§ § § -- March 14, 1980, continued
"Oh my God," she gasped, stunned. Jean-Claude was just picking himself up off the ground; his moped leaned against a tree, smoke drifting out of its tiny engine.
"You!" he shouted the moment he spotted Leslie. "You did zees to me! I 'ave your 'ead for zees, you 'ear me?"
"You're crazy," Tattoo snapped at him. "Leslie didn't do anything wrong. She was driving just like she should have been. You're the one who crashed."
"She make me crash!" Jean-Claude railed and lapsed into a stream of furious, frenetic French, directing half his diatribe at Leslie and the other half at Tattoo. Something he said made Tattoo's eyes go huge with outrage, and he barked out a sharp retort in his native tongue. For a moment Jean-Claude glared at him, and then the two of them were carrying on in loud, overheated French. Leslie stared at them, astonished.
After several minutes of this, a jeep rounded the bend in the direction Jean-Claude had been going, and pulled to a stop nearby. It turned out to be Masako Tokita, Michiko's father, on his way home for lunch. "Is something wrong?" he inquired.
"Hello, Sheriff Tokita," Tattoo said. "I guess you could say something's wrong." He proceeded to explain what had happened while Sheriff Tokita listened calmly; he nodded now and then, without speaking, till Tattoo was finished.
"Miss Leslie, is that right?" Sheriff Tokita asked.
She nodded. "The only difference is, I didn't see what Jean-Claude did. I mean, I looked at him long enough to recognize him, but I looked right back at the road, and then when I finished turning, we heard the crash."
"She make me crash," Jean-Claude said accusingly and immediately launched into his side of the story. Tattoo stood there rolling his eyes, while Leslie tried to wade through the man's thick French accent, as heavy as Tattoo's but in a different way. Leslie was used to Tattoo's speech but not Jean-Claude's; for some reason they sounded different to her.
"It's your own fault," Tattoo said finally. "I saw you. You were staring so hard at Leslie that you totally forgot you were driving. What's wrong with you anyway? Haven't you ever seen a student driver before?"
"Zat girl drive?" Jean-Claude hooted. "I see her wiz m'sieur Roarke ze uzzer day. She seet een ze parking lot an' not move, an' she drive slowair zan a sleeping turtle."
Leslie had finally reached her limit with this man. "You think you have room to criticize me, you grumpy old grouch?" she yelled at him. "I'm not the one who just had a wreck because he was staring at something besides the road! Maybe you better stick to cooking and leave the driving to someone who knows how!" She turned to Sheriff Tokita, her eyes already filling with tears of frustrated rage. "Is it okay if we go, Mr. Tokita? I mean, we have a lot to do, and I don't want to listen to him screaming at me for something that wasn't even my fault."
Sheriff Tokita chuckled. "Yes, I can see you two weren't responsible for the accident. I'll handle it from here. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me." Leslie nodded in response, not trusting her voice, and headed for the car as fast as she could without breaking into a run. Tattoo did have to run to keep up with her.
She thumped into the driver's seat, and the moment Tattoo had climbed in on the passenger side, she burst into tears, resting her head on one arm laid over the top of the steering wheel.. "I wish Mr. Roarke would fire him," she sobbed. "He hates me for no good reason and he's the meanest old fool I ever met."
"Hey, hey, calm down," Tattoo exclaimed, reaching over and patting her arm. "That's just the way Jean-Claude is. He hates everybody, Leslie, not just you. The thing about him is, he'll run all over you if you let him. You just have to make sure he knows who's the boss."
"He does know who's the boss," Leslie said through her tears. "Mr. Roarke."
Tattoo grinned to himself, making sure she didn't see it. "Aw, come on, Leslie," he said. "I saw the look on his face when you yelled at him. He looked like he didn't know what had hit him. I bet he thinks twice about saying anything next time he sees you. That was great, Leslie…I was really proud of you. More people should give him what-for when he starts acting like that. Usually they're too scared of him because of his temper."
She had lifted her head from the steering wheel and was staring at him in surprise, tears still leaking from her eyes. "Really?"
