Ink (2 page)

“Shit.”

Okay, so he was more hung over than he wanted to admit. He grabbed the card and stood up, closing his eyes against a wave of dizziness. When it passed, he held up the card and frowned. It read
John S. Iblis, Tattoo Artist
in simple black lettering with no logo, no address, just the name and a local phone number. He tapped the card against his chin, and the memory of the sailor with the funny walk came back in a rush. He’d given him the card on his way out, when Jason was already deep into his drunk. Sailor had asked him if he’d ever thought of getting a tattoo. He'd said no.

He’d lied.

Not sure why. Maybe just the beer, or maybe because he hadn’t thought about a tattoo in a long time. He’d wanted one when he was twenty, something big and dramatic like a skull or a snake. And then he met Shelley. She thought they were tacky, so he nixed the idea: she was cute and sophisticated, and he wanted to get in her pants. When he mentioned it again a few years later, Shelley gave him
the look
—her way of saying not on your life, buddy. They were married then, for better or worse, which meant Shelley made the rules and Jason followed them.

After that, the desire to get a tattoo got pushed back in the corner with all the other things he wanted but didn’t get because Shelley said no. He flipped the card over and over in his hand. He
would
get a tattoo; Shelley couldn’t bitch about it anymore. Maybe he’d get a motorcycle, too, and anything else on the Shelley list of nos. In fact, he’d make a list and check it twice, like the jolly fat man. Jason grinned. He didn’t have to go back to the office until Monday. He had five days of total freedom, and his headache didn’t seem so important anymore. Five days to do whatever the hell he wanted, to do whatever Shelley would hate.

A little ink on the skin would be a perfect way to celebrate. Perfect and safe. A little money, a little blood and one hell of a boost to the ego. A fair exchange in Jason’s mind. It wasn’t like a tattoo carried the risk of death or mutilation.

What was the worst that could happen?

3

The phone rang three times, then an unmistakable voice kicked in with an apology for not being able to take his call. How early would someone have to start smoking to get a voice like that? Eleven? Ten? Maybe instead of a pacifier, his mother gave him a Marlboro.

Jason hung up without leaving a message. Despite the growl, Sailor spoke like a man of the world, a definite Alpha male. The voice made Jason feel small.

And a little afraid.

He turned on the television and propped his feet up on the coffee table. The headache poked and prodded, then slid down a little more, small enough to be ignored. Jason watched television until the sun started to fade from the sky, put his head back and fell asleep.

The shrill ring of his cell phone startled him out of a dream involving the new receptionist at the office. While he slept, the sun had disappeared, and the living room was dark except for the glow of the television. The display screen on his phone showed neither name nor number, only the words
Unknown Caller
. Jason wasn’t on call this week, but old habits were just that, and he hit the answer button.

“Hello?”

“Who is this?” a familiar voice asked.

Goosebumps broke out on Jason’s arms and for half a second, he contemplated hanging up the phone. “This is Jason. I met you at the bar last night.”

“Yes, Jason of the newly departed wife. How may I help you?”

“I was thinking about the tattoo.”

Sailor chuckled. “Just thinking?”

“No, I want one.”

“Are you certain?”

Maybe.

“Yes.”

“Sure this is not just a little get back at the wifey?” Sailor’s voice was amused. A little mocking. A little Alpha.

“Yes, I’m sure. More than sure, actually,” he said. And he knew exactly what he wanted. Not a skull or a snake, nothing quite so prosaic.

“Since you are more than sure, when would you like to come to the shop?”

“What about tomorrow?”
 

Before he changed his mind, before he listened to the Shelley-voice in his head and chickened out.

“Let me check my appointments.”

Jason rubbed the sleep from his eyes while he waited.

“How about 6:00 p.m.?”

“Okay.”

“Have you a pen?”

“A pen?”

“Yes, for the address.” His voice held the mocking tone again.

“Hold on,” Jason said. He went into the kitchen and grabbed a magnetized notepad and pen from the refrigerator. “Got one.”

“Good. 1303 Shakespeare Street. In Fells Point.”

“Okay, cool.”

“I will see you at six tomorrow evening. Please do not be late.”

“Okay.”

Jason waited for a reply, but the phone pushed out a heavy silence. No breathing, no background noise, nothing. He was ready to press the
end call
button when he heard an odd muffled sound, an inexplicable wet sound that reminded him of sheets flapping on a clothesline on a windy day. Finally it slid away with a serpentine hiss, followed by a low chuckle, then a tiny, tinny click as Sailor disconnected the call.

4

The sky was a vivid blue streaked with pale clouds. A warm spring night perfect for long walks along the harbor, soft whispers in tangled sheets, and definitely perfect for a little ink on the skin. For Jason, anyway.

Jason drove past the space where the tattoo shop should be three times. Three-story buildings with gently sloping roofs lined both sides of the narrow street. Old brick, tall windows with grimy glass, doors that led out directly onto the sidewalk instead of the typical Baltimore marble stoop. 1301 Shakespeare Street was a café with a colorful sign above the door, 1305 an empty space with a
For Rent
sign in the front window. At first he thought he’d missed the shop and turned the car around in the middle of the street. He slowed down but still saw nothing. A white car came up fast behind him, and the owner tapped its horn once. Jason turned around again, stopping with the back half of his car in front of the café and the front half in front of the empty building.

1303 Shakespeare Street did not exist.

“What the hell?”

I know I wrote the address down correctly. It has to be here somewhere.

A car pulled out three cars up, and Jason took the spot. He got out and walked down to where 1303 should be, his footsteps echoing on the pavement. A soft wind, carrying the scent of pizza, beer and cheap perfume, pushed his hair back from his forehead.

