Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

“No, it’s not,” Tim said. “Flanigan would have my ass if he knew I was out checking up on things, and especially if you were with me.”

“But you’re going to do it anyway,” I tried.

“You have a business to run.”

I didn’t want to tell him that Bitsy was doing a fine job running things while I was out playing detective. He didn’t have to know that, and I didn’t want to think about it too much myself. While it was a good thing I had such a trusted employee, I knew it was wrong to count on her as much as I did. Even though I’d recently given her a nice raise.

“If Will Parker took Joel’s clip cord, then I have a vested interest in all this,” I said. “Not to mention that Ray Lucci was found in my trunk with possibly that very same clip cord wrapped around his neck.”

“Okay, I get it,” Tim said, “but I can’t let you go with me.”

I had one more card to play.

“If you leave me alone, then how do you know I’m not going to go out on my own anyway?”

“You don’t have a car,” he said.

Oops. Forgot that small matter. But I did have friends who had cars, who’d lent me cars in the past when I needed a way around.

Tim knew what I was thinking. “You can’t call Coleman.”

“How will you know if I do or not?” I asked, jutting out my chin defiantly.

“You can promise me you won’t.”

“And I can cross my fingers so it won’t count.”

We sounded exactly as we did when we were kids, when Tim would want to go off and I tried to finagle my way into his plans. Nothing changes. Except now he didn’t have our mom to intervene and tell me to let him alone.

Tim shoved his chair away from the desk and got up, combing his hands through his hair. Exasperated.

“You won’t let up until I say you can go with me, will you?” he asked.

“No.”

“If you go with me, you have to let me do all the talking. You need to stay out of my way.”

I tried not to grin too widely as I followed him out of the office.

Bitsy said Colin Bixby wasn’t coming in for another two hours. She didn’t grill me about where we were going, because Tim was with me, and she didn’t want him to think she was a nag. I knew she’d get me later. But by then maybe I’d have some answers.

Tim and I didn’t talk as we went out to the Impala. We climbed in, and I wondered how long the silence would last. We wound around the garage until Tim pulled out of the parking lot onto Koval Lane, waiting at the light to turn up to the Strip. He turned on the CD player, and the Ramones sang “What a Wonderful World.”

I tapped my foot in time with the music-as well as someone who’s tone-deaf can-as the palm trees cast their shadows across the road, tourists traveled in packs at the crosswalks.

“So why didn’t you call to find out about Will Parker?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Better in person.”

“So you can show your badge. Prove who you are.”

He didn’t agree or disagree, but I figured that’s what it was.

It wasn’t until we pulled into the driveway at That’s Amore Wedding Chapel that I realized Tony DellaRocco might wonder why I was here with Tim when I was supposed to be marrying Jeff Coleman.

I told Tim about my concern.

He grinned as he pulled off his shades. “Then I guess you’d better wait in the car.” And he opened the door and jumped out.

Great. Now he wouldn’t tell me what he found out because he wouldn’t have to.

Business was down today. There were no cars with brides and grooms waiting to be married. No Dean Martins serenading.

I glanced across the street at the Elvis wedding chapel.

A line stretched almost onto the Strip. Three cars and a stretch limo with a logo on its side that I couldn’t read.

Maybe word about the dead Dean Martins had spread, scaring away the married-to-be. Being serenaded by a Dean Martin who might end up dead the next day probably wouldn’t bode well. Although it could be a good story if the marriage lasted.

I thought about how Will Parker had said the Elvis chapel owner-Sanderson, I think his name was-had tried to steal away the Dean Martins and turn them into Elvises. But I couldn’t exactly rely on Parker to tell the truth now that I knew he lived in an In-N-Out Burger and he’d possibly stolen Joel’s clip cord.

I wondered how long Tim would be.

Would it be long enough so I could go check out the Elvises?

Tim had gone inside, and there was no sign of him. I opened my door and stepped out, knowing he wouldn’t exactly condone this-but what else was I going to do? He’d taken the keys, and I couldn’t listen to any music. I was bored.

I made my way to a crosswalk and pressed the button to wait for the walking-man sign, all the time glancing back to see if Tim had emerged from the building. By the time the little green man flashed, Tim was still inside, so I jogged across the street.

The Elvis chapel was even more tacky than That’s Amore, with tall white Greek columns at its driveway entrance and a high trellis with some sort of fake white flowers and greenery. I skirted behind the limo, hearing the Elvis now, singing about how he was in love and all shook up.

Whatever floats your boat, I guess.

I preferred That’s Amore. But I’ve never been an Elvis fan.

“No walk-ups!” The booming voice from somewhere to my left made me jump.

He was a big guy, not just heavy but maybe about two hundred pounds overweight. His jowls sagged into his ample neck, which pillowed above his broad chest. Because of his size, he wasn’t really walking. It was more like waddling.

He stopped next to me, his hands clutched together in front of his big belly. He had a swath of jet-black hair in a pompadour, like Elvis’s, and wore a stretchy white satin bodysuit that should not have been part of such a large man’s wardrobe. He totally needed What Not to Wear .

“No walk-ups,” he repeated, staring at me as if I had three heads.

“I’m just pricing,” I tried, wishing for the first time that Jeff Coleman was with me. He was much better at this than I was. “My boyfriend-um-fiancé and I want a wedding that will be memorable.”

A wide smile that matched his girth spread across his face. “You’ll get that here, at the Love Shack.”

I hadn’t noticed the name of the chapel on the heart-shaped sign because the Elvis cutout was so large. But Love Shack? Really? I mean, didn’t he realize that was the B-52s and not Elvis? At least Tony DellaRocco kept the Dean Martin theme in the name of his chapel.

He stuck out his hand. “Martin Sanderson.”

I took his hand, and he gripped mine tightly, pumping it up and down as if he were trying to get water from a well. I tried gently to pull away, finally having to resort to force. I yanked back so fast I almost fell over. Sanderson laughed.

“You’re a skinny little thing,” he commented. “So have you been across the street?”

He must have seen me at the crosswalk.

I nodded. “They’ve got a good special going.”

“I can do better. I’ve also got one of their former singers. He’s much better as Elvis than Dean Martin.”

Until a couple of days ago I had no idea there were wedding-chapel-theme feuds going on.

“I-um-like Dino,” I tried.

“Elvis was the King,” Sanderson said flatly.

“True,” I agreed, “but he died on the toilet.”

“Adds to the man’s mystique.” He was totally serious.

“So what are your rates?” I asked.

“Bring your own car, ten bucks.”

Really? “How can you keep your business going with that price?” I asked.

He grinned. “Most couples don’t want the quickie. They want the limo”-he pointed over to a limo with an image of Elvis plastered on its side-“and the rest of the amenities.”