"Really," Tattoo assured her. "You've proved it, Leslie—you're gonna be an excellent driver. Every word he said is nonsense, and don't you forget it." He pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and offered it to her. "So don't let him get to you. Something tells me he's going to treat you with a lot more respect from now on…and he might even cook a special dinner just for you."
"In your dreams," Leslie scoffed, mopping her face. "That grouchy old goat wouldn't even fix himself a special dinner if it meant doing something nice." Tattoo burst into laughter at her assessment, and she finally produced a watery grin. "Do you really think I'm doing okay? I know you didn't want to come with me and Mr. Roarke all week during my lessons, so I figured you thought I was going to be a lousy driver or something."
"Hah," said Tattoo. "Well, I've changed my mind. Jean-Claude's probably had a license longer than you've been alive, and you're still a better driver than he is." At that, she joined in his laughter, and he gestured at the road. "To town, mon chauffeur. You've got a birthday present to buy."
§ § § -- July 20, 1995
After the laughter had died out and a few moments of reflective silence had passed, Roarke took up the narrative thread. "Leslie, you may not remember this, but it stands out in my memory," he said. "You might recall how Tattoo surprised us the year of the mother-daughter talent show at your school and turned out to be one of the judges. Well, the next year when it was decided to hold a father-daughter talent show and you talked me into performing with you, Tattoo faced a dilemma he hadn't quite expected…"
§ § § -- April 5, 1983
Bewildered and a little frustrated from searching everywhere he could think of, Tattoo careened down the road in his specially-built car. What had happened to his boss and Leslie? He glanced to the side of the road and spotted a red station wagon sitting in the small dirt lot in front of the supper club, and slammed on his brakes, nearly overshooting the turnoff and skidding around almost 180 degrees before the little vehicle stopped. Tattoo blew out his breath and drove a trace more sedately into the lot, parking beside the other car and clambering out; then he headed at a half-run to the door and burst inside. A few tentative piano notes sounded from the far side of the main dining room, and Tattoo moved far enough in to note that he had at last tracked down his quarry.
"Boss! Leslie! I've been looking all over the place for you," he exclaimed, weaving through the tables till he reached the pair at the piano. Both Roarke and Leslie stared at him in surprise. "Mariki's holding supper for us, and I've probably covered half the island trying to find you. What are you doing here?"
Roarke and Leslie looked at each other and both grinned sheepishly, an expression unusual on Roarke. "I apologize, my friend, we neglected to tell you," Roarke said. "The high school senior class is holding a father-daughter talent show, and—"
"Oh, I know that, but what's that got to do with this?" Tattoo broke in. "Can't we talk about it later? Supper's waiting and I'm hungry."
Leslie sat up in surprise. "I am too," she exclaimed. "Could we come back tomorrow, Mr. Roarke?"
"Why don't you go on ahead, Leslie," Roarke said. "Tattoo and I will catch up with you at the house. Take the car, I'll walk back." Leslie shrugged, gathered up some sheets of paper and left the club without further urging.
Roarke turned to his assistant when she was gone. "Actually, Tattoo, it has a great deal to do with this," he said. "Leslie persuaded me to participate in the show with her this year, and we are performing 'Baby, It's Cold Outside' as a duet."
Tattoo gaped at him. "What?…boss, you're kidding!"
"Is that such a shock to you?" Roarke asked, looking slightly put out.
Tattoo looked puzzled for a moment, then realized what Roarke meant. "Oh, I don't mean any offense by it, boss," he said. "But I wish you'd told me before."
"Before what?" Roarke prodded, shifting on the piano bench to fully face Tattoo.
Tattoo sighed heavily and said, "You see, I was asked to be a judge again this year. I told them I'd do it, since I had such fun judging last year's contest. But I can't now—it'll make the whole thing look rigged!"
Roarke studied him in surprise. "Indeed! How so?"
Tattoo rolled his eyes. "Boss, I work with you, and everybody knows I think of Leslie as a niece. It'll be nepotism, don't you see? I can't judge this contest with my boss and my niece being a part of it. If you win, somebody's bound to cry foul."
"If it bothers you so much, Tattoo, then simply explain that you can't do it for ethical reasons," Roarke said reasonably.
