Ink (3 page)

Sailor finished setting up and sat on the stool with his hands on his upper thighs. “Sit here,” he said, indicating the chair beside him. “Have you given any thought to what you want?”

Jason sat down with a small smile on his face. “A griffin.”

An easy decision, once he’d thought about it. Easy and perfect. Six months ago, Shelley went away for a girl’s weekend with Nicole. Not long after she left, he went to the bookstore and bought a paperback. He couldn’t remember the title or the author or even the story, but he remembered the cover and the creature on it—a griffin with gold wings and green eyes. He read the book in one sitting, and the image of the griffin stayed with him for weeks, long after the story faded from his mind.

He’d tucked the book away on a shelf; a few weeks later, he’d found an empty spot in its place. When he asked Shelley if she’d seen it, she’d given him a cruel smile that said what he’d already known. Shelley wouldn’t be able to throw this one away, and the tattoo would serve as a promise to himself—never again would he give up control over his own self.

“Ah, a griffin. One of my favorite things. Powerful creatures,” Sailor said.

“Good thing they’re not real, right?”

“Yes, quite a good thing. I imagine they would cause considerable trouble.”

Jason laughed. “And I’d like it to have green eyes and golden wings, please.”

Sailor lifted the briefcase, balancing it on his legs, started to hum the same unfamiliar tune and pulled out a sketchpad and pencil. “Where do you want the griffin?”

“My upper arm. The left one,” Jason said.

“Good choice. Would you like the wings outstretched or back?”

“Outstretched, definitely.”

“Black and gray or color?”
 

The cadence of Sailor’s speech was soothing, completely at odds with its rough smoker’s growl. This close, the lines on his face resembled crevices or vast bottomless canyons that spoke of many years, but more than the lines, his very skin pushed out an innate sense of old age. For the first time, Jason realized that the odd, ashy smell did not come from a cigarette, but something darker and thicker—strange, yet not repugnant.

“Color.”

Sailor’s pencil made short, scraping noises on the paper. “Menacing or simply imposing?”

“Um, imposing.”

“Anything in your griffin’s talons?”

“My ex? Just kidding.”

Sailor laughed softly, but his watery eyes were serious as his hand moved across the paper. He finally lifted the pencil, nodded once and flipped the sketchpad around. “Is this the sort of griffin you had in mind?”

Jason’s voice vanished as he marveled at the intricacy of the design. The griffin appeared ready to step out of the page. Ten times—no, a hundred times better than the cover of the book. Its wings were outstretched, each individual feather drawn with precision. From the razor-sharp points of the talons and beak to the tuft of fur at the end of its tail, it was perfect. He wouldn’t have believed anyone capable of drawing that much detail in such a short time if he hadn’t seen it himself.

Jason swallowed and found his words. “Wow. It’s beautiful.”

“Well, if you are going to have something permanently etched into your skin, it should be a damn good something.” Sailor pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Allergies,” he said, tucking it back in.

“Will the tattoo have that much detail?”

“No, it will have far more. This is just a rough sketch, after all. My skill with the needle and ink far surpasses that with pencil and paper. I believe you will be quite surprised with the end result.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask. How much will this cost?”

“Ah, the price. Yes, there is always a price.” Sailor turned his eyes down to the sketch and hummed his tune again. “I am quite sure we will be able to do this in one sitting, so I will give you a small discount. Say, four hundred dollars.”

Jason blinked in surprise. The price was far less than he’d anticipated once he’d seen the sketch, and he'd been worried he hadn't pulled enough cash from the bank machine. He had a credit card but hadn't thought to ask Sailor if he even accepted them. “Sounds good,” he said, and fished the money from his wallet.

Sailor pocketed the cash without glancing at the bills. “I almost forgot.” He opened his briefcase again and rummaged through its contents. “I need your signed permission. The city frowns upon tattoo artists proceeding without permission.”

He pulled a sheet of paper from the briefcase and handed it over. Jason didn’t know what a standard tattoo consent form looked like, but this one had Sailor’s name and address at the top center. After that, a bunch of legalese stated he was older than eighteen, any and all risks were assumed by him, not the tattoo shop, and he granted permission for Sailor to use the image created for marketing purposes. Jason lowered the pen and stopped just before the tip touched the paper. A faint shadow of writing, spidery and ornate, appeared underneath the typeface. Odd. He looked up to find Sailor watching with an anticipatory light in his watery eyes.

Jason looked back down at the paper but saw nothing strange. It must have been a trick of the light. Or something.

After he signed the form and handed it back, Sailor smiled. “If you ever change your mind about the tattoo, come back and see me. Tattoo removal is also one of my specialties.”

“Removal?”

“Yes. You would be surprised. Sometimes people change their minds. Sometimes they decide a tattoo was not the smartest decision to make. Especially a tattoo with this kind of detail. The devil is all in the details. You are warned—the removal is painful, and it leaves one hell of a scar.” He gave Jason a quick wink. “So,” he said as he put the paper back into his briefcase. “Shall we begin?”

7

An hour later, Jason sat white-knuckled with beads of sweat on his forehead. He’d overheard one of his co-workers say a tattoo felt like a cat scratch, but at the moment, he was only inclined to agree if said cat was a tiger.

“Still with me?”

“Yes,” Jason managed between clenched teeth.

“Not so good with pain, are you?”

“Guess not.”

“The pain will not last forever,” Sailor said. From time to time, he stopped to take out his handkerchief and wipe his eyes, a quick little lift and dab. “I think this might be my best work ever.”

