Ink Flamingos

Chapter 29

Excalibur is one of the Strip’s oldest resort casinos, built like a castle, but a really fake one. It didn’t even pretend to look like a real one, just a cartoon version of a castle, the kind of castle Ace would paint. It was a place to go if you wanted a cheap room or if you had a family, because kids loved the place.

“Get out,” Jeff said when the valet came over. Jeff shoved the keys in the guy’s hand, came around to my side, and shuffled me off into the resort.

“You’re just leaving it here?” I asked.

“Why not?”

We went up the escalator to the next level. It was more fake castle in here, with fake stonework and fake balconies. A kiosk selling kitschy souvenirs was at the top of the escalators. They had a restaurant here that was supposed to be like Henry VIII’s court, where you ate big turkey legs and pounded on the table for more mead. I hoped Jeff didn’t want to have dinner. I didn’t think I could deal with that right now.

Instead, however, he was leading me outside and toward the monorail that ran between Excalibur, the Luxor, which was shaped like an Egyptian pyramid, and Mandalay Bay, whose gold tower shimmered over the Strip. I hoped we weren’t going to the Luxor, because that place creeped me out even more than Excalibur. It was way too dark inside.

“Where are we going?” I asked when the monorail began to move.

Jeff wasn’t paying attention. He was leaning over me, looking down at the Hummer in the driveway at the Excalibur. It was surrounded by three police cars.

“They’re going to know it was us,” I said. “I mean, those kids can identify me. So can the driver. We might as well give ourselves up.” Easy to say when we were gliding along the rail, passing the Luxor-much to my relief-and on toward Mandalay Bay.

“When we’re having dinner, you can call your brother,” Jeff said. “Explain.”

I frowned. Dinner?

“I’m hungry, and I’m glad we’re not at that concert.” Jeff stood up as the monorail slid into the station.

The doors opened, and I followed Jeff out.

We walked down the stairs and toward the casino. As we turned another corner, a glassed-in shop distracted us. It was a tattoo shop.

“Do you know them?” I asked Jeff. I had met the owner once.

Jeff nodded, then put his arm around me to steer me away. “We don’t have time to stop in.”

I hadn’t really wanted to “stop in.” If we did, we’d have to pretend that we were out like everyone else, that we hadn’t stolen a Hummer limo and abandoned it in front of Excalibur. We’d have to make small talk-oh, yes, business is quite good, how’s yours-and it would be way too much effort.

No, it was better we were winding our way through the casino toward the restaurants and shops.

Jeff stopped at one of the restaurant entrances, but when I looked into yet another dark hallway, I pulled back and shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Trust me,” he said for the second time that night and led me to a staircase leading down.

We were pretty high up, and to our right was what looked like a wine cellar encased in glass that stretched from the high ceiling down two stories to the bottom floor. A woman who looked remarkably like a Bond girl, wearing some sort of rappelling equipment, was scaling the glass wall as she held a bottle of wine.

“They’re known for that here,” Jeff said as if he saw that sort of thing every day.

When we reached the bottom of the stairs, the hostess-a tall, painfully thin woman wearing a little slip of a dress-surveyed us with pursed lips.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any tables available,” she said haughtily.

I took a glance around. I saw three tables that were vacant. It was most likely our jeans and tattoos that were turning her off.

Jeff wasn’t about to be turned away, however.

“Tell the chef Jeff Coleman is here,” he snapped.

She stood there, uncertain what to do.

“Now,” Jeff growled.

She scurried off.

“Do you really know the chef?” I asked, impressed. If I’d been alone or with anyone else, I would’ve been back climbing those stairs and looking for another place to eat.

“Did all his tattoos,” Jeff said flatly.

We watched the woman rappelling down the wine case until we heard the hostess’s heels clicking on the wood floor, a fake smile spread across her face now.

“Mr. Coleman, we have a table ready right over here,” she said, picking up two menus and leading the way. When we were seated, she said in a tight voice, “Richard will be out shortly.” The chef, I guess.

I realized I was famished. So I didn’t get to see the Flamingos, but this was much better. My mouth watered as I perused the menu. Jeff reached over and took it out of my hands before I was finished, though.

“Hey!”

He put the menus down. “I know what you’ll like.”

“Really?” I asked, my back up.

He chucked. “Really,” he said. “You know, Kavanaugh, you need to lighten up.”

“I’ve got mobs chasing me, wanting my head for something I didn’t do,” I said grumpily. “I think I can be wound a little tight.”

“Which is why we need some wine.”

The waiter hovered, and Jeff ordered an Australian Malbec and a French chardonnay. And then he said, “The chef knows what I want.” The waiter nodded and shuffled off.

“I thought you didn’t like wine,” I said, still a little snippy but not quite as much.

“It’s got its place,” he said. “Now you need to call Tim and tell him what happened.”

Obediently, I pulled out my phone. The hostess gave me a dirty look. “Maybe I should take it outside,” I said, scrambling to my feet and spotting an elevator. Much better than those stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

I left him just as the waiter came with the wine. Watching Jeff Coleman taste wine was an image I figured I could live without. Too sophisticated, somehow.

Once I emerged from the elevator, I stood in the little alcove and punched in Tim’s number. This time he did pick up.

“You stole a Hummer?” he asked loudly,incredulously.

“A Hummer limo,” I corrected.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I told him about the mob of people coming after me. The broken beer bottle. The limo driver who lunged at me, and how Jeff had flipped him. I told him about the security guard locking us out after we’d seen a tall redhead. I went through the story backward, until I got to the beginning.

“You arrested Sherman Potter?” I asked. “So he really did it?”

“Where are you now?” he asked, totally ignoring me.

“Having dinner with Jeff.”

“So you steal a Hummer-excuse me, Hummer limo-and leave it at the Excalibur and then go out to dinner? You’re not having that medieval meal, are you?”

“No. We were hungry. What’s this about Sherman Potter? He killed her, right? Tell me that it’ll be in the papers and no one will come after me again about Daisy.” I really needed this to be over.

“We found his fingerprints at the scene.”

I smiled. Outwardly. A woman walking by smiled back. Maybe I’d be able to have a nice dinner after all.

“Problem is, Brett, the limo driver wants to press charges against you and Jeff. It would be better if you came in now and we could settle this.”