"I would…but they can't get anyone else. None of the teachers has any time, they told me. They need three judges and if I back out, they won't be able to get a replacement."
Roarke nodded slowly, considering this. Tattoo sighed again and started to pace the floor near the piano, muttering to himself in French. After a few minutes something seemed to occur to him and he paused to stare at Roarke, who had been watching him in a faintly-amused silence. "Boss, you said you're doing a duet with Leslie? Can she sing?"
"She can hold her own," Roarke said, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah?" Tattoo looked skeptical.
Roarke half-grinned and inquired, "Why?"
"I was just thinking that if she's not that good, then I wouldn't have to worry about you two winning," Tattoo said, resuming his pacing and thus unaware of the reproving look Roarke directed at him. "That way I could judge the contest knowing there'd be less chance of people claiming it was fixed."
"My dear Tattoo," said Roarke with an ominous tinge to his tone, "you are very fortunate indeed that I sent Leslie ahead to the main house, for if she had heard you say that, I suspect she would have taken very grave offense indeed."
Tattoo rolled his eyes and threw his hands into the air. "All I meant was…oh, never mind. Did she really have to do this?"
Roarke looked away for a moment, a bit exasperated. "My friend, surely you haven't forgotten last year, when the talent show was for mothers and daughters, and Leslie felt left out since she was the only one in her group who wasn't eligible on that basis. Now that she has the chance to participate, do you really want to take that away from her?"
Tattoo winced at the memory. "That's the thing that bothers me the most. It just wouldn't be fair of me to be a judge now."
"Then perhaps you might try to find a substitute before you break the news to the judging committee," Roarke suggested. "That way, it wouldn't be necessary for them to find a replacement for you, and the problem would be solved."
"That's a good idea, boss, thanks," Tattoo exclaimed with profound relief. "Just do me a favor, please—don't say anything to Leslie. I wouldn't want her to get upset."
Roarke smiled. "Of course not, my friend, of course not. Now, why don't we get back to the main house and have our meal before Mariki's temper really boils over."
§ § § -- July 20, 1995
Leslie stared at Roarke in amazement. "I never even knew you had that conversation. He must have managed to find the replacement, because I know he wasn't on the judging committee that year. But I don't remember who was."
Michiko grinned, turning pink. "Actually, Tattoo finally discovered I wasn't singing in the contest, since I won the previous year's competition, and he asked me to do it."
"Not that it mattered," Leslie said ruefully, grinning back. "We lost anyway." Again they all laughed; already they were feeling better, and everyone settled around the room to share their memories of Tattoo in more depth.
Dusk was shading the sky when Leslie's friends finally made their way home, and Roarke regarded the tape that now lay on the corner of his desk. The Saturday-night luau had, of course, been canceled, and most vacationers had returned home after Tattoo's funeral the previous day. So things were uncommonly quiet, lending a peculiar aura of gloom to the island. Perhaps the time was right.
Roarke picked up the tape and met Leslie's gaze. "What do you think?"
She heaved a deep breath and slowly arose from her chair. "I guess we should." But she looked apprehensive, and Roarke patted her shoulder before leading the way upstairs.
During Tattoo's last year on the island, Roarke had extended a small upstairs room down the hall from Leslie's bedroom, so that there was an elevated enclosed porch that had its own exterior entrance and was located above and to the left of the flagstone terrace behind the study. In the first year after Leslie had been widowed and returned to the island, they had had this room fully weatherproofed and turned into a sort of den, where they kept a television set, VCR, stereo system, and their personal music and video collections. Across from the large oaken entertainment unit sat a plush sofa with a sturdy wood-and-glass coffee table in front of it, atop a large area rug in white stripes alternating with stripes ranging from blue to green and all variations in between. Two paintings that Tattoo had given Roarke many years before hung over the sofa.
It was here that Roarke and Leslie now retreated to receive Tattoo's very last message to them. Leslie slipped back out to get a box of tissues from the bathroom, while Roarke put the tape in the VCR and settled onto the sofa. As soon as Leslie had returned and sat beside him, he started the tape.