Karen Olson: The Missing Ink

If Sister Mary Eucharista at Our Lady of Perpetual Mercy School could see me now, she’d rap my hands five times with a ruler.

“Are you going to tell Tim?” Bitsy asked.

“Tell him what?”

“About the girl. What else?” Bitsy and Willis would tie in an irritation contest. I might come in a close second.

“I’ll tell him when I get home.”

“You could’ve told that cop about Tim.”

Bitsy didn’t get it. If I’d told Willis that Detective Tim Kavanaugh was my brother, it would seem like I was going over his head. Which was what I planned to do. However, he didn’t have to know that. We’d already established a tense relationship.

Anyway, he may have put two and two together when he’d heard my last name. How many Kavanaughs were there in Vegas anyway? That plus the fact that Tim and I were relative carbon copies of each other would’ve been even more of a clue. And clues were his business.

Bitsy and I had been over and over the girl’s visit the other night. She’d seemed a little skittish, but we’d chalked that up to it being her first time. She didn’t even get the ink. She just made an appointment and then never showed.

“You’re sure it was her in the picture?” Bitsy asked for the umpteenth time.

“Yes.” I felt like a broken record. It was a recent picture-I could tell that even though it was a photocopy. She was in her late twenties, the long dark hair pulled into a fashionably tousled knot, a pair of big, black Jackie O sunglasses outlined in rhinestones on top of her head, her face white and narrow with brilliant blue eyes that indicated colored contact lenses. I couldn’t tell what she wore for the snapshot, but when she showed up here, she was wearing a thin white lace baby-doll top with spaghetti straps, a black bra peeking through, and skinny jeans with strappy red sandals. At first glance, she could have been one of those rich girls partying in Vegas for the weekend-or a working girl. It was hard to tell, since the wardrobes were similar these days.

She said her name was Kelly Masters. She said the concierge at the Bellagio had recommended us.

She said she wanted to surprise her fiancé on their wedding night. So much for the working-girl theory. The diamond on her hand could’ve been listed as one of the wonders of the world, the way it flashed like a strobe across the walls when the light hit it.

From the small bag over her shoulder, Kelly took a rather rudimentary drawing of a heart with what I supposed were two hands clasped underneath it.

“I want his name-Matthew-too,” she said.

I’m not big on devotion tats. Relationships might start out great, but statistics were against most people. And relationships that had any foothold in Vegas were dubious, in my opinion. What happens in Vegas may stay here, but tattoos didn’t have that option. They went home with you.

That said, a client is a client, and as David St. Hubbins of Spinal Tap noted, it’s a fine line between stupid and clever.

I was used to straddling that line myself, so I cut her a break.

We made an appointment for the next day. I told her I’d make a proper sketch, she could take a look, and I could make changes, if she wanted.

Then she left.

I carried out my part of the bargain-my sketch was much more elaborate than the simple one she’d handed me-but Bitsy doubted she’d come back. We’d even bet on it. My wallet was a hundred dollars lighter. They don’t say Vegas is for suckers for nothing.

“Wonder where she is,” Bitsy said thoughtfully.

“Maybe she and Matthew had a fight,” I suggested. I gave Jesus’ nose a little more shadow before lifting my foot off the pedal. The machine stopped whirring, and I assessed the Son of God before me.

Not bad, if I did say so myself.

“Cops don’t come looking for you unless something awful’s happened,” Bitsy said.

“You’re done,” I told the young man, handing him a small mirror so he could take a look at himself in the full-length one on the staff room door. As he went to see my handiwork, I shook my head at Bitsy. “He said she wasn’t dead.”

“He could’ve been lying.”

I mulled that over for a second. Willis didn’t seem like the type to lie. Then again, I didn’t know him well.

The young man came back and handed me the mirror. “It’s awesome ,” he said.

Sister Mary Eucharista felt the same way, although she had her own descriptive adjectives.

I covered the ink with Saran Wrap, taping it down and going through the laundry list of how to take care of the tattoo. The skin was the color of bubble gum right now, but after it healed and peeled like sunburn, it would begin to look like his other tats. Not that he’d notice much, since it was on his back.

He paid Bitsy at the front table, the cash and credit card machine discreetly hidden in a drawer, and I went into the staff room. Joel and Ace had gone home at ten o’clock. It was eleven now, and Bitsy and I were going to call it a day. I could hear Bitsy’s stool sliding across the floor in the room I’d just vacated. She’d already taken care of the books for the day-usually my job, as boss, but she was capable and knew I’d be toast after hours with Jesus-and she was trashing the disposable needles, leftover ink, ink cups, and gloves. The needle bar would be put in the autoclave for sterilization.

I started sketching a design for the next day on the light table. Bitsy had turned off the sound system, and it was too quiet. I grabbed the remote for the small TV set in the corner.

I should’ve called Tim to tell him about Kelly right away, after Willis left.

Because her face was plastered across the screen on the local news.

But the anchor didn’t call her Kelly Masters.

Apparently, her real name was Elise Lyon.

Tim waited until after he got off the phone with his people at the police department before interrogating me. “You didn’t think to call?”

I knew Tim would be upset. We were standing in the kitchen; I still had my messenger bag over my shoulder, but Tim had been home for a while and was wearing a pair of sweats and a T-shirt touting the Mets.

“I got busy. I spent four hours on this Jesus tat. There wasn’t time to call. I figured I’d tell you when I got home.”

It was a lame excuse. I’d had twenty minutes before the kid showed, and I spent the time gossiping about Kelly Masters with everyone in the shop.

“I didn’t know why the cops were looking for her,” I said when he didn’t say anything. The TV reporter hadn’t said much either, except that anyone who’d seen her should call the police. “That cop didn’t tell me anything. Just wanted to know if I recognized her. I’m not clairvoyant.”

I was babbling over my guilt. I knew something was amiss the minute he showed me the picture. It didn’t matter how much I tried to talk myself out of it, with Bitsy or with Tim. Kelly, or Elise, was in trouble, and Bitsy and I had seen her. But being a tattooist is sort of like being a psychiatrist. Some people come to us discreetly, and they expect discretion in return. I had to tread that line carefully.

Tim reached into the fridge, grabbed the milk, and poured himself a glass. He was drawing this out.

“So what’s her story?” I tried to sound nonchalant, shrugging the bag over my head and slinging it on one of the chairs at the table.

“Nothing you need to worry about, as long as you’re telling me everything.” He took a long drink, leaving a milk mustache. He didn’t wipe it away.

“I am.”

“We’ll need to talk to Bitsy, too.”

“Of course.” Bitsy was already anticipating that. She’d come up with more possibilities as we locked up the shop: rape, domestic violence, maybe Kelly was a terrorist. A little extreme, but I had to admit it might not be out of the realm of possibility. Especially since Tim was being just as closemouthed about it as Willis had been. I thought I’d have been a shoo-in to find out the whole story once I got home. Should’ve known better.