Hitler considered himself an artist when he was young, too, Lockerman remembered. A frustrated artist and a killer.
He stood up, and had the computer clerk run a check on all known neo-Nazis in the area. Then he went to the file room and personally pulled the case on the Nazi incident he’d been involved in years ago—the one that had cost him his stripes, and almost cost him his job.
Hours later, he was still nowhere. He’d searched through names, photos, reports…nothing but painful memories. And absolutely no references to any MKI or MMK.
Could the letters represent a new sicko political faction? Impossible.
Lockerman rested his eyes, leaning his head on the dark crook of his arms crossed upon his desk. He needed some rest. This analysis was going nowhere. He knew that sitting behind a desk all day and night, trying to find the answers in reports and files and yards of computer printouts was not the way to catch the psycho.
Because if he did not belong to any known anti-social groups—be they biker gangs or neo-Nazis—then that meant that the Killer worked alone. He always figured that this was the case, anyway, but now it seemed hopelessly confirmed as fact. And if he worked alone, then that meant the answer wouldn’t be found in the streets, either. The only way to catch the bastard was to catch him in the act.
He hoped to God that those rookies staking out Schoenmacher’s place didn’t screw this one up.
Feeling helpless, Lockerman packed up his desk and headed home, eager to adopt another orphan bottle of Tina’s favorite liquor.
III.
Corky was right about one thing: his fourplex was a dump. The general look of the building was one of four shoeboxes tenuously stacked together to form a square. The front of the fourplex was yellow, corrugated aluminum, which made the shack appear to be walled by standing slats of aluminum siding together, each counterbalancing another like a house of blank cards. It seemed that one strong breath could knock it over—and Roberts was reminded of the Big Bad Wolf in “The Three Little Pigs.” Yellowing, nicotine-stained plastic blinds blocked the view through most of the windows; plaid blankets wallpapered the sills of others, blotting out all vision inside. Feeble, rotting lumber made up the stairways that led to the two front doors on the top floor, and sunken cracked concrete steps led toward the lower entrances—these staircases gave the building’s facade the look of a giant “X” inside a cheap yellow box—X marks the spot.
It was down one of the concrete stairwells—the one on the left—that they entered Corky’s apartment. On their descent, Roberts forcibly tried to look like he wasn’t gawking at all the motorcycles and machinery that were scattered around the pebbled and oil-stained tan dirt that made up the front yard.
Corky rattled his keys in the knob and stepped inside.
The first thing Roberts noticed was not the decorations or the smell, but the noise of Corky’s apartment. Whoever lived above was marching loudly on the ceiling, clomping around like Godzilla. Roberts looked up, saw the dark ceiling—which looked like cottage cheese sprinkled with glitter—and imagined a large, green foot bursting through.
Then, on-edge, he looked around. The apartment wasn’t at all as bad as he’d expected: the living room was furnished with ancient, beer-stained sofas (one hospital green, the other crepe paper yellow); above the larger couch was a humongous black banner that had the Harley Davidson logo in the center of it;above the other was a framed color drawing, about the size of an opened magazine, with the image of a bearded man on a chopper, shooting out of a grave as if buried alive on his bike, with the caption BAT OUT OF HELL beneath it; the coffee table was littered with motorcycle magazines and empty beer bottles; a bookshelf beside the television stand (complete with rabbit ears) was double-stacked with paperback books—mostly classic literature to Roberts’ surprise. It appeared that Corky spent the majority of his time in the living room. A dark entranceway separated the living room from the kitchen, bedroom, and a closet, Roberts guessed, trying to peek down the hall.
He sat down on the couch as Corky lumbered down the dark hallway, and returned with two beers and two iced mugs—glass steins he had obviously frosted in the freezer.
Corky plopped down on the couch beside him. Roberts could feel it sag beneath his weight.
They poured, toasted, sipped, and ahed.
“Think it’ll be on tonight?”
“Maybe, Corky. If Buckman cuts it, then it’ll be on the morning news. But I’m sure it’ll air tonight—my boss is all fired up about the Tattoo Killer story.”
