Swift Edge (9 page)

“Camera?”

“That boy was always taking pictures.” Nutt smiled. “He had a digital camera, a nice one, he said was a present for his sixteenth birthday.”

“Where was he from?”

“China, I think.”

Gigi was startled, having expected him to say California or New York or even Denver. “Is he an illegal?”

“Undoubtedly,” Nutt said, amused by her shock. “He didn’t share his story with me, but his English was sketchy, and I got the feeling he wasn’t in the country legally. It’s not unusual, you know.”

“I know.” Certainly she knew there were plenty of illegals in El Paso County, but she’d thought most of them were Mexicans like the domestic staff and yard workers employed in her Broadmoor neighborhood. She thought about Angelica, the maid who’d cleaned for her BLL (Before Les Left), and her insistence on being paid in cash. Maybe she had aided and abetted an illegal alien. “How did he end up here, then?” she asked Nutt. “Are you allowed to take in illegals?” She bent to replace the book in Kungfu’s milk crate.

“Our charter is a liberal one,” he said proudly, putting a hand to her elbow to usher her out of the room. “We don’t ask questions. Sometimes a social worker will refer a teen here, but more often they just show up on the doorstep. Word of mouth on the street, I guess. As long as they’re drug free and adhere to our rules, we take them in if we have room.”

They descended the stairs to the entry hall. “How do you fund this place?” Gigi asked.

“Donations,” Nutt said. “Jill, our director of development, spends all her time writing grants, planning fund-raisers, and hobnobbing with all the agencies and people most likely to open their wallets. It keeps us afloat, barely.”

“It’s a great cause,” Gigi said. She pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her purse and handed it to him, wishing it could be more. “I’d like to help.”

“How kind.” He smiled again.

Gigi felt herself flush. This was not a good moment for a hot flash.

“Is there a Mr. Goldman?”

“Les? He’s not … I mean, we’re not … I’m divorced.” Gigi fanned herself and wished she could take off her jacket, but it would look odd since she was on the verge of leaving.

“Me, too,” Nutt said. “Look, would you like to have dinner sometime?”

Gigi hardly registered that he was asking her for a date. Every inch of flesh on her body prickled with heat. She was going to explode if she couldn’t cool down. Gasping, she reached for the door and yanked it open. A refreshing blast straight from the Arctic blew in. Nutt stared at her as she stepped through the door and turned her face into the wind like a dog at a car window, arms held away from her body. “I’m late … late for another appointment,” she said over her shoulder. An appointment made a less humiliating excuse for her headlong departure than “I’m a menopausal wreck being tortured by hormones run amok.” She tripped stepping off the stoop but caught herself before she fell.

“Are you okay?” Nutt’s voice held equal parts concern and confusion. He took a step toward her but stopped when she held up a hand.

“Fine. Thank you … most helpful … yes.” She could feel herself turning even redder, if possible, this time from embarrassment.

“Yes?”

“Dinner.”

*   *   *

She’d walk to Tattoo4U, Gigi decided, although the hot flash was starting to subside. Exercising more was one of her New Year’s resolutions—along with lose thirty pounds—and a brisk two-block walk would be a good start. It would also give her time to plan her strategy. She had the photo of Kungfu Father Dan had given Charlie; it wasn’t much to work with. Mature trees stretched their bare branches overhead, and their roots buckled the sidewalk, making walking hazardous. She passed a Laundromat, a small liquor store, and a convenience store with advertisements in Spanish and some Oriental language before sighting Tattoo4U.

She’d never been in a tattoo parlor, but the small storefront across the street seemed innocuous. Lighted letters spelled out
TAT OO4U
over the windows. She waited for the light, then crossed, a twinge of apprehension tweaking her. The shop had painted-over windows so she couldn’t see inside. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door. A bell jingled. Inside, Gigi spotted a counter with a cash register, walls full of photos and drawings of tattoo designs, a young couple arguing in the back, and a middle-aged woman studying a selection of butterfly designs to the right of the door. A large bald man with a long gingery beard was applying a tattoo, Gigi assumed, to the inside of a young man’s forearm. He sat in a chair with his arm stretched across a table, watching closely as the tattooer—tattooist?—worked a foot pedal and maneuvered the needle contraption that looked like some of the power tools Les used to buy at Home Depot. Gigi shuddered and looked away, not wanting to see how the needle punctured the skin, or whatever it did.

