© 2011 asotir.
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License.
4
LATE IN THE NIGHT, few people were on the streets. The players and the playmates were locked up in their private, discreet establishments. One big man staggered along. He was the dockworker from the other night. He was drunk and stupidly happy. He walked along the storefront windows and stared in at the displays. He passed a clothing store and in the window was a mannequin of a woman in a nightdress. The store sign read, in small discreet hot pink letters on a black field,
dallio’s
The dockworker leaned against a brick wall by the alley. He fumbled with his pants as if to relieve himself.
A whisper said, ‘Hello.’
The dockworker turned around. ‘Huh? Who’s ’at?’
‘Hello.’
The dockworker turned around again.
The whisper said, ‘Hello. Hello. Hello. Welcome back.’
The dockworker turned around and around. Then there was a sound – a sort of a squishing, a sort of a ripping, a sort of a rending. The dockworker turned back and his hands were at his throat and blood gushed out from under his hands.
Late in the night, few people were on the streets. Down the street, at the mouth of the alley, a big man leaned against the bricks. His hands were at his throat and his body sagged and crumpled onto the pavement. Something dark flowed out from beneath him across the sidewalk.
The red, glistening liquid trickled over the edge of the curb and dripped down through the open drainage grate.
§
THE KITCHEN SINK was dripping. Plink, plunk, plonk… The water was red with rust.
She went to the kitchen doorway. She hugged a dressing wrapper around her, her hair tousled, half asleep still. What time was it? She had no idea anymore. She reached over and turned the tap handle. Plink, plunk, – the sound stopped.
The rusty water slithered down into the black mouth of the drain.
She leaned against the counter top. There was another sound and she looked up.
‘—Who’s there?’ she asked.
Something dim and pale crossed the doorway.
She went into the living room. She fumbled on the floor for one of the lights. She found the switch and snapped it on and the bulb flashed a stab of brightness then blew out.
Light from the city seeped through the curtains across the balcony. Something moved across it. It looked like the figure of a woman in a nightdress. Her hair was pale and loose and she moved with an uncertain haste and hesitancy.
She crouched in the corner behind the lamp, watching.
The skirt of the nightdress swept over the floor. The woman’s feet were bare. On the inside of one ankle there was a mark like a tattoo.
She said, ‘Aunt Amber?’
The woman in the nightdress went out of the room. She roamed the darkened apartment.
She followed the woman into the bedroom, across the bedroom, through the door into the back hall, into the kitchen, out into the living room, the front hall, and into the bathroom.
She blocked the door to the bathroom and snapped the light on.
The light was a donut-shaped fluorescent in the ceiling. It was cold and sterile and lit up every corner of the white-tiled bathroom and it was easy to see the room was empty.
She crossed to the small window. It was only an opening onto an air shaft, a concrete tube. Nothing got out that way.
She tore back the shower curtain. Nothing in the tub.
She stared at it. She looked around. She clutched the wrapper about her throat and sat on the floor in the corner by the tub. She was breathing hard. She covered her eyes with her hands…
She lowered her hands. She breathed normally. She looked up.
There was something underneath the sink.
The sink was a 1920s style pedestal sink, it stood freely on a porcelain column and it had a lip underneath three sides of it and in the back something was taped up under the lip.
She tore off the tape and looked at the thing.
It was a key. The key was made of bronze and strung on a thin black cord about fifteen inches long caught in a loop. The top of the loop was engraved with a red capital letter E.
At the hallway door, she tried to fit the key into the lock. It didn’t.
She tried the balcony door. No.
She tried the bedroom door. No.
She tried the bathroom door. No.
She dropped the key on top of the television and sat in front of it.
The ants were crawling in the ant farm.
§
SHE WAS ASLEEP on the floor, propped against a stuffed chair in front of the television. She woke up, stretched, stood.
She walked to the balcony doors and opened them. The breeze billowed in the sheer curtains.
The last brownish fire of sunset was draining behind the buildings. A few windows were already lit up.
She leaned against the rail. The wind blew in her hair.
Below her, the street was almost dark. The car lights flowed up and down the street.
She took a shower. She let the water stream over her face and she tried to wake up. She felt out of it. There was a disgusting taste in her mouth. She didn’t remember when she’d last had something to eat. On the train, maybe. How many days had she been in San Pedro?
She brushed her hair before the bathroom sink. She wore her aunt’s wrapper. She put the brush back in her traveling kit and put it on the shelf. She put things on the sink into the medicine cabinet.
The sink was clean and bare except for a few of her hairs. She wiped the hairs off the sink.
In the bedroom, she took another dress out of the closet. She held it over herself in front of the mirror. It was the kind of dress her daddy would have whipped her for even for just looking at it in a store, only they didn’t have any dresses like this in any stores back home.
She dropped the bag on the floor and sat beside it. The black numbers on the bag read: 678 235. She tore the bag open and scattered its contents on the floor.
Just a pair of shoes and the dress Aunt Amber wore the night she died, and her purse.
She laid the dress out on the floor and smoothed the wrinkles. Then she started wondering about the tears in the silk and the marks on it that looked like truck tires, and she took the dress and stuffed it deep down in the kitchen wastebasket and put things on top of it until she was satisfied.
Back in the living room, she opened the purse and scattered its contents and sifted through them: the usual things; a few one dollar bills and change. She put the money aside.
‘At least now I can eat,’ she said.
There was also a business card: she picked it up:
TRAXX
RARE TATTOOS.
by Sammo.
1379 Sandspray Rd.
She gazed at the card. She didn’t understand. Aunt Amber had told her that she’d never get tattooed. Never. But she had one when she died.
§
THE MORGUE ATTENDANT slid a compartment shut.
‘Naw. She’s gone,’ he said. He made a notation in his file.
She stood on the far side of the stainless steel autopsy table. Uncertain.
‘But she was here yesterday.’ But was it yesterday, or the day before?
The morgue attendant snapped his pen shut and dragged a gurney next to the table. On the gurney lay a shiny black plastic bag. He leered at her.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I remember her. She was cute.’
She went to the bank of compartment doors.
‘Look, she’s right here. See? This is her number. 678 235.’
The morgue attendant put his hand on the handle and stopped her opening it. She tore the card out of the door and pushed it in his face.
The morgue attendant said, ‘That’s the card. I don’t always remember the cards. But she’s gone.’
‘May I see, please.’
‘You’re not even supposed to be here. I only let you in because you look like the corpse. You’re cute.’
He was making her skin crawl. She wished she could just get out of there. But she had mucked out horse stalls and slopped pigs. He wasn’t any different from pigshit, was he? ‘Can I just look, please?’
