Someplace to Be Flying (19 page)

“Up … up on the roof of the house,” she said. “There’s a woman sitting on the peak.”

Rory relaxed. “That’d be Chloë,” he said. “She likes to sit up there,” he added in response to Kerry’s confused look.

“Reminds her of the long ago,” Annie said.

Kerry looked back and forth between them, trying to see the joke.

“But isn’t it dangerous?” she asked.

“Apparently not,” Rory said.

“And if she ever started to slip,” Annie added, “all she’d have to do is fly away.”

Now it was Rory who looked puzzled. He regarded Annie thoughtfully, then shrugged and started walking again.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not? Everybody’s bird-crazy in this house.”

“What did you mean about long ago?” Kerry asked as she fell into step beside Annie.

Annie gave her a teasing look. “You know. When we were all animals.”

Kerry still didn’t get it and it was obvious Rory didn’t either, though the phrase seemed to mean something to him because it took him deep into thought again until he saw or felt her looking at him. That earned her a wry smile, as if to say, I’m as much in the dark here as you.

Annie punched her lightly on the arm. “Oh, don’t take everything so seriously.”

“I’m not. I mean, I won’t.”

“Look at this,” Rory said as they joined him on the porch. “Notice how when there’s work to be done, the crow girls are never to be found?”

“You really think it would go quicker if they were here to help?” Annie asked.

Rory nodded. “You’re right. What was I thinking?” He hefted a corner of the table to test its weight. “So who’s going to give me a hand with this?”

“You hold the door,” Annie told Kerry as she put the bags she was carrying down on the wicker bench. “We’ll get this and the chest up first and then come back for all the smaller stuff.”

When had the number of tattoo parlors in town doubled? Hank wondered as he read down the list he’d copied from the yellow pages. He recognized some of the old names. Al’s Tattoo Parlor, an old biker hangout on Gracie. The Tattoo Garden, down in the Market. The Buzz, over on Williamson Street where Terry’s sister, Paris, worked. But there were as many he’d never heard of before. Zola’s in the Zone. Silverland. Needles and Pins. Most of the newer ones also offering body piercing.

Tattoos had never been Hank’s scene, not even when he was inside. Tattoos, like jewelry, got in the way of being invisible. They attracted too much notice, made people remember you.

For a long time he hadn’t really understood the compulsion to take needle and ink to the skin and make a mark. Then he met Paris Lee. If you saw her in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, her black hair hanging down in a curtain over her neck, you’d never know that most of her body was covered with tattoos.

“It’s my diary,” she’d explained. “Every mark I’ve had drawn on my skin connects me to where and who I’ve been—so I never forget who I am and how I got here.” There was no humor to the smile she offered him. “And you know what the real beauty of it is?”

Hank had shaken his head.

“Nobody can take it away.”

Nobody could understand the diary either because the images all referred to her own personal mythology; even their positioning had a symbolic meaning. But what other people understood wasn’t important. What was important was that she did. That she was able to read the complex story that was related in the bewildering pattern that ran across her torso and limbs. Some of the images were there to remind her of the things that were worth living for. The others stood as mute witness to a long dark time when a needle entering her skin wasn’t adding to the story, but searching for a vein, offering only oblivion.

So Hank learned to understand the need to leave a mark, if only on your own skin. But he didn’t want his to be anybody’s canvas—not even his own.

Al’s Tattoo Parlor was closest to the gym where he’d stopped off to change into more casual clothes, so he started there. The Al who’d given the place its name was long gone, victim of a turf war in the early seventies. The outside of the building looked like a concrete bunker, one window boarded up, the other holding a sun-faded display of tattoos. There was a sour smell inside, an unpleasant mix of body odor, machine oil, and old cigarette smoke. The half-dozen bikers hanging out were old and fat or wasted-thin, all of them out of shape, none of them able to muster much more than tired sneers at his entrance. The young turks had their own hangouts now.

The man behind the counter was tall and lean as barbed wire and unlike the rest of them, he was still dangerous. He wore his dark hair slicked back in a ducktail. A cigarette hung from his lips, smoke curling up the side of his face. His name was Bruno and he’d done time with Moth, back in the sixties. A real wizard with a needle, inside or on the street. He recognized Hank and gave him a nod.

“Got a weird question for you,” Hank said.

“Shoot.”

“You do penises?”

One of the fat bikers snickered. He broke off when Bruno turned to look at him.

“I’m guessing this is someone you’re looking for?” Bruno said, returning his attention to Hank.

Hank nodded.

“Ellie might have done some, but that was back when Al was running the place. Don’t touch ‘em myself.”

That brought another snicker from where the bikers were lounging. Bruno didn’t even bother looking at them this time.

“I don’t suppose you keep records?” Hank asked.

Bruno gave him a thin smile. “What do you think?”

“It was worth a shot.”

“What was the tattoo?”

“A cobra—goes the full length, circles around.”

“Cute.”

Hank shrugged.

“You might try some of those new places. They do cock-rings, the whole shot.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Hank got as far as the door when one of the bikers called out to him. He turned, leaned against the doorjamb. It was the one who’d snickered earlier.

“That dog of yours,” the biker said. “The one you run with.”

“He’s not mine.”

“Whatever. I was just wondering, what kind of a dog is it?”

“Tombs-mutt.”

“I was thinking it might be part bear.”

“That, too.”

“Ugly son of a bitch, ain’t it? Surprised nobody’s taken a shot at it.”

Hank knew he was just trying to save face from the way Bruno’d shut him up earlier, so he didn’t take the implied threat too seriously.

“You going to be the one?” he asked, keeping his voice mild.

The biker shrugged.

“Well,” Hank said. “Just remember this: I know your face.”

