The Missing Ink (34 page)

MissTique, who ran all the shows here at Chez Tango, flailed her arms as she teetered on six-inch clear plastic stilettos on the edge of the stage—not to stop herself from falling, but because she was trying to calm everyone down. I could hear her shouting, “All right,” “Everything’s fine,” and “Get me a cocktail.” The last was said to a young man with a remarkable physique who’d been dancing shirtless behind Britney before the champagne attack.

“Where’s Bitsy?” I had to lean in toward Joel so he’d hear me as we took a couple of steps toward the stage.

Bitsy is a little person, and it is easy to lose her in a crowd.

Or bump into her.

“Watch it!” I heard her say, and looked down to see her rubbing her arm where I’d collided with her.

I was about to apologize when it grew darker, sort of like a solar eclipse. But instead of the electricity going out, it was merely Miranda Rites, blocking the light behind her. She looked like someone had dumped a bottle of Pepto-Bismol on her: a vision in pink sequins and a high bouffant of pink-accented orange hair, the multicolored butterfly ink I’d given her a few weeks ago stretched between her shoulders above her ample bosom. It was fake, of course. The bosom, I mean, not the tat.

“She’s okay, right?” I asked Miranda, shouting, cocking my head toward the stage.

The dark concrete walls didn’t swallow the din; it just bounced off them into my ears with a sort of echo effect.

“I think she’s in shock.” To compensate for the noise, Miranda’s voice had reverted back to its husky tenor, giving her that Sybil split-personality thing: Is she a woman? Is she a man? Can she be both? “I saw it from backstage.”

“Did you call an ambulance?”

“They’re on their way. Cops, too.”

I thought about my brother, Detective Tim Kavanaugh. I wondered if he’d show up. He might be a little surprised to find me here at Chez Tango.

It was opening night of MissTique’s new Nylons and Tattoos show, featuring Britney, Miranda, Lola LaTuche, and Marva Luss.

Drag queens.

They’d chosen The Painted Lady, my tattoo shop, as the one they’d entrusted with designing their new ink because Charlotte Sampson, our trainee, knew Britney, who was Trevor McKay when he wasn’t dolled up. In Charlotte’s other life as an accountant, she’d done Trevor’s taxes the past couple of years. When Trevor found out Charlotte had ditched her former career choice to be a tattoo artist, he said it must be karma.

Because of our contribution to the show, Charlotte, my shop manager Bitsy Hendricks, my friend and tattooist Joel Sloane, and I had been given the VIP treatment: free drinks, a great table, a backstage tour. The only one in our shop who had chosen not to come was Ace van Nes, who had issues with the idea of a drag show—but he had issues with a lot of things. I’d been a little leery at first, too, for different reasons than Ace, but I easily caved to peer pressure when Charlotte, Bitsy, and Joel said we just
had
to be there.

So that’s how we ended up covered in champagne, the music blasting, a strobe light cutting across Britney’s body as she lay sprawled on the stage, her red platform heels pointing toward the ceiling and looking oddly like the Wicked Witch of the West’s just after the house fell on her.

My eyes were still smarting from the bubbly, and I closed them again for a second. When I did, my memory kicked back to the guy who’d sprayed me. I hadn’t seen his face. The strobe had created a cutout image, his outline flashing light, then dark too fast for me to remember many details, especially with the oversized hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans that hung precariously from his hips with bunched-up boxers protruding from the top, in the style of an urban kid.

But he’d had his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Maybe he didn’t want to get any of the Moët on himself. By doing that, however, he’d given me something I could share with my brother the detective. Something I would never miss.

He had a tattoo on the inside of his right forearm. A rather distinctive one.

It was a Queen of Hearts playing card.