The morgue attendant shrugged. He went back to the autopsy table. She pulled the compartment all the way open.
It was empty.
The morgue attendant started to unzip the new bag. Inside was the naked corpse of a fat, ugly old man.
She didn’t understand it. ‘But – what happened to her?’
‘Her family probably claimed her. Took her to the funeral home.’
‘I’m her only family.’
The morgue attendant shrugged. He rolled the corpse onto the autopsy table. He unrolled a collection of surgical instruments. He snapped latex gloves on his hands.
‘What funeral home? Where?’
‘I don’t know. Why don’t you stay and help me? I could show you some things. You know, things. Like you never saw before. I bet you never saw a man this way before. Did you ever hold a hunk of a guy’s brains in your hands? I bet you never did that.’
He leered his leer.
She left. She pushed through the double doors and moved down the corridor, faster and faster.
§
IN AUNT AMBER’S bedroom she dressed in the clothes she came in. She finished packing and snapped the valise shut. She went out into the living room. She paused at the door and looked back in, for the last time.
On the floor were the shoes, the purse spilled open, and bag number 678 235.
She left.
§
SHE CROSSED the station, valise in hand. She walked as if she was trying to get away from something. She felt that way, too.
She stopped before a schedule.
The schedule listed trains by number, destination, departure time, and track number.
She reached in the pockets of her jacket. She came up empty.
A horrible doubt hit her. She checked all her pockets.
She found a phone booth. She dialed the number on Dimes’ card.
‘It’s gone,’ she said. ‘It was stolen! My ticket!’
On the other end of the line, Dimes’ voice said, ‘What? Well, maybe you just lost it.’
‘I didn’t lose it, Detective. It was right in my jacket pocket. I put it there in front of you. Remember? Don’t you understand? It’s my ticket home!’
‘What do you want me to do, put out an APB on the thing? Buy another one.’
‘I can’t! You don’t understand. I left in a hurry. I don’t have any money. Just some pocket change. You don’t understand.’
‘Look, sweetheart, calm down. Phone your parents. Call ’em collect. They can wire you the money. Yeah? You can do that, right?’
She turned around in the booth. She didn’t answer right away.
At last she said, ‘There’s only my Father on the farm.’
‘There you go. See? Call your Pop, he’ll send you the money. Okay?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Yeah, sure.’
She turned around. She felt sick and dull and defeated. At least she remembered to hang up the phone.
She stepped out of the phone both. She picked up her valise and started back across the station.
There were a few handfuls of people waiting for their trains in the huge station. She was just one more small figure crossing it.
§
OUT ON THE STREET, Dimes bored his finger deeper into his ear. He talked into his cell.
‘Okay?’ he said. ‘Just call your Pop… Hello? You there? Hello?’
No answer. Dimes hung up. He walked down the street. A red light flashed. It was a cruiser’s lights. A couple of uniforms stood by the cruiser; two plainclothes, the two detectives from the apartment, were bending over something in the gutter. Dimes stepped on something. Hard.
Dimes muttered, ‘Bugs.’
‘Hey Blow Job! Check this out, I think we got a piece of the weapon…’
Dimes knelt between them. The thing in the gutter was the body of a young punk with a collection of earrings. His throat was hacked open.
The other detective pulled something out of the wound with a pair of forceps. He held it up.
It was mostly bloody, a flat, jagged bit of metal.
‘What do you think? Knife?’
Dimes took the forceps and held the thing in the light.
‘Naw, junior. Something you probably never saw before. My old man had one, though – this here’s the end of a razor. A man’s straight razor.’
‘Before my time, Blow Job.’
§
THE DOOR to the apartment clicked and unlocked and she stood there again in the open doorway.
She stepped in and closed the door and set down her valise.
She went to the phone and dialed.
In the handset she heard the burr of ringing, then her Father’s voice, gruff and sleepy, on the other end.
‘Hello? Hello? Well what do you want?’
She replaced the phone. She leaned on the table.
On the floor were the shoes, the purse spilled open, and bag number 678 235.
She went over to the television.
She picked up the bronze key on the cord.
She untied the black cord and tied it around her neck.
She walked to the balcony door and pulled it open. The curtain puffed and the sound of traffic from the street invaded the apartment.
She walked back through the front hallway to the bathroom. She flicked on the light. She froze.
In the light from the donut fluorescent she stared down. Her mouth gaped.
There was something on the sink.
It was dark and shiny and red.
It was an old-fashioned thing, a man’s straight razor. It was sticky with blood and the end of it was broken off.
§
THE SUN, fat and dirty-red, blazed in the west.
She watched the sunset from the balcony. The red light burned her face. The stink of the harbor and the city flooded up to her. She wished her aunt had lived in a taller building. Maybe higher up the smell wouldn’t be so bad, worse than any pigshit. She turned back in.
She crossed the living room. She picked up the business card from the top of the TV.
She looked down at the card. Then she put it back on top of the TV.
She brushed her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. She went to the closet and picked out a black dress with straps across the shoulders and breasts in a bondage design. She held it up before her in the mirror. She caught the reflection of her eyes in the mirror. She started blushing. She knew she shouldn’t wear that dress. She couldn’t.
She stripped and pulled on the dress. She didn’t look at herself in the dress in the mirror. Her cheeks burned still, but she went out into the living room.
She picked up the card again.
TRAXX
RARE TATTOOS.
by Sammo.
1379 Sandspray Rd.
§
THE SIGN on the lamp post read: Sandspray Road.
Out of darkness the lights of the city peeped coyly and shamefully. The lights were haloed and oddly colored. The lights of cars moved by heavily, slowly. The sounds of the city were muffled and strange. It seemed an alien place, menacing.
She looked down from the lamp post sign. She wore the bondage dress and she felt uncomfortable in it. She tugged the short skirt down. She moved on into the darkness past the lamp.
She walked down the street, past the lighted shop windows. She was the only one there. Around her the street was empty in the few small puddles of light.
The shops were small, decaying, desperate. There were used clothing shops, small secondhand book-sellers, garage-sale antique dealers, sellers of shipping tackle and gear, used record shops. None of them looked prosperous. There were plenty of empty windows and doors boarded over. She walked past.
She reached a clothing store window and stopped.
In the window a mannequin was wearing a nightdress. It was the same nightdress the thing in the apartment had worn.
She stared at it. The sign in the window read, in small discreet letters in hot pink on a black field,
dallio’s
Something entered the window display: the man’s back was to the street as he arranged the display. Then as if he sensed her watching him, he stopped what he was doing. He looked over his shoulder.
She knew him. He was the man who came to Amber’s door. The one who looked like a department store buyer.