Each time the needle touched Jason’s skin, it left a red-hot jolt behind. Jason looked down, surprised that Sailor almost had the outline complete. The tattoo gun buzzed and hummed, the sound echoing in the air when Sailor paused to dip the needles in the ink. The smells of ash, blood and ink mixed together and hovered in the air—a dark perfume of art in progress. Jason swayed in the chair as bright spots of light danced chaos in front of his eyes.

Sailor pulled the gun away. “I suggest we get you something to eat before you pass out.”

The pain in Jason’s arm receded to a tiny throb of irritated flesh. Before he could speak, Sailor rolled his way to the back of the room, pushed through the dark cloth, and returned a few moments later, humming under his breath, with a bottle of soda in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other.

“Here. When you finish these, we shall start again.”

“Okay.”

Sailor wiped at his eyes as Jason took the first bite of chocolate. “So what will be your next act of newfound independence? A motorcycle perhaps?”

The chocolate lodged in Jason’s throat, and he took a drink from the bottle. “I’m not sure yet.”

“Perhaps a girl? Get yourself laid well and proper? Perhaps visit a strip club and bestow single dollar bills upon women with plastic breasts and artificial smiles?” He nodded as Jason blushed.

“I thought so. You look like a man who has been deprived.” He winked, and a tear ran from the corner of one eye to his cheek.

Lift. Dab.

Jason swallowed another bite of chocolate. “Shelley, my wi—my ex, hates tattoos and motorcycles and thinks strip clubs are practically the devil’s den.”

Sailor chuckled. “Doubtful, although many a young man has gotten into trouble within their walls. How long were you married?”

“Seven years—well, almost eight.”

“That long? You must have married young.”

“Yeah, we did.”

“Ah, the folly of youth. How unfortunate, or perhaps not, since Shelley’s misdeeds led you to me.”

“Have you ever been married?”

A deep peal of laughter rang through the room. “No, no. Never. I am not the marrying kind, as they say. Since you are finished, shall we begin again?” He plucked the empty wrapper from Jason’s hand.

“Sure.”

When Jason felt the bite of the tattoo gun again, his arm sang out in protest; he half expected to look down and see his skin hanging in ribbons of raw flesh. The coppery smell of blood rose up, strong enough to taste.

“I assume the change in your marital status was quite unexpected?”

“Yes.”

“Well, not to worry. A young man like yourself will find a new friend soon enough, and your wife will become a distant memory.”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, I am certain of it.”

He whispered the last so low, Jason could barely hear the words over the steady hum of the tattoo gun.

Just a little pain.

It wasn’t the end of the world, and the tattoo was going to be unbelievable when Sailor finished. The needle bit, then lifted, and Sailor wiped away blood.

“Yes, I think this will be one of my masterpieces.”

He started to hum, and his hand moved faster across Jason’s skin. The scratch no longer belonged to a tiger but to a creature with razor-tipped claws. Jason closed his eyes, breathed in and out, counting to five each time, and listened to Sailor’s wordless tune. When Sailor lifted the tattoo gun away from his skin for the last time, Jason shook out his cramped fingers, unsure how much time had passed.

“See, that was not so bad, was it?” Sailor took out his handkerchief.

Lift. Dab.

“Let me clean it up a bit, then you can take a look.”

Sailor ran a moistened cloth across the tattoo, and Jason held his breath as his skin shrieked. Sweat ran in a cold trail down the center of his spine.

“Almost done,” Sailor said.

Jason didn’t exhale until Sailor took the cloth, now tinged pink with his blood, away and held up a small mirror.

“What do you think?”

“Holy shit.”

It was more than unbelievable, so much more. The creature, its feathers and fur done in shades of amber, gold and tawny brown, looked ready to spring up from his skin. Its beak and claws were pale but tipped with dark, its eyes a piercing green, and the massive chest leaned forward and up—regal, haughty, and proud.

“Judging by your expression, you are pleased?”

“Very.”

“I told you it would be even better than the sketch.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Good. Now, I am going to put a bandage over it—”

“Can you wait a minute?”

Sailor narrowed his eyes. “Yes?”

“I want to take a picture of it first, before you put the bandage on.” Jason pulled out his cell phone and took a quick picture while Sailor watched with an amused expression. When he slid the phone back into his pocket, Sailor gave him a crisp nod and covered the tattoo with a gauze pad.

“Leave the bandage on tonight as it may bleed for a few hours. I have an ointment for you to use three times a day for a week, which will aid in the healing process. It should take two weeks, at most, to heal completely, and during that time no hot tubs, swimming pools, or soaking in the tub. Itching and peeling, especially with this amount of detail, is quite normal, but it will pass. Have you any other questions?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then I think we are finished,” Sailor said, reaching out, oddly enough, with his left hand.

Jason shook it, and an odd tingle raced up his arm, all the way up to the tattoo, then disappeared. Sailor smiled, wiped his eyes again and handed Jason a white, unlabeled tube.

“Thank you. I mean really, thanks a lot. This is amazing,” Jason said.

“I am sure you will be the envy of all your friends. Now if you do not mind, I have another client who will be arriving soon, and he is a very private sort of person.” Sailor walked in his odd way and opened the door.

“Oh, okay. Sorry. Thanks, I mean it.” He turned to say thank you one last time, but Sailor had already shut the door. Jason walked down the staircase, ignoring the strange wallpaper. His arm burned under the bandage, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t just a tattoo.

It was a work of art.

8

Behind the door, John S. Iblis smiled, raising the handkerchief to his leaking eyes. He had not lied to Jason. The tattoo was indeed one of his best.

9

Sitting in his car, Jason sent the picture to his co-worker and friend, Brian. The response came only minutes later.