Hold ’Em Hostage (16 page)

I
was too late.

Either that or Ben had spread a lot of money around to make sure folks at the Palace kept their mouths shut. Or maybe he just flirted with the walking artwork behind the desk. Sometimes that's all it took for Ben to win undying loyalty.

“I thought it took longer than an hour and a half to get an elaborate tattoo?” I argued with the Garden of Eden who wore a peekaboo dress that looked like a collection of vines.

“Perhaps your brother changed his mind and went simple,” she said, without looking up from the current issue of
Ink World
. “Perhaps you misjudged the time it was when he arrived.”

I sighed. I wasn't getting a lot of sympathy here. I opened my wallet, extracted a hundred-dollar bill and waved it under Garden's nose. She finally raised her gaze and stared at me without blinking for longer than I thought humanly possible. Perhaps she was part lizard. She had the heart of one.

“Miss Cooley, this is not a craps table. I advise you return to The Strip and use that there.”

I looked back in my wallet. Only one hundred remained. I should have stuffed some of that fifty thousand into my bra before I'd left the hotel. I pulled it out and waved it around.

Garden looked back down at her magazine.

Sighing, I turned like I was going to leave, then spun and sprinted down the hallway, ignoring her hollering at me to stop. At Joaquin's door, I knocked but didn't wait, flinging it open to see the tattoo artist bent over what had to be a two-hundred-pound, lily white rump that was adorned with half a tiger.

Meow
.

“Sorry,” I choked out.

Joaquin leaped up and came to the door. “Bee Cool, what's got you so worked up? Didn't you like what I put on your back?”

Slightly alarmed, I realized I hadn't even checked what damage he'd done to my back. I made a mental note to see that along with the website when I got back to the hotel, then I explained why I was there. He shook his head, sadly, and, dammit, I believed him. “I haven't seen Ben. But I've been busy.” He waved toward his client. I gulped as the tiger undulated when the woman pushed herself up off the table to wiggle her fingers in a wave. “But that doesn't mean he didn't use another artist here.”

“Do you think you could find out? The receptionist wasn't helpful.”

A hand clamped onto my upper arm and dragged me back into the hall. “Hey!” I argued as another hand clamped onto the opposite arm. I was flanked by a pair of overtattooed, overgrown bullies. Bouncers at a tattoo parlor? This town had to have the highest per capita bouncer population in the world. I bet even the McDonald's had a couple.

“Chill, dudes,” Joaquin said soothingly. “She's cool. She's leaving. Right, Bee?”

His eyes were both apologetic and pleading with me to leave. It looked like for my own good.

“Sure,” I said. Reluctantly, they loosened their grips to mere bruise-causing clamps.

“Come on, let her go,” Joaquin urged.

Even more reluctantly, they released my arms. I shook them out with great relief and started back the way I'd come, peering into open rooms, listening for the sound of Ben's voice. The pair of goons followed so closely they were breathing on the top of my head. As we passed Garden, she didn't look up from her magazine, but as she tapped her fingers on the desk, a muscle in her upper arm jumped, making the snake's tongue look like it was moving back and forth.

 

I
t looked like I had a ride back to The Strip or to the
clink. Trankosky leaned against his unmarked sedan, its engine idling, outside the front door of the Tattoo Palace. He pushed off and went around to the passenger side, opening the door for me. “Belinda, if you please…”

I glared, and glanced around for a moment. Full dark had descended while I was in the building. A couple of unsavories were hanging out at the far end of the parking lot, keeping a close eye on what their radar had told them was a cop. It had been difficult enough to hail a cab on The Strip, no telling how long I'd have to hang out to get one on the way out of this joint. None happened to be gliding by the Parlor at the moment. I know the Die Hard cop wasn't my favorite person but he was a known enemy at least. I slid into the seat.

“Gosh, if I'd known you were following me, you could have given me a ride over here and saved me cab fare.”

“If I'd been following you, I think you would've known it.”

“Not necessarily. I've been a little distracted lately.” For some reason, tears welled up behind my eyelids. I forced them away. Feeling sorry for myself wasn't going to help Affie, Frank or Ben. Or me. Then, suddenly I was tempted to tell Detective Growly of all people all about the kidnappings, the disappearances, the blackmail. I bit my tongue.
Bad Bee. Bee Strong.

“Yes, distracted by making money drops to gangbangers, being the whipping girl of the Church of the Believers and getting smack in the middle of rumors of two separate incidents of collusion?”

“What?” I blurted to the last. The cops already knew about the marked WSOP chips and Redskin's morse coding at the high-stakes table?

“That's the buzz about Bee on the street,” he said with a light tone, apparently amused by his own joke.

“It almost looks like you're being set up, by someone in the inside, another player maybe…except I know better.”

I blew out a breath. Every time he acted like he might believe my innocence he went hard on me again.

Neither of us said anything for a full minute, then he added quietly, “You know Belinda, if you tell me what you're not telling me, or even part of what you're not telling me, maybe I could help you, maybe I could help keep the brass from pushing this investigation so hard.”

I shook my head. “I haven't done anything wrong.”

“Except get involved with a bad ex-cop.” Trankosky wasn't joking anymore. His voice was now as merciless as his face. His ironic mouth just looked disappointed.

I held my breath, hoping he would say more about Frank without my asking. Finally I said, “Joaquin is an ex-cop? Wow. Who knew.”

“Who's Joaquin?”

“The tattoo artist.”

His eyebrows flew up as he exclaimed, “You're involved with the tattoo guy?”