He stared back at her.
She turned and moved on.
She moved faster now. She glanced over her shoulder but the street behind her was empty.
She paused by the entrance to an alley. She leaned against the brick. Then she pulled her hand away.
The brick was stained with blood. So was the sidewalk. This was where the dockworker was killed. But she didn’t know that.
She moved on.
Her heels walked up to a stain in the sidewalk and stopped.
She stared down at it.
The bloodstains crossed the pavement and ran down into the gutter.
It was where the punk with the earring fell. She didn’t know that, either. All the same it sent a shudder up her back and gave her a sick feeling in her gut.
She stepped carefully over the stain.
She walked into a pool of light under a street lamp and stopped.
Down the street was a building with a small neon sign at the corner. The sign said
Elysium. The Last Gasp.
The pulse of music beat through the dark door. In front of it a woman leaned, smoking a cigarette. She had blonde hair and red lips and tails over a low-cut vest and an insolent mouth. She must have been the hostess. She noticed Amber staring at her. The hostess took the cigarette out of her lips and blew out smoke and smiled an insolent smile.
Amber walked away. The curbside was lined with black cars, long expensive cars with smoked windows like the kind chauffeurs drive in the television shows. Across the street the storefronts were all dark but one shop window was still bright, and the letters in the window read,
TRAXX
So that was the place. She looked at it from across the street.
Something moved against the shop window: it was a man. He opened the door and went in. Through the window she saw another man meet him. This man had long hair and wore jeans and a short-sleeved, half open Japanese kimono. His body was covered with tattoos. He must be Sammo – the tattoo artist.
She watched him.
The customer indicated a design in the window. Sammo nodded and the man started to take off his shirt and Sammo put him in the chair.
She started to walk across the street.
Across the street behind her, someone walked into the light of the club doorway.
He mounted the steps halfway.
It was Dimes.
Dimes said, ‘Got a light?’
The hostess flicked her lighter and held it out. Dimes leaned over the flame.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
The hostess gave him a lewd and mocking look. ‘Any time.’
‘Never seen this place before,’ Dimes said. ‘Is it a private club, or can anyone go in?’ Casually, he pulled out his wallet and showed her his ID.
The hostess looked Dimes up and down. There was something intense and personal in the way she scrutinized him. As if she had just fucked him – or was just about to.
She took her cigarette out of her mouth and straightened her tuxedo jacket.
The jacket parted for a moment and showed a mark on her breast over the cut of the vest: it was red and black and it was a tattoo of a spider.
She said, ‘You can come in, lover.’
She dropped her butt and ground it under her heel and turned in. Dimes glanced back into the street. Then he followed her.
Amber walked across the street. Her heels snapped on the crushed stone.
Traxx. The lighted window came nearer. The tattoo artist was leaning over the customer.
She moved closer. Then another sound joined the snap of her heels and she paused, listening. Crunch. Crunch. The sound of heavy work shoes. She glanced back—
—and saw against the pool of the street lamp three dark figures moving forward. Large, ominous figures.
She started moving forward again. She reached the opposite sidewalk and moved into the light of the shop window. She looked in.
Through the glass she could see the tattoo artist bending over the customer. He was drawing a design on the man’s upper arm.
She glanced back.
Across the street were the faraway lights, the rest was darkness. It seemed empty. But the sound was still there, moving closer: Crunch. Crunch.
Amber reached for the handle to the shop door. She turned it but it wouldn’t open. It was locked.
Through the window the tattoo artist looked up from his work. He looked annoyed.
She pulled on the door handle and glanced over her shoulder and back. Her mouth opened and closed.
‘Come on, let me in,’ she said.
The tattoo artist frowned and gestured with his chin.
She looked down. The sign in the door window said, CLOSED. She glanced back. Crunch. Crunch. Loud and very near but still unseen. She let go of the door and ran.
She ran as fast as she could. She wasn’t used to high heels, and the short skirt pulled at her thighs and her butt. She staggered and stopped and kicked off the heels and went on in her stocking feet.
Darkness was around her but she could hear a new sound come up, the rush of waves breaking against something.
Ahead there was a string of small yellow lights hanging over a railing perched against the dark.
Crunch-crunch-crunch. She took off again.
She rounded the corner and ran out along the string of lights. The sound of waves surrounded her.
Her feet padded on the rough planks. She was far out on a pier over the sea. Dim and vast against the lights in the fog, the hulks of container ships covered half the sky.
Below the railing, the lights picked out a flash of white foam on the waves.
A wave burst against the pilings. At the top of the piling, she saw a yellow light over the railing. It was where the man in the seaman’s coat stood after the murder with the choker in his hands. Amber couldn’t know that but something about the place made her pull up short.
She took hold of the rail and steadied herself. She looked back.
Down the pier three shapes were moving through the yellow lights.
She looked forward.
There wasn’t much left to the pier. There was only one more light and the end of the pier and a great dark ship groaning with the sound of the surge.
She looked over the railing.
It was a thirty foot drop down into the mouth of the waves surging against the pilings.
She turned. She faced squarely down the pier, back toward the street.
The three shapes moved closer. They moved into the light of one of the yellow lamps.
One man was tall and square and he wore brown trousers, brown gloves, a brown coat and a brown fedora. The fedora was pulled low across his eyes.
The second man was older, pale and thin with spectacles glinting in the light and an ironic smile. His hair was gray and long and caught in a queue behind his head.
The third man was big and muscled like a body builder and he wore white seaman’s pants pulled tight under his gut, and a tight blue tank top, and his head was shaved and his arms were bare and striped and covered in tattoos.
The man in the fedora turned to the bald man. They both looked back to the man in spectacles. He gestured.
The man in the fedora and the bald man started forward.
She took a step back.
Her hand slid back along the rail.
A wave smashed the piling.
She stopped. She couldn’t go on.
Her feet pressed against the planks.
Something rang out and she looked up. It was the sound of iron ringing against iron and it sang out again.
The three men looked back. A light flashed from the end of the pier. Someone was coming, holding a flashlight. He hit the flashlight against the iron rail a third time.
A man’s voice said, ‘What’s going on?’
The man in spectacles gestured to the other two. There was an iron ladder leading down to the beach. The man in the fedora and the bald man stepped over it and disappeared. Last to go was the man with the spectacles. He cast her an icy look. Then he was gone.
She sagged against the rail. The white light flashed across her face.
The man came into the light and snapped off the flash.
It was the tattoo artist. His feet were bare and he wore faded blue jeans and the Japanese kimono open over his chest.
‘Are you all right?’ he said.
She swayed, feeling dizzy. Only her hand on the rail was holding her up.
