Free Shamus In The Green Room by Susan Kandel Page A

letters, which read: St. Sabrina in Purgatory. A
    Hell’s Angels–type with a long, grizzled beard was sitting be-
    hind the counter.
    “Is the owner here?” I asked him.
    “Who wants to know?” he asked, stroking his beard.
    “Cece Ribisi.” Which is the actual name of one of my spin-
    ster aunts.
    He pointed to the sign. “Saint Sabrina is in Purgatory.”
    Of course she is. I tried to slink out the door, but he let out
    a belly laugh and said, “Just kidding. I’m the owner. Name’s
    Frank. How you doing, Ms. Ribisi? Lemme guess. You want a
    butterfly.”
    My aunt Cece would never pick a butterfly. A crucifix,
    maybe? A cannoli? She was extremely overweight. “I’m not ac-
    tually shopping for a tattoo today,” I said, “but if I wanted one,
    I’d absolutely want a butterfly, and this would absolutely be the

place.”
    “Cut the shit. You a cop? I do everything by the book here.
    Send the health inspector if you want. Go right ahead, missy.
    You aren’t going to find anything—”
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    “Hold on a minute,” I interrupted. “I am not a cop. A cop!”
    I laughed. “Hardly.”
    He looked dubious.
    “You can tell by my shoes.”
    He ambled out from behind the counter, belly first, and
    studied my water-stained silk sandals with the amber Lucite
    heels.
    “Cops never get their shoes wet, am I right, Frank?”
    He gave me a grudging nod and went back to his seat be-
    hind the counter. “What do you want, then?”
    “I’m trying to figure out where two girls from Palos Verdes
    would go if they wanted to get a really unusual tattoo and it
    was the seventies.”
    “You asking hypothetically?”
    “It’s kind of a complicated story.”
    He clasped his hands, eager as a schoolboy. “I like stories.”
    “It’s not pretty.”
    “Do I look like I shock easy?”
    “My husband’s been cheating on me—”
    “No way,” he interrupted.
    “With two women.”
    “Come on.”
    I nodded. “The only thing I know about them is that they
    grew up in Palos Verdes, and when they were kids, they got
    matching hourglass tattoos. Really beautiful. Special. On their
    shoulders. Right around here.” I pulled back my silk wrapper
    and revealed a glimpse of my turquoise lace bra strap. I
    thought this might incline Frank toward my cause.
    He smiled, revealing some very creative dental work. “I’ve
    been here since ’seventy-five, and it don’t ring any bells, Ms.
    Ribisi.”
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    “Too bad,” I said. “I’d really like these women’s names.”
    “Sluts.” He shook his head. “Well, if the place still exists,
    there are release forms. They’d tell you their names.”
    “Who’s been in town for a while? Doing really unique
    work?”
    When he didn’t answer, I reached into my purse and took
    out one of my business cards, which I’d designed myself to re-
    semble a Tiffany’s box. I’d gotten a deal on a thousand of
    them, which just goes to show there are no deals.
    “Would you call me, Frank, if anything comes to you?”
    “And to think,” he said, gold teeth glinting, “I thought you
    were going to slip me a twenty.”
    “Would that help?”
    “Might.”
    I pulled one out and gave it to him. He pocketed it, then
    turned his attention to my card.
    “Caruso? Thought you said it was Ribisi.”
    “I’ve gone back to my maiden name,” I said, “on account
    of—”
    “Makes sense.” He clapped his hands. “I’m sending you to
    see the Mayor, Ms. Caruso.”
    That seemed extreme.
    “The Mayor runs this town. Knows everybody and every-
    thing. You describe the tattoo, Mayor’ll give you the who,
    what, when, and where.” Frank looked at his watch. “It’s five
    o’clock. Why don’t you head on over to the Spot? Say Frank
    sent you.”
    The Spot turned out to be a bar located in a little cottage
    with a big satellite dish. The “S” of the sign had flamed out, so
    if you didn’t know, you’d think you were heading to “The
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    Pot.” The “O” was a bull’s-eye, with an