Without looking up, the man said, “Be right with you, doll.” His accent sounded Australian.

“No hurry,” Gigi said faintly.

“What do you think of this one?” the woman to her right asked, holding up a picture of a green butterfly about one inch square. She was shorter than Gigi with badly permed mouse-brown hair. Hazel eyes framed with stubby lashes regarded Gigi expectantly.

“Pardon me?” Gigi asked, not sure the woman was talking to her.

“Or do you like this one better?” The woman held up another butterfly, this one in yellow and black with a swallowtail.

Was this woman, who must certainly be her age or older, really going to get a tattoo? Gigi goggled at her. “Is it … are you … where…?”

“Right here,” the woman said, slapping her right butt cheek. She chortled at Gigi’s expression. “It’s my sixtieth birthday tomorrow, and I decided that it was time for a new me. I got my hair done”—she fluffed the mousy curls—“and now I’m getting a butterfly on my derriere.”

Gigi hoped the tattoo turned out better than the hair.

“You only live once, you know. That’s what I told Burt. He’s all for it.” She nodded decisively. “What are you getting?”

“Me?” Gigi took a step back. “I’m not—” She stopped, wondering if she might get more information from the shop owner if she were a potential customer. “That is, I’m thinking about it. I’m not sure what…” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Can’t you get hepatitis or something from tattoos?”

“Only if the needles aren’t sterile,” she said, “but they use a new needle for every customer here. Isn’t that right, Graham?”

“Right, doll,” the bald man said, still not looking up. Gigi was pretty sure he had no idea what the woman had said.

The arguing couple pushed past Gigi to get to the door.

“If you really loved me, you’d get it,” the girl said, tucking her hands into the kangaroo pouch of her sweatshirt and bumping the door open with her shoulder.

“But ‘Christina Elizabeth’ is too long,” the boy said, trying to reason with her. “It would go all the way around my—”

The door closed behind them, leaving Gigi to imagine where the tattoo was supposed to go.

“The green one,” the woman beside Gigi announced. “I’ve made my decision, Graham,” she called to the man still hunched over the man’s forearm. “I’m going with the green butterfly.”

“Great, doll.” The machine stopped whirring, and he looked up, sizing up Gigi and her companion. “Now? I’m about done here.” He carefully applied a square Band-Aid to the customer’s arm, but not before Gigi noticed how red and puffy the skin was. She looked away.

“Leave the bandage on for twenty-four hours, mate, and then use the Tattoo Goo three times a day. You know the drill.” He slipped a tube of ointment into a small brown paper bag and handed it to the young man.

“Right, Graham. Thanks, dude.” The newly tattooed man left, holding his right arm at a funny angle.

Gigi waited while the other woman talked to Graham and agreed to come back at nine the next morning to have her green butterfly applied. “Happy birthday,” Gigi said as the woman left.

“So, what were you thinking about, doll?” Graham asked Gigi as the door closed. “You look like a daffodil, or maybe a ladybug.” He rose and got a binder from the counter. Flipping pages, he turned it for Gigi to see a photo of a ladybug tattoo on a smooth, cellulite-free thigh. It
was
kind of cute.

Aghast at the thought, Gigi said, “I’m not sure yet. I’m not even sure I want a tattoo, but a friend of mine recommended this place.”

Looking as if he didn’t particularly care whether Gigi got a tattoo or not, Graham replaced the binder and said, “Yeah? Who?”

“His name is Kungfu,” Gigi said, pulling the photo out of her purse. She unfolded it and spread it on the counter. “Him.” She pointed.

“I don’t remember anyone like him,” Graham said after a brief glance. His response was too quick, Gigi thought. He combed his fingers through his wiry beard, gaze straying back to the photo. “What did he get?”

“Get?”

“The tat?”

“Oh,” Gigi said. “Um, he never showed me.”

Graham shrugged lumpy shoulders as a phone rang in the back room. “Gotta get the phone,” he said, already turning his back to Gigi. “Whyn’t you come back when you make a decision, doll, ’kay?” He lumbered into the back room, closing the door behind him.