She managed to say, ‘Hello… I can’t…’
She leaned back and the tattoo artist caught her and picked her up in his arms.
He carried her down the pier. She nestled in the shelter of his arms and forgot about how rude he’d been, she was so glad to feel safe again.
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
He carried her through the string of lamps toward the street.
§
THE TATTOOING NEEDLE buzzed as it dug into the bare shoulder, pricking it with ink and blood.
She watched it with a kind of horrified fascination.
The tattoo artist leaned over the customer and wiped away the excess ink and blood. He checked the needle and started again. He was utterly focused on his work. The customer flinched and the tattoo artist drew back.
The tattoo artist said, ‘Sting?’
The customer smiled. ‘It’s worth it.’
She asked, ‘Why are you getting a tattoo?’
The customer looked at her with a look that suggested she’s just said something in the worst taste. The tattoo artist shook his head and continued.
Amber, embarrassed, looked around.
The walls of the place were covered with potential designs and photographs of portions of nude bodies – mostly male – adorned with tattoos.
The customer said, ‘Solomon had a tattoo. So did Lao-Tse. So did Achilles.’
She said, ‘I’m sorry.’
The customer went on, ‘When I passed the bar exams, I knew I had to do something to celebrate. So I put the scales of justice on my chest. That was my first.’
‘What are you celebrating now?’
‘Tenth Wedding Anniversary. Julie will love it.’
She glanced at the tattoo artist. ‘Do you tattoo many women?’
He scowled and wiped off some more blood. ‘I don’t tattoo women.’
He didn’t even look at her. All his attention was honed in on his work. He looked, she thought, rather like an eagle.
‘Why not?’ she asked.
‘They aren’t serious.’
The customer said, ‘Helen of Troy had a tattoo. So did Cleopatra. She had thirteen of them. All over her.’
The tattoo artist said, ‘You’re full of bull. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Cleopatra.’
The customer said, ‘She did. Thirteen of them. I can prove it.’
All the while she was watching the tattoo artist. She was watching the line of his leg cocked against the floor, the strong, angular hand guiding the needle, the intense stare of the eyes, the lock of hair falling across them, the open kimono and the hard, painted torso.
He paused and changed needles. He looked up and saw her watching him.
She looked back.
He held her look. Then he bent over the customer again.
She lowered her head. Her knees pressed together.
The tattoo artist straightened and wiped the tattoo clean.
‘That’s it. Clean up now. You know the routine.’
The customer looked at it and said, ‘Sammo … It’s gorgeous.’
The tattoo artist sighed. ‘It’s okay… I never get it perfect…’
He seemed lost in his thoughts. He looked straight at her.
‘What do you think?’
She came closer. She stared at the tattoo. It was a complex, abstract design in many colors, like a flower smitten by a rainbow.
The customer grinned proudly at her. ‘Yeah? Yeah?’
She nodded.
She said, ‘Yeah.’
‘Get cleaned up,’ the tattoo artist said. ‘It’s late.’
He started cleaning his tools. He seemed spent.
The customer put a bandage over the tattoo. She helped him tape it on.
The customer said, ‘Don’t mind Sammo. He’s always this way, it takes it out of you to create something like this. I think you’re okay.’
‘Thanks.’
The tattoo artist stripped his kimono and pulled on a turtleneck. He opened the door.
‘Did you know Abraham Lincoln had a tattoo? He did.’
She said, ‘I don’t believe it.’
The tattoo artist said, ‘He thinks everybody had a tattoo.’
The customer said, ‘I can prove it.’
‘Lawyer. Go home. You go, too.’
She said, ‘…I’m going.’
She and the customer stepped out the door. The tattoo artist shut the door and locked it. She stared back through the window.
The customer said, ‘Moody old Sammo. Constant affliction.’
The lawyer left but she lingered at the corner and looked back in the store window. She could see the tattoo artist cross his shop, the kimono bunched in one fist. He reached the archway to the back hall. The archway was hung with strings of glass beads. The tattoo artist reached for the light switch. Then he stopped and turned and looked back out the window.
She turned and hurried away.
§
SHE GOT BACK to Aunt Amber’s apartment, unlocked the door, opened it. But she didn’t go in right away. She leaned against the outer door. Her face felt tight and drawn, and when she looked into the lonely empty old apartment it only made her think about GI’s coming home from the Pacific and the sweethearts running home from work in the factories and warehouses to get prettied up for dates with the sailors and the soldiers and air corpsmen, long ago.
After awhile she pushed herself away from the door and went on into emptiness.
She crossed the room. She stepped out of the heels. In the far corner, on the floor, one lamp burned. Next to it stood the drafting table where Aunt Amber had drawn the children’s books.
She had been looking forward to visiting Aunt Amber. She had been thinking about it on the train all the way here, about going out to lunch with her, and talking girl talk with her, and hearing about her life. And now Aunt Amber was dead and she had left only a stack of drawings on the drafting table like something out of a chamber of horrors or a madwoman’s nightmares. And somehow, even though the police detective never said so, she knew that Aunt Amber had been murdered after the men had raped her.
She reached the door to the balcony. She parted the curtain and leaned against the glass. In the darkness beyond, the harbor lights blinked.
She pressed her cheek against the cool, smooth glass, and closed her eyes, and wept.
§
IN THE HALF LIGHT Amber woke and sat up out of bed. She pulled on the wrapper and walked into the other room.
Through the balcony doors the rust-red sunset summoned up the city lights.
She snapped on the light by the phone and raised the handset and dialed.
Over the phone the line rang. In her hand Amber held his card:
TRAXX
RARE TATTOOS.
by Sammo.
1379 Sandspray Rd.
A man’s voice answered, ‘Hello?’
Amber said, ‘Hello, listen, you probably don’t know me, but I’m the girl you saved last night. You know, on the pier? I wanted to thank you again, and… And there are some questions I wanted to ask you. About my Aunt Amber. Maybe you don’t know her either. But her card was in your purse – I mean, your card was in her purse – I know you’re busy… Maybe it doesn’t mean anything…’
‘Come over.’
The line clicked and the dial tone buzzed.
Amber hung up the phone.
§
THE SIGN on the lamp post read: Sandspray Road. There was the sound of her heels and Amber walked into the light. She was wearing more of Aunt Amber’s things – a short dress and a leather jacket too big for her. She moved on into the darkness past the lamp.
A shadow walked at her side. It was the shadow of the tattoo artist. She looked at their shadows walking side by side until they passed too far from the lamp post and started onto the wooden planks of the pier.
The waves groaned against the pilings.
Amber and the tattoo artist walked beneath the yellow lamps.
Amber stopped beneath the next-to-last lamp.
