Driven to Ink Read Online Free PDF Page B

wanting the title of a Dean Martin song embedded on him somewhere because he was a Rat Pack fan.
    Rat Pack. Dino, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford, Joey Bishop. Vegas and the Rat Pack were interchangeable in the fifties and sixties. One of my favorite movies is Ocean’s Eleven , not the George Clooney version, but the Rat Pack original.
    Had someone been sending a message with that rat in the trunk?
    If I did call Tim, that Detective Flanigan might get suspicious of Joel. After all, Franklin was his client, and it was his clip cord that was missing.
    On the other hand, if I told Tim, he could look for this Dan Franklin to find out whether he had any connection to the guy in my trunk. And we couldn’t be sure that the cord around Mr. That’s Amore’s neck was Joel’s.
    I looked through the file folder but saw only the sketches Joel had done. I took it out to the front desk, where Bitsy was sitting with her head tucked in her arms.
    “Dan Franklin,” I said loudly, startling her.
    She jumped up and stared at me with wide eyes. “What?”
    “Where’s the paperwork for Dan Franklin? Joel’s first client yesterday.” While I spoke, I waved the “That’s Amore” sketch at her.
    Bitsy’s mouth formed a perfect “O” as she pulled out the drawer in the bottom of the desk and retrieved yet another file folder. This one, however, held the copy of the receipt and the release form Dan Franklin had filled out before his appointment.
    “He paid cash,” Bitsy said as I scanned the form.
    The release form included the client’s name, address, phone number, and a statement the client had to sign, claiming he was over eighteen years old. We made photocopies of the client’s driver’s license to prove he was of age. It was similar to the form you’d fill out at the doctor’s office, because it asked about health issues. We needed to know whether the client had any condition that might mean the tattoo would be dangerous to him or to us. The documents also included a waiver we asked clients to sign, saying we weren’t responsible for infection or aftercare.
    Even Jeff Coleman, in his street shop up near Fremont and next to Goodfellas Bail Bonds, had client forms like this. Any reputable shop does.
    Dan Franklin’s form said he lived in Henderson. Not too far from where I lived, actually. I picked up the phone, but I stopped before dialing. What would I ask him? Hey, you got a tattoo at my shop. Did you just happen to pocket one of our clip cords when you left? And if you did, did you use it to kill Mr. That’s Amore?
    It all sounded so ridiculous. And I didn’t even know Mr. That’s Amore’s name.
    Bitsy scowled as I hesitated, and she leaned over and snatched the phone out of my hand. She punched in Dan Franklin’s phone number.
    After a few seconds, she said, “Mr. Franklin, this is Bitsy Hendricks at The Painted Lady. We’re checking up to make sure everything’s all right with your new tattoo. Could you please call back at your earliest convenience? We need to make a report to the health department, so we’d appreciate your call. Thank you.” And she rattled off our number before hanging up.
    Smooth. Very smooth.
    “That’s why you work for me,” I said proudly.
    Bitsy was beaming. “Thank you, thank you, to the Academy,” she said, bowing slightly at the waist, her short blond bob bouncing against her face.
    I looked out the glass door toward the canal and spotted Joel lumbering back toward the shop. It was all I could do not to rush out and pull him in. I waited as patiently as I could until he pushed the door in, stopping short when he saw Bitsy and me staring at him.
    “What? What did I do?”
    “Dan Franklin. Why didn’t you tell me you tattooed ‘That’s Amore’ on him?”
    Joel shrugged. “What of it? He wanted the tat around his biceps. Easy. Why does this matter?”
    “The guy in my trunk was from the That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel.”
    “Really?” He looked