Ivy’s head shoots up to glare at her, but Dakota ignores it, smiling broadly, first at me then at Jono, who wanders in from the patio, his eyes narrow slits. “Is this the design?” He lifts a sheet of paper, and Ivy’s glare shifts to him, sharpening to razors. “You gonna do it freehand?”
“Yup,” she replies curtly.
“Right on. Dakota’s got a lot of trust in you. You must be really good.” Rubbing his beard, he taps his shoulder and mumbles, “I’ve got this surfer emblem I’ve always wanted to—”
“I’m four-hundred-bucks-an-hour good,” Ivy throws out, ending his attempts to mooch a free tattoo off her.
I leave chuckling, and with a glance around to make sure no one’s watching, I swing past the window to retrieve the tape, a shadow of disappointment trailing me. Seaweed dinner, idiot company and all, that was . . . fun. I wish I could stay.
I wonder how long I can pretend to be this version of Sebastian and get away with it.
Would I even have to, with a girl like Ivy? If I opened up to her, told her what I really do—the kinds of contracts I take on for Bentley, the number of people I’ve killed in the name of saving many more lives—would she be able to accept that?
But then I’d have to come clean with why I’m here in the first place and I’d be fucking delusional if I thought she’d ever be okay with that.
I need to get this videotape into Bentley’s hands, get a handle on Mario, help her clean up the mess in her house like I promised her I would, and move on. Let Ivy move on.
I crank the engine. But before I pull out, I weigh the tape that has Bentley and Scalero so rattled, that got Royce and Ivy’s uncle killed, in my hand. What exactly did Royce accuse Scalero of doing in that tattoo shop? Even if it was a bunch of lies, the allegations were clearly serious, if Ivy’s uncle thought he could get money out of Alliance for it.
And increasingly, I can’t help but think that perhaps Royce was telling the truth.
I toss the thing onto the passenger seat. I don’t do this. I don’t ask questions. I trust Bentley and I do my job. But I’ve also learned not to question my gut, and none of my other assignments have left my gut feeling unsettled like this.
I’m ready to call Bentley and tell him I have the videotape and the assignment was successful, but I pause and stare at the tape for a moment longer. That will tell me if what Royce and Scalero and who knows who else did over there was worth the end goal.
If people really needed to die over this.
If it’s worth Ivy spending the rest of her life with no answers, no closure to her uncle’s death.
I’ll know why I’m here, in San Francisco. It’ll prove to me that what I do matters for the greater good.
A white corner of paper peeks out of the case. I shake the tape out, and a folded note tumbles out along with it. A man’s scratched handwriting fills the page.
Ivy-If something should happen to me, send this video to Dorris Maclean at NBC. People need to know about this. And don’t tell anyone you have it. ~N.
I need to look up this Dorris Maclean, but my guess is she’s an investigative reporter. So at least Ivy’s uncle had some idea that what he was doing might be risky. Which likely means that he was desperate for the cash he presumed this blackmail scheme was going to get him. He must have already been under threat from whomever he owed money to.
People need to know about this.
What exactly did Ned think people need to know about?
If I phone Bentley now, I have exactly an hour and a half—the time it will take to drive to his Napa home—to produce the tape before he grows suspicious.
And then answers to any questions will be lost to me.
I stare long and hard at the tape.
I can’t believe they still sell these fucking things, but thank God they do.
I push the tape into the machine and cross my fingers that the cables the department store sales guy said would work on this shitbox motel television actually do. At first, all I see is static and I curse the idiot for being wrong. But after jogging the wires a few times, the screen wobbles, then clears, and the inside of the tattoo shop appears.
At the bottom of the screen is a time stamp of 4:00 p.m., October 21 of this year. About three weeks ago now. A Willie Nelson wannabe—Ivy’s uncle, from the pictures that I’ve seen—is hunched over a woman’s arm with his tattoo gun, working away quietly.
I grin as Ivy saunters past the camera with her case in hand, her narrow hips swinging casually. “You want me to come by with dinner for you later, Ned?”
“Nah. I’ll call Fez.” He has a deep, guttural voice. Not the most friendly-sounding guy.
“I thought he drove you nuts.”
“Ya see . . . Me and Fez, we have an understandin’.” Now he glances over his shoulder at her, and I can just make out the crinkles around his eyes, telling me he’s smiling at her. “He don’t talk and I like ’im.”
She laughs. “I wish I could figure out how to get him to do that for me.”
“You gonna be home later tonight, girl?”
“At some point.”
With a sigh and shake of his head, he mutters, “Stay out of trouble,” as she pushes through the front door.
He continues working in silence. There’s nothing valuable here, from what I can see, so I begin fast-forwarding through, watching the customer pay and leave, Ivy’s uncle clean up his area and reset it, the pizza delivery guy to show up—I slow down for that, to see that the uncle’s not lying; Fez says nothing but hello and goodbye and “That’ll be six forty-two, sir.” There’s a good two-hour time lapse of Ned Marshall sitting in his desk chair with his feet up as the sun goes down outside. I’m beginning to wonder if this is the right tape after all.
Finally, the door pushes open and Dylan Royce marches through. I recognize him immediately from the newspaper clipping.
This is definitely what Bentley is after.
I slow the tape in time to see Ned reach out and shake his hand. “Royce! How’s the arm?” he asks.
Royce holds out his arm to display the partially finished sleeve. Some parts are outlined, others are completely filled in. I’m guessing Ivy’s uncle had been working on it over a few sessions. He and Royce had probably gotten pretty chummy.
I watch the screen as the two men go through the usual bullshit niceties and paperwork. It’s nice to have audio. A lot of surveillance videos that I’ve watched don’t have it. Then again, Bentley did say that it’s the conversation he’s after.
“Okay, we’re all set.” Ivy’s uncle pulls out a transfer he must have prepared earlier. Royce pulls his shirt off to reveal a hardened body that’s seen plenty of hours in the gym, and likely some war-inflicted injuries, from the small scars across his rib cage. He’s a big guy, bigger than Scalero. But Scalero had a gun and I’m guessing he didn’t waste time using it on his former comrade’s head.
Royce settles into the chair that I just helped pitch the other day and positions his arm. I turn the volume up to catch their words, which are surprisingly clear for that retro surveillance system. He tips his head back, giving the camera a good angle of his eyes, glossed over. He’s high, I’m guessing. Bentley did say he had a problem with both Vicodin and smoking pot. It would make sense that he’d do it before sitting under a needle for hours.
I sip away on my coffee—caffeine is one of my few vices, and a godsend at the moment, given how tired I am—and listen to them talk. All this Medal of Honor recipient seems to do is complain: about his asshole neighbor’s annoying dog that he wants to poison because it keeps shitting on the sidewalk in front of his house; about his mother, who won’t let up on him about his breakup with his cheating cunt of a girlfriend who was fucking some guy on the side while he was away. About the Marine Corps, and how he misses those years and wishes he had stayed, hadn’t been swayed by the opportunity to make more money.