It was the same point at which she stopped the night before.
The tattoo artist had kept on walking. ‘Come on,’ he said.
Amber shook her head. ‘I can’t. That part – it’s over the water.’
He came back beside her.
‘Why didn’t you go down the ladder last night?’
Amber said, ‘It was the water…’
Her hands clenched and worked on the iron rail.
‘When I was eight, we were on vacation – my mother, my – my father, and me. We stopped at a motel in Texas. It had a swimming pool…’
The images came flooding back into her mind, overwhelming her, drowning her, shutting off everything else. The swimming pool was long and wide and empty except for a little girl, herself, age eight, clinging to the side. It was like she could only see herself, because to be herself, back then at that place, was too terrifying. A middle-aged man, her father, squatted over her. He was stocky with a sparse crew cut and dark glasses, a Hawaiian shirt, and a towel draped over his neck.
Beneath the poles supporting the motel’s second floor walk, a woman stood, Amber’s mother. She wore a floral print cotton sun dress, sunglasses, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. She gestured and her mouth worked.
She could hear her own grownup voice telling the tattoo artist, ‘My mother said I should learn to swim. But I didn’t know how…’
Young Amber shook her head and gripped the pool ledge, stubborn. Her father looked back at her mother, shook his head and worked his mouth.
‘My father said there was only one way to learn…’
Her father put his hand on her head. His hand was strong and heavy and callused and it forced her head down under the water.
Under water, she closed her eyes and mouth and scrunched up her face.
Her legs kicked and thrashed bubbles.
Above, the water slopped and spilled. Her father pushed his arm deeper into the water. Her hands strained at the wet ledge. They slipped off and her father’s arm dove into the water up to his armpit.
Her mother opened her mouth and stepped forward.
Her father laughed and shook his head and held Amber under.
Under water, Amber’s face turned and shook, the fat hard fingers clamping her, until her mouth opened and bubbles exploded out of her lips…
Amber’s knuckles were white on the rail of the pier and she couldn’t let go and she closed her eyes and bowed her head. Behind her the tattoo artist stood at the edge of the light. He approached her and put his arm around her shoulders and held tight. His voice was almost gentle.
‘Come on…’
§
THE POSTER on the wall of the tattoo parlor was a photograph of the tattoo artist, naked. In one hand he held the pole of a huge black banner: the banner twisted around his body at the hips and streamed away. The tattoo artist was posed like a soldier marching into the future. Below the photograph was a single word: Sammo.
She stood before the poster staring at it. Behind her the tattoo artist emerged through the glass beads, bearing a tray with tea service.
She looked away from the poster, embarrassed.
The tattoo artist set down the tray on a low Japanese table.
‘A friend of mine took that. She’s a fashion photographer. She likes jokes.’
Next to the poster was a rack of cards in plastic. She picked one up: there was a skull design on the card.
‘What are these?’
‘Temporary transfers. Wet one, apply it to the skin – it leaves a mark that looks like a tattoo. Lasts a few days. So they can see what it would look like and make up their minds.’
‘Who? The ones who aren’t serious?’
‘The ones who are afraid.’
He invited: they sat on the floor on opposite sides of the table. Her back was to the window. He wore the turtleneck and black jeans and none of his tattoos were in sight.
Amber said, ‘It’s an unusual name. “Sammo.” ’
‘I was born in Kowloon. Raised in Yokohama. On the docks. With the Yakuza. That’s when I learned about the art of tattooing. And the art of death.’
Amber said, ‘Then you came here?’
‘Try this. Ginseng and oolong. My own blend. Give you some guts. No, first place I came in the States was San Francisco. Good port. Good docks. Then Seattle. Couple more ports before here. This is a rotten port. But I can smell the sea through my bedroom window.’
Amber said, ‘It’s strong.’
‘Too strong?’
‘No. I like it. Why did you move around so much? I can’t even imagine it.’
‘Why did you leave your farm?’
She shook her head.
He said, ‘You see. There’s always a reason to go.’
He set down his teacup and picked up a photograph. He placed it on her side of the table.
‘I didn’t know her.’
The picture was of a woman with wheat-colored hair who resembled Amber. It was Aunt Amber from the dust jacket of one of her books.
Amber said, ‘She had your card in her purse. The night she died.’
‘She could have gotten it from someone else – or from a dozen shops and clubs around here.’
‘She had a tattoo.’
‘I didn’t give it to her.’
‘She was killed a block from here.’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘Who did?’
He stood. He leaned against the tattooing chair, his back to her.
He said, ‘I told you: I don’t tattoo women. Women just want butterflies and unicorns on their ankles and their tits. They want to feel sexy when they can’t feel pretty. They don’t have any idea of the power – of what they’re dealing with. Of what it is. What it can do.’
His face worked. ‘Sammo … What is it?’
‘What, are you still here? I told you to get out! Leave! Do you understand nothing? Is this plain enough?’
He shoved her jacket in her hands and clamped her arm and drove her to the door. He shoved her out. He slammed the door and pulled the shade down and went back to the tattooing chair and leaned against it.
Outside, she watched him through the window. Then she turned and walked down the street to the bus stop at the corner.
§
THE POSTER on the wall showed the tattoo artist, marching into the future.
The dead woman’s picture sat beside a teacup.
Sammo gathered up the tea things. There was a tapping at the door. He looked toward it. He shook his head and went to it.
He opened the door and it wasn’t Amber standing there: it was a man. An elderly man with long gray hair caught in a queue and wearing steel-rimmed spectacles. He spoke with a soft voice and a Central European accent.
The man said, ‘May we come in?’
Sammo turned away from the door. They entered, the three who had followed Amber the night before: the man in spectacles – the bald man – the man in the fedora. They closed the door behind them.
Sammo backed into the tattooing chair.
‘What did you bring him in here for?’
The man in spectacles glanced at the man in the fedora. The man in the fedora was holding something at his side in his gloved hands. A sort of a jar.
The man in spectacles said, ‘We are not very welcome, I am afraid. Such a pity. You do not even offer us of your tea, Brother Sammo. And I do like tea so much.’
He poured himself some tea.
The bald man stood at the counter, inspecting Sammo’s needles.
The man with the spectacles sipped the tea. He smacked his lips.
‘It is good. You must give me the secret of your blend, Brother Sammo. You must give me all your secrets.’
‘I told you before. I’m not dealing with you anymore. – And tell him to keep his paws off my things!’
The bald man stopped, needle in hand. He looked at the man in spectacles.
The man with the spectacles shrugged.
The bald man replaced the needle and stepped away from the counter.
The man with the spectacles stepped in front of Sammo. He sipped his tea.
