Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

“So Lucci was an ex-con?”

“Um, yeah.” I could tell Jeff’s change of subject threw DellaRocco for a second. “He stole cars. I got a little worried with him here because every now and then he’d talk about how great a car that came through was. Like that red Mustang Bullitt a couple days ago. I was sure he was going after that one.”

I froze. That was what Dan Franklin had said, that Lucci was eyeing my car.

“That’s the car he was found in,” Jeff said casually.

“Really? How do you know that?”

“I’ve got a friend on the police force. He told me a few things off the record.”

“Like what?” Everyone liked a bit of gossip.

“He and another guy named Dan Franklin had some sort of rift. Franklin works here, too, right?”

It dawned on me that if I could hear them, they could hear me, too. Or not hear me, since I wasn’t doing anything. I turned on the water, which, unfortunately, drowned out the conversation.

Another glance around told me there was another door on the other side of the bathroom. Turning the water on a little higher to make more noise, I tiptoed over to the other door and tugged on it.

It swung open, and I peered around the corner. Seemed like it led into a sort of dressing room, although instead of a wide mirror across one wall, there was only a long vertical one stuck on the back of a door across the room, like you’d see in a store dressing room. A clothes rack was a sort of open closet; tuxedos hung side by side. Must have been ten of them. On a table that reminded me of those you see at a church craft fair, foam heads wore black wigs. Lockers lined the far side of the room. Must have been where the Dean Martins stashed their stuff while they were crooning to newlyweds.

A quick look around, and I stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind me. Even though the cops had already been here, I wondered whether they missed something that Ray Lucci had left behind.

A rat’s cage, maybe?

As I stepped closer, I saw masking tape with names stuck on the locker doors. WILL, ALAN, DAN, LOU, and RAY. Dan must have been Dan Franklin; Ray was Lucci. I didn’t know whether I should care about the others, but I went over the names a few times in my head so I wouldn’t forget them.

I paused, trying to hear whether anyone was coming. I couldn’t hear Jeff and DellaRocco anymore, and the other door to the ladies’ room must have been more soundproof because I couldn’t hear the running water, either.

I didn’t want to tarry too long, so I stepped up to Ray’s locker and pulled it open.

Nothing inside. Not a scrap of paper or even a crumb. It was as though someone had vacuumed it. Like the cops. Who’d been here yesterday, interrupting business.

I shut the door.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I moved to the locker marked DAN. There were clothes in here: jeans, a T-shirt, a pair of running shoes. Because I’m almost six feet tall, I didn’t even need to stand on my toes to see what was on the shelf.

A wallet.

Must have been pretty trusting.

I snatched it down and opened it. Credit cards, a few dollar bills, and a driver’s license.

Dan Franklin should have had his picture taken again.

Because he was the spitting image of Ray Lucci, the guy in my trunk.

While I was always a fan of the Rat Pack, Dean Martin wasn’t my favorite. I had a soft spot for Sammy. Maybe it’s because I have two left feet and am tone-deaf, but Sammy’s moves have always impressed me. Dino, on the other hand, was Frank’s sidekick, the amusing drunk who seemed to be along for the ride.

It was interesting how That’s Amore was breathing new life into him.

I stared at the picture of Dan Franklin and could totally see how Ray Lucci could pass himself off as Franklin. Who would know?

I was about to put the wallet back when I noticed a plastic card that didn’t look like a credit card. I slid it out. An ID card from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Laboratory Animal Care Services.

Dan Franklin was wearing a lab coat in the picture. He looked less like Ray Lucci here.

As I studied it, I flashed back to the rat found with Lucci in my trunk.

Rats are lab animals, aren’t they?

A banging startled me. Tossing the wallet back in the locker and shutting it as quietly as I could, I tried to figure out where the banging was coming from.

It was the ladies’ room. Jeff must have been wondering where I was.

In a few strides, I was at the door I’d come in from. I put my hand on the knob and turned it.

But nothing happened.

I shouldn’t have let the door close. Because it was locked. From the inside.

Itwirled around and assessed my situation.

There were two other doors. One not far from the ladies’ room door, and the one that wore the mirror across the room. I went to the closest one and opened it.

The men’s room.

Figures.

How would I explain that I went into the ladies’ room and came out the men’s?

I had to see where the other door led.

But before I could reach it, it swung open by itself. Well, not really by itself-there was a person behind it.

He stepped around the door and his mouth formed a small “O” when he spotted me standing next to the lockers.

“Who are you?” he asked, his eyes skittering to the lockers and then back to me.

He was onto me. I thought quickly. “I came here to get married, but I got cold feet and went into the ladies’ room, and I was trying sneak out so my fiancé wouldn’t find me.” Hey, sounded like a plan.

“Happens all the time,” he said.

Really? Interesting.

I noticed now his resemblance to Dean Martin-and by extension Ray Lucci and Dan Franklin-but it could’ve been the wig and the tux. Maybe this was Franklin.

He looked from me to the lockers again, a frown etched in his forehead. Being nosy wasn’t a crime, although I hoped he didn’t think I’d taken anything.

“This way,” he said, crooking his finger at me so I’d follow.

He didn’t believe my story. Best-case scenario: He’d kick me out and tell me never to come back. I could hear even more banging behind us as we went out into a dark hallway. I heard voices now, Jeff’s and DellaRocco’s.

“It’s my fiancé,” I whispered. Maybe now my story would seem more credible.

“This way,” he repeated, and we moved down the hall and turned a corner.

The light blinded me for a second, and I blinked a few times before I realized we were going out into a back parking lot. He stopped in front of a blue Ford, unlocking it with a key fob and opening the door for me. I hesitated, and he looked at me quizzically.

“Don’t you want to get away?” he asked.

My dad always told me not to get into a car with a stranger. “I don’t even know you.”

“My name’s Will Parker.” He tugged at the wig until it came off, and he tossed it into the backseat. He ran his hand through a mass of dark blond curls, and he unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

He didn’t look like Dean Martin anymore. He had a rakish look about him, sort of like the high school football quarterback who knew he’d get the head cheerleader in a compromising position at the prom.

I wasn’t quite ready to be compromised, and I had a can of Mace in my bag along with my cell phone.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I hope you understand.” I paused a second before asking, “You probably have a girlfriend or something waiting for you anyway, right?” Might as well try to lighten up the mood-let him think I was more worried about his personal commitments than my own safety.