1305 didn’t look like it had been empty for long—the front window was clean and the
For Rent
sign new. The café was closed. The two buildings were right next to each other, snug as two cigarettes in a pack and in between? Nothing.

Oh come on, my eyes are playing tricks somehow. Unless…

Jason shoved his hands in his pockets and walked back to his car with slow steps. Sailor didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would pull someone’s leg for the hell of it. Another breeze lifted his hair; this time it held a trace of cigarette smoke and rotting garbage.

“You are early.”

Jason jumped. Sailor stood a few feet away, dressed in dark pants and a long-sleeved shirt with his fluffy hair slicked back neatly and a black briefcase in one hand, looking more like a door-to-door salesman than a sailor.

“Well, nothing to be done about that now,” he said.

“I’m sorry, I can wait in my car.”

Sailor removed a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “No need for that. Come.”

The shirt concealed his tattoos, but Sailor couldn’t hide the walk. It was even more noticeable when Jason fell in step beside him. The gait wasn’t uneven but odd, as if his hips rolled forward first and his legs followed along for the ride. Maybe an old injury or hip replacement surgery. Sailor said nothing as they walked, just hummed a song under his breath until they stopped in front of the two buildings.

“Are you sure you are ready?” he asked, and his voice had that mocking lilt again.

Jason nodded.

“Well then, shall we go in?” He walked between the buildings and Jason blinked. A plain wooden door with faded paint and a brass handle darkened with age swam into view. The door, set back several feet from the brick front of the buildings, might have been black at one time, but the paint had faded to a dusty gray. A weathered sign on the side read 1303. All but the last number hung with a crooked slant.

Sailor tucked the handkerchief into his shirt pocket and pushed the door open. “Follow me.”

Jason did.

5

Jason stepped through the door and swallowed hard. Dim yellow lighting revealed a narrow staircase with well-worn steps and water-stained walls of pale gray. The sour smell of mold hung heavy in the air, a thick, wet smell that clung to the back of his throat. The faded wallpaper held traces of odd swirling designs like faces—screaming faces. Jason traced his fingertips across the surface, pulling his hand away as one of the swirls appeared to shift closer into view.

He turned his eyes forward and focused on Sailor’s back as they walked the rest of the way up. He wondered what would happen if he touched the wall again. Would he feel firm wall and wallpaper, or would his hand slip beneath the surface to touch the cold skin of those trapped inside? Jason kept his hands down, as far away from the walls as possible. Sailor, looking over his shoulder, chuckled, then hummed his tune and rolled his walk.

They came to a narrow landing and another door, the paint little more than a washed-out stain of reddish-brown. When Sailor turned the knob, the door swung open with a high-pitched creak to reveal a dark room. The tiny hairs on the back of Jason’s neck stood up. Not just dark, but black—the light from the hallway stopped at the doorframe. Jason’s hands clenched into twin fists.

“Hold on, let me turn on the light before we go in. I do not want you to trip and fall. You would sue me, then I would be done for.” Sailor disappeared into the darkness.

Jason’s heart beat heavy in his chest as he looked into the darkness and saw nothing—no shadowy movements, no suggestion of shapes. He should at least hear Sailor moving around, especially with his walk, but the room kept its silence well, leaving him with only the smell of dust, old walls and neglect for company while he waited.

Shelley would hate this entire scenario. She wouldn’t find it eerie. She’d find it offensive. The old hallway, the faded paint and the smell whispered words like dirty needles, hepatitis and abandoned hope. Jason thought maybe he should reconsider his hasty decision. He forced his fingers to uncurl from his palms. Hellish nightmares did not exist, and if they did, he was quite sure they didn’t live in Baltimore.

Still, when the light turned on, he jumped.

“Well, do not stand out there all night. Come in.”

6

The room was bright white and antiseptic with the bite of alcohol lingering in the air. A shock compared to the tired, drab staircase. Jason blinked a few times, and all thoughts of nightmares disappeared. “Wow,” he said.

Spotless white walls picked up and magnified the overhead lighting. He could almost see his reflection in the gleam of the dark wood floor. A long table with metal legs stood in the center of the room, next to a smaller table covered with plastic bottles, rolls of paper towels, a tattoo gun and small pots of ink; a chair with a padded seat and a stool sat on the opposite side. Sailor put his briefcase on the floor and bent over the small table.

Jason looked at a series of framed prints on the far wall. “Is that your work?”

“Yes, a few of my original designs. Look closer if you want. They will not bite.”

Jason let out a low whistle when he got close to the first. Inside the old wood frame, a red-eyed dragon with scaly, pebbled skin reached up and out. Jason smiled and leaned closer. Sailor’s work was extraordinary. He was an artist in every sense of the word, despite his chosen medium of needles and flesh.

Jason walked with slow steps past the second framed image, a fairy with green wings and a long sword, then to the third, a long-legged pinup girl in a sexy pink nightgown with something hidden behind her back, both in scarred, chipped frames.

“How do you come up with your ideas?”

“My customers tell me what they want, and I use my imagination to create something that fits.”

The next frames, also old, held images of a sleek black cat with claws extended, a grizzly bear with its mouth opened in a snarl, its teeth and muzzle dripping with blood, and a serpent coiled around a bleeding cross.

“What if someone doesn’t know what they want?”

“People always know what they want,” Sailor said. “Even if they do not think they do. I have helped many make their decisions. Customers are never disappointed when they leave this room.”

The last frame, an empty one with the remnants of sticky adhesive from a price tag marring the top corner, hung on the wall next to a tall, narrow doorway covered with a dark cloth. No light peeked around the curtain, and a faint trace of dust speckled the bottom edge—the only evidence of dust in the room at all. As Jason turned away, the sound of small feet pattered across the floor. He paused, waiting for a mouse to emerge, but the curtain remained still, and the sound ceased.