Gigi refolded the photo and tucked it into her purse, convinced Graham was lying—but why? It was clear the photo meant something to the man, but Gigi recognized a brick wall when she came up against one.
Maybe I need to stake the place out,
she thought with anticipation. She could use some of the new PI gadgets she’d found online and hadn’t had a chance to try out yet. Charlie thought they were a waste of money, but Gigi just knew the technology would boost their bottom line. She was only slightly dismayed when she remembered this was a pro bono case. Well, the stakeout would be a good trial for the gadgets, anyway. She tried to keep up her cover story by glancing at a few designs on the way out but barely slowed down as she headed for the door.

11

I offered to treat Kendall to a late breakfast at Denny’s and listened to her dish on the way about the international skating community with its rivalries, judging controversies, love affairs, and endorsement deals.

“When does anyone find time to skate?” I asked, fascinated despite myself. We settled into a booth. The smells of coffee and syrup wafted around us, along with the sounds of clattering silverware and a baby crying. “It sounds like
The Young and the Restless
on ice.”

“Except it’s
real
,” she said, prepared to be pissed off if I was dissing her sport. She ordered an egg white omelet and dry toast from the hovering waitress and correctly interpreted my raised eyebrows. “I can’t afford to gain an ounce and have my costumes not fit. They’re expensive.”

“What’s it cost to become a skater?” I only ordered a Pepsi, earning a look from the server that either meant she was worried about her tip or she disapproved of cold caffeine for breakfast.

“You mean an Olympic-caliber skater? Including coaching fees, ice time, travel, skates, costumes, and everything?”

I nodded.

“About a hundred thousand a year.”

I spewed Pepsi across the table. “Dollars?”

“Uh-huh.” She ticked items off on her fingers. “An hour of ice time alone is over a hundred bucks, and the top skaters train up to six hours a day. There’s also PT—physical therapy—a sports psychologist, massages, ballet classes, the choreographer … I could go on.”

“Is that what your mom pays for you to skate?” I was suddenly looking at Gigi’s money troubles in a whole new light.

“Not half that,” Kendall said. “I don’t go to a lot of competitions, and we can’t afford that many lessons.” She pouted. “If only my mom—”

I forestalled the whining. “How good are you?”

“I was nineteenth at the national championships last year. Junior,” she explained.

I looked at the slim girl opposite me with new respect. “That sounds pretty good to me, to be nineteenth in the country.”

“It’s not good enough,” she said. “Not good enough for the BSC—Broadmoor Skating Club—or United States Figure Skating to contribute to my training. And I’m not getting any younger.” She gathered up her purse and let her napkin fall to the floor. “Are we going or what?” She stalked toward the door.

I took my time finishing my Pepsi, paying the bill, and visiting the restroom. Kendall was waiting for me on the sidewalk when I emerged, the tip of her pert nose red, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her teal hoodie because she’d refused to wear a jacket when Gigi prompted her. Why are teenagers allergic to outerwear? I frequently saw high schoolers waiting for the bus near my house wearing nothing but T-shirts, jeans, and flip-flops in subfreezing temperatures.

“Ready?” I asked pleasantly, unlocking the Outback’s door.

She plunked onto the seat without answering and stared pointedly out the passenger window as I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. “Where are we going?” she asked after a moment, still not looking at me.

“I’m going to see Dara Peterson. I tried to call her, but she’s not answering her phone. I can drop you by the office.”

“No!” Her head whipped around. “I mean, I’d like to go with you. I could help.”

I hesitated, not wanting to be saddled with a disaffected adolescent.

“Please?”

*   *   *

I had time to regret my moment of weakness on the ride to Dara Peterson’s house. To hear Kendall talk, Dara was a conniving bitch whose last name should be Machiavelli and who couldn’t skate as well as a pug. Given Dara and Dmitri’s international achievements, I discounted most of what she told me, wondering if she was jealous of a girl only five years older who had accomplished so much more. How sad, I thought, to feel that you were a has-been, or worse, a never-was, before your Sweet Sixteen was even on the horizon.

Dara lived with her parents in a house across from Ute Valley Park. It was a medium-sized two-story home, virtually indistinguishable from hundreds of others in the neighborhood. A woman wearing a brown wool suit opened the door when I rang. She had wiry strands of gray in her brown hair and looked harassed.