Sammo said, ‘Herr Doktor, I told you. You paid well. But I’m through. I won’t do it anymore.’
‘Yes, you must give me the secret of this blend. Oh, we shall go on paying you, Brother Sammo. We shall pay you a great deal, to make the beautiful mark on the young lady who so recently left your shop.’
The man in the fedora placed the jar on the counter.
The jar was sealed with a mason jar clamp and a black cloth, like home made preserves. In the jar was a black, shiny ink. It was not flat and dead black like India ink. This ink shone… It glowed. And something stirred in its depths.
Sammo stared at it. He knew what it was and it scared hell out of him.
Sammo said, ‘No.’
Herr Doktor said, ‘But yes, Brother Sammo! Why need you be so obstinate? The young lady will be glad, she will be most delighted, to take the mark – from you. It will be a most easy thing.’
Herr Doktor balanced the teacup on the arm of the tattooing chair. He moved to the door and the others went with him. They left. Herr Doktor lingered in the door.
‘It is a lovely shop you have, Brother Sammo. You have accumulated many lovely things in the course of your life. Irreplaceable things. So easily broken. So easily lost. Surely, you do not want to lose them? – yes, but it will be the most easy thing in the world.’
He banged the door shut.
The tea cup fell to the floor and shattered with a little cry.
Sammo stared at it. Then he stooped and began gathering up the pieces.
§
LIGHT streamed in bands through the window from a street lamp outside. The floor was strewn with clothing. The sheets on the bed were a mess and two shapes were lying there. One shape sat up and leaned into the light and it was Dimes, naked, seedy, paunchy, hung-over. He touched his head like it was an eggshell.
‘Christ, what happened?’
The other shape stirred in the bed and moaned. Dimes felt around and flipped on a lamp by the bed.
The hostess was lying in the bed. She was naked and her body was sleek and strong and flawless. She rolled over on her side and looked at him.
‘Give me a smoke, lover,’ she said.
Dimes got a cigarette off the table, lit it, dragged on it, handed it over. The hostess sucked in a lungful.
Dimes leaned over her. He reached out and touched her breast, the one with the spider tattoo. Only her breast was bare now: there was no tattoo.
Dimes said, ‘Jesus, baby, you’re beautiful.’
She arched her back, licked her lips, and purred.
‘Prrr-aow!’
Dimes couldn’t believe this beautiful woman actually wanted him. He leaned over her and started kissing her, hungry for more.
As they started to make love something was on his back, and it was red and it was black and it was the tattoo of the spider off her breast, and it seemed like it was moving.
§
AMBER paced away from the curtains. She was wearing the wrapper and nothing underneath and she was restless. In the corner of the room a fan on a pedestal rotated and blew a cool refreshing breeze under the wrapper, between her legs and up around her waist.
She stopped at the drafting table. At the top of the table was Aunt Amber’s first book, Ant City: on the cover was a drawing of a cartoony, Disney-style ant. Below the book were Aunt Amber’s last drawings. She flipped through them.
Some of the drawings were realistic portrayals of ants in bold black strokes. The later ones were closer and more detailed. There were some of just ants’ heads and parts of ants’ heads drawn in microscopic detail, with terrifying mandibles, spiky hairs, grotesque prismatic eyes and slavering insectoid mouths…
She stared at the drawings.
§
ACROSS THE STREET from the apartment building, someone was leaning against a lamp post and bouncing a small hard ball on the pavement. He looked up at her window. It was the morgue attendant.
He watched Amber’s figure in the loose wrapper, practically naked, as she stood at the drawing table.
He bounced his ball.
§
AMBER flipped through the drawings, drawn into the pain and the fear and the horror of them. The last one slipped out; she stooped and picked it up. It wasn’t a drawing of an ant but more of a graphic design; it looked like it might have made a good tattoo. It looked like a beetle.
The phone jangled and she jumped.
She picked up. ‘Hello?’
Sammo’s voice came over the phone. ‘Hello, Amber.’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘You gave it to me.’
Amber said, ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘You don’t even know the kind of danger you’re in—’
‘How do you know?’
‘Anyone with sense would know it! Your aunt’s dead – isn’t she? Someone threatened you – didn’t they? Her body’s missing – isn’t it?’
Amber said, ‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to listen to me. I want you to go. Get out of her apartment, get out of the city! Go back home to your farm.’
Amber said, ‘No.’
She slammed the receiver down. She paced the room. The phone rang again and she grabbed her old clothes, her own clothes, pulled them on, and flung herself out the door.
§
AMBER surged out the door and ran down the street toward the bus stop.
Across the street from the apartment building, the morgue attendant bounced his ball on the pavement. He looked up as Amber waited for the bus. The bus pulled up and the girl got on.
The morgue attendant smiled.
He bounced his ball and got into a car and drove off after the bus.
§
THE SIGN on the lamp post said, Sandspray Road. Beneath it the bus pulled away. Amber walked from the bus stop toward the tattoo parlor. She reached the door and went in.
The morgue attendant’s car parked across the street.
The morgue attendant sat in his car and watched the lighted windows of the tattoo parlor. He got out and stepped up to the edge of the light.
The morgue attendant squinted in through the window. He smiled and bounced his ball.
Through the windows he watched Amber and the tattoo artist. They were pacing about and gesturing angrily. The tattoo artist moved over and pulled down the shade on the door. He pulled a cord and blinds dropped across the windows.
The morgue attendant stepped out in front of the middle of the window. He bounced his ball. Then he looked over his shoulder at the rest of the street.
Across the street he could see the lights of the club Elysium.
§
SAMMO tied off the cord to the blinds.
‘I already told you. Get out of here. Get out of the city. Go back home to your farm.’
Amber said, ‘You think what I’ve got back there is so great? Besides, I couldn’t go if I wanted to. They need me for the investigation.’
‘The case is closed, they don’t need you.’
‘I have to take care of Aunt Amber’s estate!’
‘Hire a lawyer!’
‘I don’t have the money!’
‘I’ll give you the money!’
‘I don’t want your money! I don’t want your pity or your money!’
‘Then what do you want? You want to end up raped in an alley? You want to end up underneath some truck tires like your Aunt Amber?’
She turned. Tears filled her eyes. She took hold of an antique Chinese vase and smashed it on the floor.
‘God damn you! – I’m sorry.’
She stooped and started picking up the pieces.
Sammo said, ‘Look … forget I said that. But you don’t understand—’
‘You’re the one who doesn’t understand! Listen, my mother … my mother died when I was twelve, okay? And after that, my life was nothing but a patch of ugly. All except my Aunt Amber. She was only eight years older than me, but to me she was always laughing, and beautiful, and dressed so well…’
Amber shuffled the bits of ceramic together, trying to make them fit.
