Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

When it finally opened, I couldn’t believe it.

Ray Lucci hadn’t ordered only a clip cord.

Three days ago, the day before he was killed, he’d ordered all the parts needed to build a tattoo machine. And he’d had them shipped to That’s Amore.

It was all right there in front of me on the laptop screen, but I couldn’t figure it out.

Why would Ray Lucci want to build a tattoo machine? I scanned the items he bought: coils, armature bar, grip, binding posts, frame, tube clamp. It would be easier to buy a tattoo machine already assembled. And why order a clip cord but not the power supply or the foot pedal? A tattoo machine without the last two items was useless. A clip cord that couldn’t clip to a power source made no sense, either-unless you were going to strangle someone with it. But Lucci didn’t strangle himself.

I remembered, though, how I’d suggested to Tim that maybe he had . That autoerotic-asphyxiation thing that you hear about occasionally, usually in hushed tones.

I shook away the thought. Not because it was weird and kinky, but because the theory was probably stupid.

But then again, he’d stolen my car, and he owned a clip cord. No sign that anyone else was with him.

Except that the car was returned to my parking spot. And there was that rat.

I was going in circles.

I looked at the laptop screen again, at Ray Lucci’s order. There was a tracking number for the shipment. I clicked on it, and the UPS page popped up. The parts had been shipped the day he ordered them, and he’d paid extra for faster mailing. According to this, the package had been delivered. Yesterday afternoon.

I closed my laptop and took a deep breath.

I hoped Sylvia would call Flanigan, but mostly for selfish reasons. So I could tell Tim that I talked her into it. Maybe then he wouldn’t be mad at me for what I was going to do next.

The wedding chapel was still as tacky as I remembered it from the previous day. Today there was a large number of motorcycles, all Harleys, in the driveway, under the long awning. I heard the strains of “That’s Amore” coming from the direction of the drive-through window and spotted two Dean Martins swaying as they sang. I squinted and saw the bride astride her bike, the black leather jacket with the Harley logo faintly visible through the long tulle veil that cascaded down her back. When the Dinos stopped singing, the guy on the bike next to the bride grabbed her and kissed her as she held her bouquet of white flowers high over her head. A cheer rose up from the crowd.

“Changed your mind, Kavanaugh?” I heard Jeff Coleman’s voice behind me and turned to see him leaning against the side of the Jeep, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“I thought you quit,” I said, pointing to the cigarette.

“I only did it for you, and then you jilted me,” he teased, but he took the cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it, grinding it out with his heel. “So what are you doing back here?”

I didn’t quite know how to explain I was here looking for a package delivered to Ray Lucci, so I figured I’d turn it around on him. “What are you doing here?”

“I told Rosalie I’d come by and pick up Lou’s last paycheck.”

“He didn’t have direct deposit?” I asked.

Jeff reached toward his breast pocket, but it was empty.

“Your doctor said not to smoke anymore,” I reminded him.

He grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind, Kavanaugh. And no, Lou did not have direct deposit. Rosalie needs the cash now, to help pay for the funeral.”

“How’s she doing?”

Jeff shrugged. “They were married for ten years. He beat the crap out of her for most of that time. How do you think she’s doing?” He tried to keep his tone light, but the anger seeped out underneath his words.

“Did you know her before your mother met Bernie?”

“No. I didn’t meet her until a few weeks ago. She and Lou brought Bernie over to the shop to meet up with my mother. I could tell from the get-go that Lou was bad news.”

Interesting. “How?” I prodded.

“He dominated the conversation; she stood there with her head down, and only spoke when he looked directly at her. She laughed at his stupid jokes. Bernie hated him, the way he treated her.”

“So he’s not too broke up about his death, huh?”

Jeff cocked his head and looked at me sideways. “What are you getting at, Kavanaugh?”

“I don’t know.” And I really wasn’t sure. “Seems pretty convenient for Rosalie that Lou’s dead now.”

“You think she had something to do with it?”

“No, guess not. Sounds like whoever did this did her a favor. It’s probably the same guy who killed Ray Lucci and also tried to run down Will Parker.”

“Who? Oh, yeah, the guy you were making eyes with yesterday.”

Making eyes with? What century did he live in?

I chose to ignore him. “I’m just saying that I think somehow someone wants to kill off these Dean Martin impersonators.” Something Will Parker had said to me yesterday poked my memory. “You know, Will said that the Elvis chapel across the street keeps stealing the Dean Martins.”

We both instinctively looked over at the larger-than-life Elvis, dancing over the white wedding chapel. It was too much, but almost everything in Vegas was too much. You get used to it after a while.

Jeff laughed. “You think there’s some sort of Elvis- Dean Martin war going on here?”

It did sound ridiculous, but then again…

“Maybe,” I said.

Movement in the corner of my eye made me turn. Uh-oh. Anthony DellaRocco, owner of That’s Amore, was scurrying toward us, a big smile on his face, his arms outstretched.

“You’ve come back!” he said. “Have you gotten over your cold feet?”

The latter was directed at me, because, of course, I walked away yesterday.

Before I could say anything, though, Jeff put his arm around my shoulders and said, “We decided a church is the way to go.”

We did, did we?

“I’m afraid we’re here for a sadder occasion, though,” he added.

DellaRocco frowned, confused.

“Lou Marino’s widow is my sister-in-law,” Jeff continued. “She asked if I could pick up Lou’s paycheck.”

DellaRocco’s face registered recognition. “Jeff Coleman? She called to tell me you were on your way. Come with me.”

Jeff held on to my shoulder, steering me behind DellaRocco. I was glad I now had the excuse to get back in that building, but I wished I didn’t still have to pretend I was going to marry Jeff Coleman to do it.

DellaRocco led us inside and down the hall, turning into an office to our right. It was neat as the proverbial pin. A file cabinet stood against the far wall, a big metal desk sprawled catty-corner to it, an expensive big leather swivel chair behind the desk. The top of the desk held a wire basket with some paperwork and a pencil holder with three sharp pencils, and a stapler sat next to that. A framed photograph of a pretty brunette with laugh lines around her eyes faced the swivel chair.

A brown parcel perched on the far edge of the desk.

Anthony DellaRocco sat in the chair and swiveled so he could pull out his top drawer. He slid out a white envelope and handed it to Jeff, who was also looking at the package.

DellaRocco noticed.

“Came for Ray Lucci yesterday,” he said. His eyes moved from Jeff to me and back again. “Some tattoo place.”

Jeff and I exchanged a look.

“You two look like you know your way around a tattoo parlor,” DellaRocco said with a wide grin, his big voice booming.

“What are you going to do with it?” I asked, ignoring him.

DellaRocco looked startled for a second, as if he didn’t get that I was referring to the package. “Oh, you mean this,” he said, tapping it.