Silence as Corky slurped. Roberts was beginning to feel a bit uneasy and self-conscious. “Nice place you have here.”
“Yep, and it’s all mine. Bought it with my army money. Did I ever tell you that?”
“Sure did.” Roberts nervously looked around the room, taking in the little paintings, drawings, and posters that cluttered the walls. Most were quite good. An artist surrounds himself with his art, Roberts thought.
“I’ve already gotten more than what I put into it in rent, too. Rent’s really what pays my bills; the tat shop barely pays for itself.”
“Coulda fooled me with what you charged me for the typewriter on my back!”
“Well, the first one’s always the most expensive. I told you that. I use that price as a sort of test, to make sure that whoever I’m doin’ really wants the thing. If they are sure about getting the tattoo, then they’ll be willing to pay for it. It also means they trust me to do good work. It’s a good policy, and no, you ain’t gonna talk me into gettin’ your money back.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Corky slurped beer, ice flecks from the frosted mug sticking to his beard. “And don’t you go telling nobody about that policy, either. I gotta make a living. It’ll be our little secret.”
Roberts leaned back, feeling more at ease. “Well, I guess I should let you in on a little secret of mine, too.”
“What’s that?”
“That interview we did back at your shop was my first ‘man in the field’ report. Hell, all I usually do is sit behind a desk all day, typing away. I never get to go cover a story. I just get to cover up mistakes in other people’s stories. That’s what a news editor does, ya know?”
Corky sipped. “Hell, I knew that was your first.”
“What? How?”
“You were about as nervous as a virgin at her first bash.”
“Bullshit! You were!”
They laughed.
“No, really, I knew it was something like that,” Corky said, tapping the bottom of his mug and swallowing up the residue. “I knew because I’ve been watching Channel 12 ever since you told me you worked there, and I never saw you on the tube. Not to spy on ya, or nothing—just thought I might get to see whether or not I was tatting a true celebrity. Anyway, I saw you, all right. In little tiny letters, when the credits rolled by.”
Roberts winced. “At least you noticed that. No one else ever does.”
“Aw, don’t let it get you down, buddy. You did real good today.” Corky stood, walked toward the entrance to the kitchen. “’Nother?”
“You bet!” Roberts lifted his glass and downed the rest of his brew, trying to keep up with Corky.
Upstairs was RETURN OF GODZILLA: clomp-clomp-clomp.
Corky came back with the alcohol, trying his best to play the role of cultured host. He poured the beer. They drank.
“What the hell is that person upstairs doing? Running laps around his living room?” Roberts lit a cigarette, inhaled the nicotine deeply, and enjoyed the relaxing rush.
Corky chuckled. “Oh, Jocko upstairs. Nah, he just weighs a damned ton. Biggest whale of a brother I ever met. I mean big. You should see him. Care to be introduced?”
“Uh, no thanks.” He raised his glass tactfully. “We’ve got beer to finish.”
“You’d like him,” Corky continued. “He’s a funny guy. Makes fun of his weight all the time. Not that he’ll let anyone else joke about his gut, though, no way. Met him at Charley’s bar. Ever been there?”
“No, never heard of it,” Roberts replied.
“Didn’t think so. They wouldn’t let a straight like you set foot in the place.” Corky winked at him. “Anyway, he needed a place to lay low for a while, so I let him stay upstairs for a few weeks. He liked it so damned much he stuck around. Not like the others.”
“Others?” Roberts felt a buzz coming on.
“My other tenants. People waltz in and out of here like it’s Grand Central Station or somethin’. But I don’t mind. Never turned down a bro down on his luck. Most folks pay their rent somehow sooner or later. One guy fixed my bike up real nice once to pay his bill. I don’t ask for much, you see, but, still…they’re good folks for the most part. Everyone needs a place to hibernate during the winter, so I’m full up right quick as soon as the first snow falls.”
“I saw the bikes outside. Yours or…uh…Jocko’s?”