‘She was everything I ever wanted to be. As a woman. As a person. She had her own life. She was happy. She was free. Then – did you know she drew children’s books? Tonight I saw her last drawings… Horrible… Monstrous… So what happened? What made her draw things like that? I have to find out. What happened to Aunt Amber? Because if that could happen to her, to Aunt Amber … then what chance could I have?’
Sammo said, ‘I can’t help you.’
‘I just want to understand. I just want to know. That’s all.’
Sammo paced. He arranged his needles. Within arm’s reach was the jar of the ink. He stared at it. His eyes were cloudy and opaque. She couldn’t read anything in them except doubt and struggle.
Usually she could read people pretty good, back home. Even out here in the big city she could peg people like Detective Dimes and the buyer at dallio’s and the hostess for the Elysium. But the tattoo artist was different. She didn’t have any idea what went on inside his soul. It was almost like he wasn’t human – another species of animal entirely.
Sammo said, ‘You shouldn’t have anything to do with me. You shouldn’t have come here. God, anywhere but here!’
Amber stood, shards in her hands.
‘I can’t fix it.’
‘It’s waste. Put it in there.’
Amber let the pieces drop into a wastebasket. She turned to him. She wiped her eyes. She was very quiet. She felt she was shaking a little bit and did her best to hold steady.
Sammo said, ‘Look – I’ll think about it. Okay?’
‘You’ll help me?’
‘I said I’ll think about it. I’ll let you know tomorrow night. You think, too. I still say you ought to get out of here.’
She shook her head. He escorted her to the door and twisted the deadbolt free. He opened the door and she stood in it.
Amber said, ‘Tomorrow night?’
‘I’ll call you. Don’t come here.’
She nodded and turned and took a step but he took hold of her arm and pulled her back close and he kissed her in the doorway and they were kissing, and they turned and the door closed on their turn.
For a moment they broke the kiss and looked at each other, savoring the expectation of resumption.
Sammo growled, ‘This is a mistake…’
Amber said, ‘Shut up, will you shut up?’
They locked again and kissed and broke and he led her deeper into the shop…
…to the archway to the back, and the shimmering waterfall of glass beads, where he embraced her again, unwilling, unable to wait, and she started pulling off his kimono, and he pulled off her denim jacket, and her T-shirt, and she unzipped and started pulling off her jeans, and he did the same, and they were still kissing, and then they were naked…
…and they were turning, against the archway, the glass beads wrapping around…
…and from their ankles to their knees to their hips, the alternation of their bodies glittered with the beads, her skin pale and bare and unmarked, and his skin darker and etched and covered with a hundred tattooed shapes and colors, from their hips to their breasts to their shoulders, the key on the cord dangling down her back, and their faces tied together by the glass beads, and they broke the kiss, gasping, and started it all over again.
§
THE MORGUE ATTENDANT walked slowly up and down in front of the tattoo parlor, bouncing his ball. Then he shrugged and walked away, across the street.
He walked past the limousines, to the steps to the club, bouncing his ball. He paused.
At the top of the steps, the hostess smoked a cigarette. She gave him a cold glare.
The morgue attendant bounced his ball and moved on.
§
THE WINDOW was open high in the wall, and a breeze ruffled the hangings there, and through the window floated the sound of waves. Next to the window was a yellowed, curling poster with a Chinese character – the character that means, ‘strength, force’ – and beneath the poster something nebulous trailed down from a hook in the ceiling: it was a huge web of mosquito netting and through it were the outlines of the bed and two sleeping bodies…
…and beneath the netting Amber and the tattoo artist were lying in bed, asleep, their limbs intertwined, and something strange was taking place … the tattoos on his body were moving, off his skin and onto hers, and crawling all over her body…
§
IT WAS LATER. Later the same night, or another night altogether?
The mosquito netting showed a slender opening through which the tattoo artist’s naked body peeked. It stirred.
Sammo woke in his bed, alone. He looked out.
And saw through the opening to the floor and a denim jacket and pair of jeans and T-shirt.
‘Amber?’
He pulled on his own jeans and untangled himself through the netting. He stepped across the bedroom, slowly, like in a dream. There was a high sharp screech and a bang – he looked back—
The open window banged against the wall, and the cry of a gull echoed again with the waves.
The tattoo artist turned. He stepped into the archway.
The glass beads dangled across his face.
Sammo said, ‘What the fuck are you up to?’
Amber sat astride the tattooing chair, facing its back. She wore only Sammo’s kimono. She looked back over her shoulder at him. The neck of the kimono was lowered and revealed her naked shoulder. There was a mark on it.
Amber said, ‘Come here.’
Sammo stepped through the bead curtain.
Amber said, ‘I want you to tattoo me.’
Sammo shook his head No.
Seen up close, the mark on her shoulder was clear: a round design in black lines. It looked like a beetle.
Sammo stopped. He whispered:
‘What have you done?’
Amber said, ‘Temporary transfer. Just seeing how it looked. Now I want it – for real.’
‘How did you come to … choose this particular design?’
‘I think it’s the one Aunt Amber had. I looked at others. But this is the one I want.’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘Try me.’
‘You’ve got no idea.’
‘Get the needles, Sammo. I want you to tattoo me. Here. Now.’
He was circling her in the chair, shaking his head. She was looking at him and her voice bubbled with laughter.
Sammo said, ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You don’t want this.’
‘Don’t you think I’m serious enough? I’m serious, Sammo. I want it bad.’
‘You’ll regret it.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Think again.’
Amber said, ‘You think I’m some virgin off the corn fields, don’t you? You think I’m some kid? Well, fuck you, Sammo! You want money for this? I’ll pay later! What was it your friend said – the reason why he got his first? A celebration? I’ve got something to celebrate now. I’m not going home. I’m never going back to that place again. Now, tattoo me.’
The tattoo artist came to a stop behind the chair, facing her. He looked down on her.
Tenderness, regret, and resignation built in his eyes. His voice was soft.
Sammo said, ‘All right.’
She smiled and rested against the chair. He walked over to the counter.
His hands laid out and arranged the tattooing needles. The cotton swabs and rubbing alcohol. The clean white cloth.
He pulled over the tattooing machine and replaced the needle. He took out the ink supply and it was empty. He placed the ink supply on the counter.
On the counter were several jars of ink. They bore commercial names. One jar was blank. It was like a mason jar and sealed with a dark rag. The ink inside was black and shiny and it seemed like something stirred inside it.
Sammo looked on the jars.
