Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

Jeff opened his mouth to say something, then had second thoughts and shut it again, nodding. I took his arm and started steering him toward the door.

“He was just leaving anyway,” I said.

Standing in the doorway, Jeff leaned in, whispered, “My shop at ten,” and shuffled out into the darkness.

I watched him a few seconds, wondering where he’d parked, when Tim came up behind me.

“Don’t do it,” he said.

“Do what?” I asked, stepping back and closing the door.

“Whatever it is he’s planning and has asked you to do.”

“It’s nothing,” I said, busying myself with putting the empty glasses in the dishwasher so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

“He doesn’t know where his mother is, does he, Brett?”

That one I could answer truthfully. I stood up straight and looked him in the eye. “No, he doesn’t. And he’s worried.”

“He should be,” Tim said, turning away. But I saw something in his face before he did.

“What do you know?” I asked his back. “You know something.”

Tim turned around slowly. “You cannot tell Jeff Coleman.”

“I won’t.”

“No, really, I mean it. You can’t tell him. Because I don’t think he knows.”

“Doesn’t know what?”

Tim sighed. “Ray Lucci was Sylvia Coleman’s son. Jeff Coleman’s half brother.”

As I drove toward Murder Ink the next morning, I thought about what Tim had told me. The police had found evidence of Lucci’s relationship to Sylvia in his apartment. Letters she had written to him in prison.

When I asked Tim why he told me, he said that if I knew, maybe I’d keep more of an open mind. I could also keep an eye on Jeff Coleman, try to find out whether he knew about Lucci.

“But you said you didn’t think he knows.”

“He probably doesn’t. But he’s pretty good at covering stuff up.”

No kidding. Even though he denied any sort of covert-operative job in the Marines, I wasn’t too quick to believe him.

I was in the wrong lane. I missed my turn onto Koval, which meant I had to go up the Strip. Sitting at the intersection with the Statue of Liberty and the gold MGM lion hovering over me, I was again struck by the outrageousness of this part of Las Vegas. My neighborhood was a typical southwestern one, with stucco houses and faded red roofs and Home Depot and Target and strip malls interspersed among palm trees and banana yuccas. The mountains rose up in the distance, reminding me of my hike yesterday morning up at Red Rock, the hard red earth beneath my feet. The brownness of the desert was speckled with bits of green, and I couldn’t wait until the flowers bloomed bright against their plain backdrop, spectacular for such a short time.

Being from New Jersey, I suppose I could say I missed the change of seasons, but we had it here, too, only in a different way. And I totally did not miss scraping ice and snow off my car. While I’m not that spiritual a person, despite Sister Mary Eucharista’s best efforts, when I first saw Red Rock, I felt as if I’d come home in a way. I knew I probably would never go back east.

Tim felt the same way. Our sister, Cathleen, had moved to Southern California years before. Only my parents clung to the East, now in Florida in their retirement community, having cocktail parties and suffering the occasional hurricane.

The light changed, and I turned right onto the Strip. During the day it wasn’t as glitzy, but the tall gold towers of Mandalay Bay, the Eiffel Tower at Paris, the dancing fountains at Bellagio, and the Roman columns at Caesars were proof that we weren’t in Kansas anymore.

I passed the Venetian, wishing now that I’d gone to work instead of indulging Jeff Coleman’s little adventure.The replica of the Doge’s Palace might be realistic if there weren’t valets out front and St. Mark’s Square wasn’t trapped inside its walls instead of being spread out in front.

Farther up, I went by Steve Wynn’s newest behemoth: Encore. The economy really wasn’t supporting these places, but Vegas is optimistic by nature; otherwise people wouldn’t keep coming here and tossing their money on the tables.

Me, I didn’t gamble. Well, I did once and won a nice bit of cash. But that was a fluke. No one really won in Vegas, despite their hopes. It would be healthier for everyone if they came here with no expectations; then if they won a little, they’d be happier, and if they lost, they could chalk it up to the fact that the house always wins. Almost always.

I was getting into a seedier part of town. The farther away from the Strip, the less glamour. Fremont Street, where Vegas started, sprouted up to my left, and I glanced over at the pedestrian mall and the Four Queens Casino.

Murder Ink was just north, tucked next door to Goodfellas Bail Bonds and across the street from the Bright Lights Motel. The “B” was out on the sign, and it was flashing RIGHT LIGHTS, its neon barely discernible in the blast of sunlight that hit it.

I parked in the motel parking lot-I’d done that before, and no one ever said anything-and crossed the street to Murder Ink.

The door was locked, and the sign said it was closed.

I cupped my eyes and peered through the glass.

Suddenly, a figure moved in front of me, and I jumped back.

The door swung open, and Jeff Coleman grinned. “You wouldn’t make a very good spy, Kavanaugh.”

I stepped inside the shop. “I don’t want to be a spy.”

Jeff closed the door behind me and locked it again. When I turned to face him, he was looking me up and down.

“What?” I asked.

“You couldn’t find something else to wear? I mean, it is your wedding day.” He was teasing me, but I wasn’t in the mood.

I was wearing a cotton skirt that touched my knees, a black T-shirt, and my usual Tevas. “What’s wrong with this?” I asked.

“Well, it’s more like you’re heading off to work at the local homeless shelter. You’d fit right in in that outfit.” The edges of his mouth twitched with amusement.

“I didn’t think I should show off too much of my tattoos,” I said.

“Oh, so it’s a disguise,” he said thoughtfully. “You don’t really wear that outfit in public normally, do you?”

I wore this outfit every week or so, but the way he was trying not to laugh meant I was so not going to tell him that.

“You could’ve worn a pair of jeans,” he added as he went toward the back of the shop and through a curtain of sixties beads into his office.

I sighed and followed him. This was not going to be fun at all. I tried to remind myself why I went along with this in the first place, but I honestly couldn’t remember. Maybe it was because I was tired and he caught me off guard.

Jeff didn’t stop in his office but went out a back door, his car keys jingling in his hand. He held the door open for me, and I saw the gold Pontiac parked in the alley.

“If we’re supposed to be incognito, why are we going in that?” I asked.

“I don’t think it’s going to matter,” he said as he opened the passenger door for me.

I sunk down into the seat and fastened my seat belt as he climbed in. He gave me a sideways glance.

“Sure you don’t want to stop somewhere and get a pair of jeans or something?”

I took a deep breath. “Just drive, Jeff.”

The smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he kept it at bay.

We were a block away when I realized something.

“Aren’t you even going to try to have a cigarette with me in the car?” I asked.

Jeff did smile now, and he took his hand off the wheel for a second to pull up his short sleeve. A small beige patch was stuck to his bicep.

“I’m quitting,” he said.