“Both. Killer’s and Skully’s, too.”
Roberts face contorted in mock disbelief. “Jocko? Killer? Skully? What the hell are you running here? A halfway house for escaped convicts, or what?”
Corky snorted beer out of his nostrils, nearly choking on his own laughter. “Cool out, bro! They’re good people. Don’t you go insulting my neighbors, now. I’d hate to have to kick yer butt!”
Corky chuckled as he stood and went back to the shady kitchen for more beer.
“So when do you think you’ll finish my tat?” Roberts asked, using the word ‘tat’ for the first time in his life.
Corky returned. “Well, last I checked, it was lookin’ pretty good. Still a little fucked up, though. Say, Thursday or so. How’s that sound?”
“Why not tomorrow?”
“’Cause I got me a hangover to sleep off!” Corky uncapped a new bottle of Jack Daniels from a nearby end table. He took a big swallow, handed it to Roberts. He downed the bitter whiskey, regretting it.
“Tell me, do tattoos usually take so damned long to get completed?” Roberts thought about Schoenmacher’s Birdy, which had taken him a few boring hours, if his story was to be believed.
“Well, usually not. I coulda finished that typewriter on your back lickety-split…like in two hours or so. But I don’t like to rush my work—not that my hands are slowed up by age, mind you—I just like to get the details just right.” He took another gulp of the brown booze. “Especially when I do a freestyle. One slip of the wrist, and pffft, there goes your back, all fucked-up for the rest of your life. So I take care to get it just right. Why? You in a rush or something?”
“Naw, I was just curious. Plus it might help us get the Tattoo Killer…if we knew how long it took him to do a tattoo, then we might be able to get a time frame going to work with or something.”
“Hell, from the looks of his shit in the paper—and I mean shit when I say shit—I don’t reckon the bastard gives a flying fuck about doing the job right. It’s sloppy work, I tell ya. Couldn’t take him longer than three, maybe five hours at the most.”
“Plus enough time to murder his victim.”
Corky looked at the clock. “Hey, isn’t the news on now?”
“Oh, shit. I forgot!”
They switched on Corky’s large, wooden-framed color television. The interview aired, uncut.
Roberts felt self-conscious when he saw himself on the screen. He looked different than he thought he would—darker, bonier than he expected. Corky smiled when it was his turn in the spotlight. Both of them watched in silence, chain-smoking cigarettes.
When it was over, Corky turned off the tube. “Damn, I looked good.”
“Makeup,” Roberts replied, grinning. He lit another cigarette. It felt weird watching himself on the news—as if someone else entirely had done the interview.
“You didn’t do so bad yourself, typewriter man. What do you say I go score us a joint to celebrate?” Roberts hadn’t smoked pot since high school. “No thanks. Never touch the stuff.”
“Sure?”
“Yup. Why don’t you go ahead. I’ll wait here for you.”
Corky took a chug off the bottle. “Okay, what the hell. No reason one of us can’t have a good time.” He walked toward the front door, putting on a denim vest Roberts hadn’t seen before. “It’s just upstairs. I’ll be back in a flash.”
Roberts went ahead and took another shot of the whiskey.
“Don’t touch nothin’,” Corky said, his hand on the leather knife sheath on the back of his belt. Then he exited, leaving the door slightly ajar. Roberts could hear kids screaming in the neighborhood and cars passing by outdoors.
Roberts leaned back on the couch, asking himself what the hell he was doing in this situation—sitting in a biker’s pad, getting drunk with a tattoo artist, waiting for the guy to ‘score a joint.’
But it wasn’t fear he felt…it was a peculiar exhilaration. As if he were living in the best of both worlds—free and rebellious with a ballsy tattoo on his shoulder blade, and at the same time he was the man on the news who was buttoned down in a suit and seemed to have it all.
A day ago you were cursing your shitty job, and now you’re suddenly proud of it. What the fuck is it with you?
He drunkenly considered just what the fuck it was: the interview with Corky not only got him on air, it was something that he wanted to do, to use the news as a way of showing the optimistic side of life, the good side of tattoos.