His hands pulled out a commercial jar of black ink. Then his fingers pushed it back and pulled over the mason jar.
He looked back at her.
Amber arched her back and rested her head against the back of the tattooing chair. With one hand she brushed her hair back off the nape of her neck, exposing it, clearing her shoulder.
‘What are you waiting for, big man?’
‘Coming.’
He turned back over the counter.
His hands unlatched the mason jar. Bubbles appeared at the top of the ink. His hands poured some of the ink into the ink supply, very carefully.
He wheeled the tattooing drill to the tattooing chair. He swung the lamp over her. The light blazed white off her naked shoulder. He held up the needle under the light and wiped it off.
His hands soaked a cotton swab with alcohol and tamped it onto her shoulder about the mark. She shivered.
‘Ooow. Chilly.’
Sammo said, ‘This will sting a little.’
‘Go ahead. I can take it. I’ll show you.’
Sammo said, ‘Yes. You will … get used to it.’
He started the device. Its soft purr filled the shadowy shop. She turned her head.
Sammo said, ‘It’s only the machine.’
Amber giggled. ‘Sounds like something else. Are you sure you’ve got the right machine, Sammo?’ She laughed.
He didn’t. He held up the needle.
His fingers uncocked the line and the tip of the needle darkened with the ink.
He looked down on the needle. There was sweat on his forehead. He looked away.
Dim on the wall was the poster of him marching like a decorated soldier.
Amber said, ‘Wait. Stop!’
She pulled on the kimono. The line of it slipped lower down her back.
Amber said, ‘You don’t want to stain your kimono. Okay. Go ahead. Do your worst.’
She gave a nervous little laugh. He held the needle poised above her shoulder. The light blazed off her skin. His hand shook a little, and a large black drop of the ink fell from the tip of the needle onto the design.
‘Ouch!’ She flinched in spite of herself. ‘It bit me!’
Sammo straightened and swung away the arm of the device and he grabbed the cloth and rubbed furiously at the ink on her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, Sammo. What are you doing? Look, it surprised me, that’s all, what’s in that ink anyway, some kind of acid? Bring the needle back. I’m ready for it now. I won’t complain again.’
He pushed the contraption back and it rolled into the counter and the needles clattered to the floor.
He plunged through the bead curtain and reappeared holding her clothes.
Amber sat up in the chair, bewildered. She pulled the kimono tighter.
Sammo said, ‘Here. Put these on.’
‘What – But what is—’
Sammo said, ‘Go to the train station. One of these nights you’ll find him. He’ll be wearing a seaman’s coat. He’s the only one who can help you.’
Amber said, ‘Who? What are you—’
Sammo said, ‘Please. Please.’
He turned to the wall. He wouldn’t look at her while she dressed.
She said, ‘I’ll go now.’
He didn’t answer or look back. She went to the door. She unlocked and opened it.
‘Good-bye,’ she said.
Still he wouldn’t look. He only talked to the wall of tattoo designs.
‘Garrety,’ he said. ‘He calls himself Garrety.’
Amber stood in the doorway. She didn’t understand any of it. She went.
Sammo still stood against the wall. He hadn’t moved. He heard the door opening and closing again. A shadow moved across the wall above him. Then a second one.
Sammo said, ‘Please, I’m begging you—’
—he stopped in mid-turn.
Three shapes were standing before the tattooing chair. The bald man. Herr Doktor. The man in the fedora.
Herr Doktor said, ‘Oh, Brother Sammo, begging shall not be required.’
The bald man started gathering the needles. The man in the fedora took the jar of ink into his gloved hands. Herr Doktor inspected the cotton swabs and cloth.
Herr Doktor said, ‘You are indeed an artist, Brother Sammo, if you can tattoo a woman and draw no blood.’
‘Get out. I saved her from you.’
Herr Doktor said, ‘Sammo. Same-o, Same-o, Sammo? Sammo!’
‘Well, what are you going to do about it? Smash up the shop? Go ahead.’
Herr Doktor said, ‘No, Brother Sammo. Not the shop. Yourself.’
Herr Doktor moved a step. He was standing by the back archway. He played idly with the glass beads of the curtain, poking at them with a finger, watching them swing back and forth.
The bald man was by the tattooing chair. The man in the fedora at the counter. The three of them made a half-circle around the tattoo artist.
The bald man grinned. He stooped. He placed his palm flat on the floor.
Herr Doktor did the same. The man in the fedora drew off one glove and followed suit.
Something crawled down the bald man’s arm. It was a round design in black lines and it looked like a beetle.
Something slipped down out of the man in the fedora’s sleeve.
Something slipped down out of Herr Doktor’s sleeve. The dark thing emerged from underneath his palm. It started to crawl across the floor.
Herr Doktor said, ‘You thought you had power, Brother Sammo, through your art.’
The tattoo artist was pinned against the wall. Down at the bottom of his jeans his bare feet pressed the floor. Three things were scuttling over the floor towards him.
The bald man grinned.
The tattoo artist’s feet moved back and hit the wall. The three things slipped under his soles. Three dark things crept up round his ankles and vanished under his jeans.
Herr Doktor said, ‘You thought you had mastery, because you owned the tools.’
Sammo turned his face away with a grimace.
The things emerged from under the waist of his jeans. They had red dots on their backs now. They crawled up his sweating torso. Sammo’s own tattoos writhed and twisted away from them, making way.
Sammo gritted his teeth.
The shop was lighted only by the lamp above the tattooing chair. The corners were dark. The three men stooping to the floor were dark. The man against the wall was bathed in his own light. His torso and arms twisted and convulsed.
The three dark things crossed over his heart.
Herr Doktor said, ‘You thought you had control, because you wielded the needles.’
Sweat dripped off Sammo’s face. He was in agony.
The three things reached his collarbones.
He flung back his head and it thudded against the wall.
Herr Doktor said, ‘Tattoo artists are a dime a dozen, Brother Sammo.’
The three dark things converged on his throat.
The tattoo artist uttered a single choked cry, clutched at his throat, gurgled, and collapsed on the floor.
Herr Doktor bowed his head a moment. He looked up.
Herr Doktor said, ‘Come, now. Come back to your home, my darling.’
One dark thing moved across the floor and slipped back under Herr Doktor’s sleeve.
Another slipped beneath the man in the fedora’s palm. He rose and drew on his glove.
The bald man lowered his chin to the floor, and the last dark thing scuttled up onto his neck.
Herr Doktor said, ‘You have it?’
The man in the fedora cradled the jar in his gloved hands and nodded.
Herr Doktor snapped off the light over the tattooing chair. The place was black. At the far end the door opened, admitting light from the street, and three shapes filed out.
