up. He didn’t know me very well.

The girl sidled past me and Harry, brushing up against him so the towel slipped a little. He blushed as she adjusted it, but not before he got a glimpse of what was beneath it. I could tell he’d be good for nothing now.

“I didn’t get your name,” I said as she crossed the room, picked up a pack of cigarettes, and slid one out. Great. Now we’d all get secondhand smoke poisoning.

“I didn’t give it,” she retorted, lighting a match and putting it to the cigarette in her mouth. She blew out the match in a perfect smoke ring. If I hadn’t been so grossed out, it might have impressed me.

“Might as well tell her. Everyone’s going to know soon enough anyway,” Sherman said to her, turning to me and saying, “She’s the Flamingos’ new lead singer.”

Boy, he moved fast. Daisy was barely dead, and he already had a replacement. He saw the look on my face and shook his head.

“It’s not what you think,” he said. “Daisy told me a month ago she was leaving the band. I’ve been auditioning potential replacements ever since.”

The word “audition” seemed to have a different definition for Sherman Potter than it did for most people.

“Congratulations.” Harry finally found his voice, but he couldn’t tear his eyes off the girl, who remained nameless. She was batting her lashes back at him, and there was suddenly a tension in the room that Sherman and I were not a part of. Didn’t really blame her, for while Sherman wasn’t a bad-looking guy, he had to be at least twenty years older than she was, and Harry probably didn’t need any blue pills to help him out.

Sherman, however, was not to be usurped, and he went over to her and slung his arm around her shoulder, again dislodging the precariously held towel. She shifted it up and tightened it again, taking another drag off her cigarette.

“She’s amazing,” Sherman said, and I wasn’t sure whether he was talking about her musical skills or another talent that we would not be privy to. “Dee was a little too girl-next-door for the Flamingos. She didn’t quite fit.”

I didn’t remind him that Daisy had started the Flamingos on her own, that he had been the afterthought when the band had already had some success on YouTube. I didn’t see the same charisma in this girl that Daisy had. True, Daisy was more girl-next-door, despite the goth/punk costumes, but this girl was just pure sex. Sadly, she probably would be a success.

“Do you have Daisy’s family’s information?” I asked, eager now to get out of here.

Sherman picked a cell phone up off the table behind him and hit a few keys. “I’ve got a phone number in Maine.” He jotted it down with a hotel pen on a piece of hotel notepaper and handed it to me. “Will that do?”

I stuck the piece of paper in my back pocket. “I appreciate it.”

“You could’ve just called,” he reminded me.

“Would you have answered the phone?” I shot back at him.

Sherman Potter gave a short shrug. “Probably not.”

The nameless girl stuck her cigarette in the top of a soda can, and we heard it sizzle as it hit the remnants of the liquid. This was way too disgusting for me. It was time to leave.

“Nice to meet you,” I said politely, as my mother would want, and tugged on Harry’s arm to indicate he should stop staring now.

He looked down at me as though seeing me for the first time. “Oh, right, yes, nice to meet you.” And he flashed her a brilliant smile, which she returned. Again, there was that tension. It was like a bolt of lightning had struck in the middle of the room.

“Up for a drink later, Harry?” Sherman asked, escorting us to the door, eager to see us leave. Or, more likely, eager to see Harry leave.

Harry grinned and looked back at the girl, who was now perched on the edge of the table in such a way that we had a clear view of a rose tattoo on the inside of her thigh. She gave Harry a short nod and didn’t make any move to adjust the towel this time.

“Always up for it,” Harry said as Sherman opened the door and practically shoved us out, although I wasn’t quite sure what he’d always be up for: a drink or that girl. Probably both.

“I’ll be at Cleopatra’s Barge again tonight,” Sherman said, the door open merely a crack now. “Ainsley’s singing. You can check her out.”

And the door slammed shut, leaving us in the hallway.

“I think we already checked her out,” Harry quipped.

But I wasn’t thinking about that.

Her name was Ainsley.

What were the odds?