And he was sure it got him a little respect, too.
Corky hadn’t returned for fifteen minutes, and Roberts had swallowed half the bottle on his own. He was beginning to feel like he should be someplace else, as comfortable as Corky’s pad was becoming. Wasn’t he supposed to try and hitch a ride home from him or something?
He got antsy. He walked around to the kitchen, peeking in at the filthy, pot-filled sink and plate-cluttered table. The floor was sticky. He opened up Corky’s refrigerator—which had a centerfold from a porno mag stuck to it with magnets shaped like carrots placed directly over the nudie’s nipples. He reached inside and grabbed another beer to dilute the Jack Daniels in his stomach. That’s all that was in the icebox, he noticed: beer.
He tried the bedroom door, but it was locked.
He returned to the living room and looked at the pictures on Corky’s walls. The “Bat Out of Hell” was drawn in colored pencils, and Roberts figured out that it was Corky’s own work—a copy of an album cover. He thought it was a bit odd that Corky would do a copy and put it on his wall; wasn’t the artist into original material?
Roberts sat back down, the booze making his legs queasy. That copycat art on the wall was beginning to bother him…maybe Corky wasn’t as wise and omniscient as he had thought.
Leaning awkwardly forward, Roberts grabbed a biker mag from the slew of them on the coffee table. He fell back on the sofa, creating a plume of dust. On the cover of the mag, a girl posed with her back to him, lifting up long tresses of brown hair. A red ruby dangled from her earlobe, reminding Roberts of the photo of Tina he had seen hidden in Lockerman’s house.
And this girl had tattoos, too…only much more seductive ones. Her smooth, muscular back was a collage of bright lively color—a jungle scene in which a decisively feminine black panther peered around a stout, peeling palm tree. Vines whipped around the panther’s legs, green leaves dribbled, glistening dew from green veins. A bright orange sun in the background enlightened the scene.
Focusing on the page, he noticed that the panther had caught a mouse under her clawed paw, its sharp talon piercing through the rat’s skull. The panther was tough, ruling over its idyllic dominion, like the topless woman herself—Roberts could only spy the hint of a nipple peeking out
from behind her back—as she sat in tight leopard-skin panties atop the leather saddle seat of a chrome motorcycle.
Roberts wished he was that motorcycle, the seat his lap.
She was beautiful, Roberts’ dream girl…and he couldn’t really see her face. Just her hair, and the hourglass design of her figure—but that was certainly enough. That, and the tattoo told it all.
He flipped through the pages of the magazine. It was mostly full of photographs: snapshots of more tattoos, partying bikers, women’s breasts at wet T-shirt contests, close-ups of motorcycle engines, advertisements for phone sex and leather riding gear, and a glorious centerfold of the girl on the cover. His guess about her face was right—she was definitely model material. No…much more gorgeous than any beauty queen. This brunette was pure honesty, pure personality—not buried in the suffocating dirt of commercialism. She was obviously an experienced woman, as well. Not falsely innocent. Not painted on with makeup, but inked with tattoo colors that reflected her personality. The panther brought out her inner beauty, and that was what made her so attractive.
Roberts wondered just how attractive the tattoo on his back would make him, once it was finished.
He flipped through the pages, looking for more pictures of his newfound love…when a wild dog with blood-dripping fangs jumped out at him.
The Doberman literally leapt off the page, its jaws gaping in a voracious, drooling snarl. Behind the dog, a large chopper with glinting chrome and long exhaust pipes was cocked in the air, popping a wheelie. A long trail of black followed the bike, a gigantic tread mark. It was an excellent illustration…something in Corky’s league. He wondered if it would make a good tattoo.
Noises pounded upstairs. Jocko and Corky walking around in the big guy’s living room. He could hear the ghosts of their voices through the floorboards. Suddenly music drowned out their discussion. Roberts figured that it would still be quite some time before Corky returned.
Grave Markings: 20th Anniversary Edition Page 22
