Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

Sylvia made a face. “Serves him right. Flashing his money clip all the time, his big gold rings and chains around his neck. He’s such a guido.”

She didn’t have any problems being politically incorrect.

“I guess the mugger cut him with a knife.”

“I bet he cut himself just to tell that story,” she said.

I frowned. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he always needs to be the center of attention.”

“You don’t like him.”

“No.”

We paused on the edge of the casino, the sounds echoing in my head: the slapping of the cards on the table, the clink of ice in glasses, the soft music that replaced the clatter of coins as they fell from the slot machines. Everything was automated now. Tickets took the place of quarters and nickels and dimes. I missed the little buckets whose weight indicated how lucky I’d been. Or how unlucky. It was too quiet in here.

But even with the changes, a casino is a casino: the black orbs in the ceiling, where the cameras watched our every move; the bright carpet patterns that made you look up at the tables, which enticed with their promise of luck; the dealers flipping the cards or turning the wheel or pushing chips across the tables.

Sylvia stood on tiptoe, and her head swiveled from side to side like a bird as she surveyed the room. I had a better view and said, “Over here.”

Bernie sat at one of the blackjack tables. He had a pile of chips in front of him and wasn’t ready to leave.

“In a minute, in a minute,” he said without taking his eyes off the table.

Bernie Applebaum was bald, with wisps of white hair around his ears and on the back of his head. He was a little stocky, a little hunchbacked. But he had a quick, warm smile, and the wrinkles around his brown eyes accentuated his kindness. He’d owned a deli in northern New Jersey, not too far from where I grew up, but I didn’t think I’d ever had one of what he called his “famous” pastrami-and-Swiss-on-rye sandwiches. Rosalie finally talked him into selling the business and moving out here with her after he’d had a heart attack a few years back. If I had to guess, I’d say Bernie was older than Sylvia, probably around eighty. He was in good shape now, swimming every day, which was how they met.

We watched Bernie play a few hands. I was still trying to figure out how to persuade them to talk to Flanigan about Ray Lucci, but when I started to make my case again, Bernie waved his hand in dismissal and Sylvia shushed me.

I felt a light touch on my shoulder and turned to see Jeff Coleman. His other hand was on his mother’s shoulder.

“How are my girls doing?” he drawled, his grin wide as he leaned down to kiss his mother’s cheek.

She turned her face up to meet his, but I slid out from under his hand. I didn’t want him to think I’d welcome a kiss, too. Our relationship had moved forward, but not that much.

He gave me a wink, and I told myself it wasn’t because he was reading my mind but because he was happy to see his mother.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

Bernie shook his head. “In a minute.”

I tugged on Jeff’s sleeve and pulled him away from the table, out of earshot.

“Your mother says you’re taking them to Rosalie’s? What’s up with that? They need to talk to Detective Flanigan. With a little prodding, maybe they’ll remember something that could help solve Ray Lucci’s murder. And I thought Rosalie was at work, anyway.” I wasn’t in the mood to tell him about my little visit to the university yet.

Jeff sighed and ran a hand across his salt-and-pepper buzz cut. “I get it, Kavanaugh. You want me to do the right thing. But I am doing the right thing. Trust me.”

“I don’t see how it’s the right thing,” I argued.

Jeff hesitated a second, looking toward his mother and then back to me.

“I’m taking them to Rosalie. Not her place. She’s at the hospital. Her husband got clipped by a car. Not sure if he’s going to pull through.”

Icould barely concentrate on work. I felt the machine in my hand as I tattooed a young man’s calf with the image of his pet dog, but I was on autopilot. The dog was one of those little ones, the ones that look like hairless rats, which didn’t help my state of mind because I kept thinking about Dan Franklin and that dead rat in my car and Lou Marino getting hit by a car and being almost run over myself in the parking lot at the university.

I wondered whether he’d gotten hit while Bitsy and I were over there talking to Rosalie.

There had to be a connection with what was going on with the That’s Amore Dean Martins, and as soon as I got home, I’d talk to Tim about it. For about a nanosecond I considered calling Flanigan, but then it would’ve been all official and everything, and I might’ve not been able to get that good night’s sleep I was hoping for.

It had been a long day.

But before I went home, I wanted to stop by the hospital to check on Lou Marino and see how Rosalie was holding up.

Granted, considering her black eye, I supposed I shouldn’t be concerned about her husband, but it was the right thing to do. Sister Mary Eucharista was urging me on.

And sure, I could’ve called Jeff Coleman instead, but when I tried, his phone just rang and rang.

Bitsy was wiping down Joel’s room. Joel had left half an hour ago; his last client hadn’t taken as long as mine. Ace was long gone.

“Are you almost done?” I asked.

Bitsy looked up. She was standing on her stool, the one she dragged around with her to reach those places she couldn’t, as she cleaned up Joel’s ink pots.

“Just your room left,” she said.

“I already did it,” I said, and a grateful smile crossed her face. She’d had as long a day as I’d had, and I wanted to give her a break.

I surveyed how much she had left to do in here and silently joined her, putting the needle bar in the autoclave, wiping down Joel’s client chair, collecting the trash and putting a new liner in the can. The room was, as Mary Pop-pins would say, spit spot in no time.

We got our stuff from the staff room and went out front, where I locked the glass front doors, then pulled the gate down and locked that, too. The rest of the mall shops were locking up, as well. Time to turn into a pumpkin.

I left Bitsy at her MINI Cooper, which she’d had outfitted to accommodate her size. I wished I could fit into one of those comfortably, but it was a lost cause.

We said our good-byes. I could see the weariness in the lines around her eyes. Mine probably looked the same, and I wondered whether I shouldn’t head straight home, but once I got into the Jeep and pulled out onto the Strip, the lights flashing across the windshield, I got a second wind.

Jeff had said Lou Marino had been taken to University Medical Center, so I pointed the Jeep in that direction.

I told myself I wasn’t going over there hoping for a glimpse of Colin Bixby.

He worked in the emergency room there, when he wasn’t teaching classes at the university.

He probably wasn’t working tonight anyway.

The parking garage was all lit up like a Christmas tree. I found a space and parked, heading down to the hospital entrance, where I pushed my way in through the heavy doors and stepped up to the information desk.

An older woman with bright white hair and too much makeup scowled at me. “May I help you?” She so obviously did not want to help me.

“I understand a friend”-okay, he wasn’t my friend, but his wife was a client and his in-laws were friends-“was brought in here earlier. Lou Marino. He got hit by a car.”

Her fingers were already moving on her computer keyboard. After a second, she looked up at me. “Are you family?”