Ink Flamingos

Chapter 26

I could put two and two together. All that time at the shop and the oxygen bar clearly had created a friendship and possibly more. With Jeff’s information about Harry’s tattoo parties, it seemed likely that Ace was moonlighting with Harry.

I wanted to think that I paid him enough so he wouldn’t need to do that. And anyway, what was up with all his whining about how tattooing was not his life’s calling, that he was so frustrated as an artist because he couldn’t express himself the way he wanted?

I took a step toward them, but felt Jeff’s hand holding me back.

I could see in his face that he’d drawn the same conclusion I had, but he was shaking his head.

“They can’t know we’re following them,” he said softly. “How would we explain that? You can talk to Ace tomorrow about this.” And he indicated I should follow him back toward the building.

Once safely inside and definitely out of sight, I let out a deep breath. “That was something I didn’t expect.”

“You can talk to him tomorrow,” Jeff said again. “We’ve got to get to the MGM.”

But we were without a car now.

Jeff was reading my mind. “We can pick up the monorail here at the Flamingo,” he said. “It’ll take us straight to the MGM.”

I’d been on the Las Vegas Monorail before. It ran back and forth between the MGM and the Sahara, stopping occasionally. More and more people were taking it these days, but it was still mostly tourists.

There were enough people so we couldn’t sit down, but had to hold on to the silver poles in the middle of the car. It reminded me-sort of-of the New York subway, but it was a tad too clean. I noticed Jeff was checking out a girl standing close to him, long blond tresses, tasteful makeup, a tight red dress that left nothing to the imagination. Was that his type? I looked down at my own jeans and black T-shirt with the skull, my tattoos bleeding down my arms. Couldn’t be more different.

Jeff caught me watching him, but instead of looking surprised, he merely winked.

I made a face at him and turned toward the guy next to me, a white kid who had aspirations to be a black rapper, wearing a wife-beater T, jeans hanging precariously around his hips, strands of gold “bling” around his neck. I bet this guy grew up in the white suburbs somewhere, had never been in a ’hood in his life.

He caught me looking at him and a leer crossed his face.

I had to stop paying attention to people. It was safer to be oblivious.

The monorail slowed at the Bally’s/Paris stop. I could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower from the window, all lit up like a Christmas tree. I imagined the real thing, and wished I were there, away from all this. Would I be a coward if I left town now?

I felt the slight jolt as the monorail began to move again, and because I’d shifted my feet a little, I fell against the white rapper guy. I felt his hand cup my ass and I jerked away, my face growing hot with anger.

Before I could say anything, Jeff had the guy by the scruff of his shirtfront and had lifted him to his tiptoes.

“That’s not a way to treat a lady,” he growled in the guy’s face, which was now even whiter with fear.

Jeff let him down with a thud, then turned to me and winked, putting his arm around me to herd me a little farther away. It reminded me of the time Tim had come to my rescue when Danny Brody had grabbed me during a game of capture the flag, his hands reaching toward my newly budded breasts.

Let’s just say Danny stayed away from me after that.

The monorail slowed again at the MGM stop. Everyone filed out, the white rapper giving Jeff furtive glances as though he were afraid Jeff would come after him again. The girl in the red dress batted her eyelashes at Jeff, and I wondered if they had made an unspoken date.

“Thanks for that back there,” I said as we walked from the monorail station to the MGM.

“Guy was out of line.”

“It happens,” I said.

“Shouldn’t.”

“You seemed to like that girl.”

“What girl?”

“The one in the red dress.”

Jeff chuckled. “What are you after, Kavanaugh? Trying to figure out my type?”

I shrugged. “I guess it’s just that you’ve met Colin Bixby, and you knew Simon Chase, too,” I said, referring to a casino manager I’d dated several months earlier. “I’ve never even seen you with a woman.”

Jeff’s face grew a little dark. He pursed his lips and stared straight ahead. “You knew about Kelly.” He was referring to his ex-wife, who had been murdered. He’d wanted kids with her and found out when she died that she’d been pregnant. I’d thought that because he never talked about it, he wasn’t still thinking about her. But I guess I was wrong. Hard to get over that sort of thing. Even for Jeff Coleman.

This was getting a little too personal. I was relieved to see we’d reached the entrance to the arena where the Flamingos were playing. I stepped up to the box office and told them my name.

“Melanie Black said she’d have two tickets for me,” I said.

The woman barely looked at me, rummaged in a drawer, and produced a small envelope, slipping it out through a slit in the bottom of the glass barrier between us.

I took it and looked around. Didn’t see Tim or Flanigan anywhere.

“Let’s go in,” Jeff said.

“I’m supposed to wait for Tim.”

“We’re late. He’s probably already in there.”

Jeff was right. But what was this? He wanted to go in with me?

“You can’t stand this kind of music,” I said.

He grinned. “Always up for something new.”

I hesitated.

“What’s wrong?”

Granted, Melanie had left two tickets for me; Tim was nowhere to be found. But I wasn’t sure about Jeff. First, because Tim might already be in there, ticket or no, and this wasn’t supposed to be a party. Second, Jeff wanting to go to a Flamingos concert was really out of character. Something was up, but I couldn’t figure out what.

Jeff leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “Your brother isn’t here to go in with you, Kavanaugh. You’ve got someone taking pictures of you, accusing you of murdering a client. Accusing you publicly. I am not going to let you go in there alone. There must be thousands of people in there.”

And one of them could be my stalker. Okay, I got it.

I handed the envelope to the usher, who fished out the tickets. And something else. He looked at it, then handed it back to me. I glanced at it. A backstage pass.

“Go down to the front and give this to the usher near the steps,” he instructed.

I clutched it firmly in my hand as we made our way through throngs of people. At one point, I felt Jeff’s hand on the small of my back. At least I hoped it was Jeff’s. When we reached the front usher, I showed her the pass. She said something into a little walkie-talkie, then told us: “Hold on a minute.”

We stood, jostled by people taking their seats for the concert. Since we were so close to the stage now, I couldn’t help but notice the flowers. People had tossed bouquets and stray flowers and stuffed animals up on the stage. It was their way of paying their respects to the Flamingos. Since there was no street corner at which to leave them, the Flamingos’ fans had strewn them on the stage, where Daisy was more at home than anywhere.

I felt a sob escape my throat.

“It’s not your fault,” I heard Jeff whisper in my ear.

I swallowed hard, and before I could answer, a big, burly, black security guard came out of nowhere. The woman usher indicated us. “That’s them,” she said, but I couldn’t hear her because of the noise. I’d read her lips.

He barely looked at us, but a small nod of his head indicated that he might have actually heard her-or he was good at reading lips, too. We followed him up some side steps and around to the back. Before we could reach our destination, Melanie came running out toward us. The security guard stepped back, putting his hand to his ear, where he had a small headphone attached.

“What did you do, Brett?” Melanie demanded as she approached.

I looked at Jeff, then back at her, and shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“The cops. You sent cops over here.”

Tim and Flanigan. I nodded. “My brother-” I started, but she put her hand up to stop me.

“They took Sherman out of here in handcuffs.”