“No, not involved
that
way, he's an aquaintance.”

Trankosky hit the heel of his hand to his head. “I feel like I am in a Cary Grant/Doris Day flick.”

“Flattering yourself, aren't you?”

He shook his head, fighting down the corners of his mouth. At least I'd distracted him from Frank. I really wasn't ready to hear how bad Frank was. Not yet.

“One day, Miss Cooley, your cheekiness is going to get you into trouble.”

“You are way too late with that warning.”

Trankosky smiled. “You know, you are one of the most likable criminals I've ever encountered in twenty years on the force.”

“Maybe that's because I'm not a criminal. You don't have any proof I am, or you'd have arrested me already.”

“That's not always the way it works, sometimes we hope you'll lead us to a bigger jackpot.”

“You might still hit a jackpot following me around, but it's not because I'm doing anything wrong.”

“You're going to have to be incredibly lucky or incredibly smart to get yourself out of the mess you're in now,” Trankosky said, throwing the Crown Vic into park. “You'd better hope all you lose is your freedom, and not your life.” His fingers opened my fisted hand, slid in his card with a cell phone number scribbled on the face and closed my fingers back around it.

“Thank you for not dipping,” I said, nodding to the snuff box in the console he'd been toying with distractedly since I'd gotten in the car.

“Oh, that.” He sighed. “It's nasty, isn't it? I quit smoking last month and a friend suggested I dip tobacco to smooth the transition. Bad advice because now I've got that to quit. I'm at twelve hours and counting. Maybe you'll live to see me hit twenty-four.”

Every time he said something approaching likable he ruined it. I opened my door. He got out to hold it for me, but I'd already slammed it and made it six feet down the sidewalk before he reached the passenger side of the sedan. “When you get ready to tell me what you aren't telling me, call.” I could feel him watching me walk away. For some odd reason, it gave me a sense of security. Maybe he was right. Maybe jail was the safest place for me right now.

 

S
hana and Ingrid weren't back when I let myself into
our suite. They'd gone to take Moon another item for her psychometry. I didn't know how a bra of Affie's that ended up in Shana's luggage would help, but I wasn't about to tell Shana not to try it. Besides, it made her feel useful. She was nearing an emotional breakdown; I could feel it. That was one thing about people so charismatic, so electric—sometimes they faded fast. My pet name for Shana when we used to go clubbing was Firefly because that's as bright as she was, how drawn others were to her.

I didn't know if Ben going off half-cocked was going to help or hurt her ability to maintain. He'd been hovering so, it would have driven me crazy a long time ago.

The phone rang, and again, stupidly I assumed it was one of my friends.

“Miss Cooley, you didn't do as we asked. Your goddaughter's time is running out.”

“Excuse me, but I
did
do as you asked. I delivered you actually
more
than you asked for. If you didn't get it, well, I'd call the cops and report it stolen.”

“Very amusing. We have the cash. But you failed to collude to get it.”

“Why would that matter to you?” Where was Frank when I needed him? He'd be able to make sense of this puzzle.

I could hear the receiver being covered. A muffled, unintelligible conversation taking place. “You can't always rely on luck to win. If we want you to win, you'd better or your Aphrodite is dead. You're not going to be able to keep that up every day. No one can.”

I thought about Affie in the clutches of these money-hungry gangbangers, Ben off to commit suicide by joining the selfsame killers, Frank missing and/or drunk and/or a hunted murderer. I thought about mathematician Richard's theory on luck and love. Everything I loved was pretty much having bad luck right now. It was worth a gamble. “Wanna bet?”

“You shouldn't be betting with your Aphrodite's life. We'll be in touch.”

I jumped at the knock at the door. That was certainly quick. The wimp in me was tempted to not answer it. The rest of me went straight to the knob and yanked it open violently without looking through the peephole.

I'd scared Ringo out of his wits. As he hesitated, I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside. The hallway was empty, but I wasn't taking any chances with my friends.

“What's wrong, Bee?”

Everything.
“Nothing, Ringo.” I couldn't tell one of the sweetest people I'd ever had the pleasure to call a friend even a tenth of what was happening. For one, I hated to mar the innocent, naive soul I so often envied. Furthermore, he was so devoted to me that I was afraid he would storm Medula gangland with a burning torch to bring Affie back. Ringo had the street smarts of a domestic rabbit.

“I've got it! You're just tired from all that winning at the Main Event.” He high-fived me. “Great play. Lucky cards.”

“No kidding. About the luck, that is.”

“Once again, you're way too modest. There's really something bothering you.” He peered at me. “Is it that crazy preacher, eh?”

“Phineas Paul is a bit distracting.”

“Well, I've got something to cheer you up.”

I could think of a half dozen things that would cheer me up, none of which Ringo would be privy to. “What?” I asked anyway.

“Chanel is ecstatic about your exposure on all the news stations. They want you to be their model.”

“Obviously I am, every time I wear a pair of their sunglasses.”

“No, Bee, they want to make it official. It's kind of sudden, but they want to do a shoot tomorrow morning at the hotel, before the next round.”

“What? No!” I was used to being on the other end of ad campaigns, behind the camera not in front of it.

Ringo looked like I shot his favorite dog. He hung his head. “I thought you'd be excited.”

“Excited?” I let out a breath. “I
am
excited. Thrilled in fact. It's just unexpected. A shock.”

“Just like Christmas!” Ringo rubbed his hands together. “Or a surprise birthday party!”