Before the biker could respond, Hank nodded to Bruno and stepped outside. A bus was going by, leaving a cloud of diesel fumes in its wake, but it still smelled better than it had inside. He waited a moment, but no one came out. That suited him fine. He didn’t need the extra grief.

He didn’t get to the Buzz until two fruitless hours later. It was clean inside and air-conditioned. Spot lighting, black-and-white checkered floor, the monochrome coloring extending to the walls and ceiling. Paris was standing at the counter, talking to a customer, a striking woman, willowy and tall, with an amazing psychedelic tattoo on her shoulder. Paris blew him a kiss when she saw him come in, then returned to her conversation. The woman was looking into getting her clitoris pierced and wanted to know if it would hurt.

Jesus, Hank thought as he took a seat on the black leather couch by the window. What do you think?

Paris suited the place perfectly, as monochrome as the decor, black jeans and combat boots, a white short-sleeved shirt, her hair like black jet against her pale skin. Black lipstick, dark eye shadow above her almond-shaped eyes. The only color in the room came from her forearms and the other woman’s shoul-der, a kaleidoscope of swirling patterns that seemed all the more intense because of what surrounded them.

There were tattoo magazines scattered on the coffee table beside him, but Hank didn’t pay any more attention to them than he did to the conversation between Paris and her customer. He went into no-time while he waited, that place where the idea of linear time held no meaning. He could sit like that for hours, aware of everything around him, but only on an animal level. The world spun on around him while he sat patient, timeless, spidered in the center of a meditative mandala, one of his own making. He didn’t need a tattoo to remember who and why he was. He simply was. Only today who he was missed Lily and that he didn’t understand at all. He barely knew the woman, didn’t know her angle, didn’t know if she even had an angle. But there she was in his thoughts anyway, a warm presence, a small ache, a piece of happiness all the more precious because of the landscapes he’d been walking today. County jail. Seedy streets. Tattoo parlors.

He came out of it the moment Paris sat down on the couch beside him. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then leaned back to look at him.

“There’s something different about you today,” she said. “Did you get laid or something?”

Hank smiled. “Just deep in thought.”

“Yeah, right. The only guy I know who thinks less than you is Moth. I think you’re in love.”

“You think?” he asked, keeping his voice light.

She shrugged. “Who knows? But I hope she’s good for you.” Before he could admit to or deny her observation, she was already plunging on. “So what are you doing here on a Sunday afternoon? Coming to take me for a coffee?”

“You want a coffee?”

“Nah. I’ve had so many already today I feel like the store was named after me.” She grinned and made a buzzing sound. “What’s up?”

As he began to explain, she put a hand in front of her mouth, but wasn’t able to stop the giggle.

“Now what?” he said.

It took her a moment to be able to speak.

“Nothing,” she managed finally, humor still dancing in her eyes. “It’s just that when you first started talking I thought you meant
you
wanted this tattoo.”

He smiled. “What if I did?”

“Then I’d be glad you came to me—keep it in the family, you know?”

She went off on a tangent then and it was another ten minutes before he could finish telling her what he wanted to know.

“A cobra, hmm? That’s better than a torpedo, I guess. How’s this guy hung?”

“How would I know?”

She was back to giggling again. “I’d think it’d be one of the first things you’d have to ask—to be able to identify him properly, I mean.” She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “How
are
you going to identify him?”

Paris always did this to him.

“I was hoping to get a name.”

“This is too funny. I can just see you going around asking about this guy’s dick. Have you talked to Bruno yet?”

Hank nodded, which set her off again. But finally she calmed down enough to actually try to help him.

“Nobody’s had it done here,” she said. “At least not that I’ve heard of, and that’s the kind of thing that gets talked about, especially if the guy”— she gave him another wicked little smile—“can pull it off.”

Hank groaned.

“Okay, okay. I’m being serious already. How about if I ask around for you?”

“That’d be great.” He thought of something then. “Got a pen?”

When she dug a black marker out of her back pocket and passed it over to him, he sketched Katy’s tattoo on the back of one of the magazines on the coffee table:

“Ever seen something like this?” he asked. “Or know what it means?”

“Hello?” she said. “I was born in North America, Hank, not China. And besides, that looks Japanese.”

Hank smiled. “I know. And you’ve never been to France either. I’m asking you because of your so-called expertise as a tattoo artist, sweetheart.”

She stuck out her tongue. Picking up the magazine, she tore off the section of the page with the ideograph and stuck it in her pocket.

“I’ll ask Rudy for you. He’s into that kind of stuff, you know, Akido and Zen and the lot.”

“Thanks.”

She grabbed his arm and made him sit down when he tried to get up.

“Uh-uh,” she said. “Not so fast. Now I want to know all about her.”

Hank pretended ignorance. “Her?”

She nodded. “Come on. ‘Fess up. Where’d you meet, what’s she like? You’re not getting out of here until you tell all, so you might as well start now.”

So he told her about Lily, because Paris had always known his heart better than he did himself. Better than Moth, better than anyone. It wasn’t why they were family, but it was why they were friends.

After they got Kerry settled in with all of her new acquisitions, Annie went across the hall to practice and Rory returned to his own apartment. For awhile he sat at his workbench, trying to finish up an earring order he had for Tender Hearts, a boutique over on Quinlan that regularly carried his jewelry. Through the cold-air return vent he could hear the faint sound of? Annie running over a chord progression on her guitar, augmenting the syncopated pattern with brief flourishes of melody.

A new song, Roiy decided, since it didn’t sound familiar. He kept expecting her to retreat into her soundproofed studio to put it down on tape, but the music simply went on as though she’d fallen into a meditative trance and forgotten what her hands were doing.