Amazon Ink

by Lori Devoti

  Peter stepped inside. I knew instantly it was him, by the breadth of shoulders that blocked the outside light.

  “Oh, hi.” He smiled that high-watt smile, and my toes curled in my shoes. I needed to see Bubbe about something for my hormones. They seemed to be running rampant lately.

  “I heard there was coffee.” He held out a stainless-steel travel mug. “The pot in the shop’s toast.”

  “That’s a hundred-dollar coffeemaker.” I pushed myself to a stand.

  “Not anymore.” He grinned and headed to the coffeepot. I’d only left about an inch in the carafe. I thought he’d see that and move on, but to my surprise he dumped out the grounds and began making fresh.

  “Little hearth-keeper in that one,” Zery murmured. “Not a bad thing, if you’re really going to do this human thing.” She waggled her brows.

  I rolled my eyes, but then turned them back toward Peter. He was wearing jeans and a sweater-a close-fitting sweater. And his back was turned to us-my favorite view.

  “Looks like he has other assets too,” Zery teased. I chose to ignore the interplay this time.

  “He’s a very good tattoo artist.”

  “There you go…hearth-keeper, artisan, and an ass to kill for. What more could an Amazon want?” She rapped the table with her knuckles, then shoved her cup toward me and stood. “I’ll leave this with you. Give him a reason to come closer. Maybe he’ll wash up for you too.”

  As she left, Peter turned. He should have watched Zery, any other Y-chromosome-carrying human would have, but he didn’t. His chocolate gaze locked on me.

  Zery’s words came back to me. If I was really going to “do this human thing” it would make sense for me to date, at least some. I hadn’t had anything more than passing contact with a man since my son’s father. I angled my face, away from Peter.

  Michael. I hadn’t thought of him in years. In a way, he was as responsible for me leaving the tribe as the loss of our son and my subsequent betrayal by the Amazons. I’d made the mistake of knowing him, and not just in the biblical sense. He’d been a tattoo artist. We’d met at a rally-kind of a conference for artists. He’d had a gift. When I first saw pictures of his work, I thought another Amazon was at the event. I’d searched him out, sure Michael was some twist on an Amazon name I didn’t recognize, but when I met him, there’d been no mistaking him for a woman-not even a warrior.

  I’d been a goner on the spot.

  I smiled, a sad twist of my lips. I had a folder with pictures of his work in it somewhere. I’d kept it, but had shoved it deep in a trunk that I never opened. Maybe it was time I dug it out and purged one more ghost from my past.

  “Coffee?” Peter held out a fresh mug.

  I reached up to take it, but as my fingers brushed his, realization hit me. I knew why Peter’s art had tweaked at me so. Why I’d thought it was familiar.

  It reminded me of Michael. Peter reminded me of Michael.

  The coffee he’d released to my grip fell to the floor, splattering up both of our legs.

  Neither of us jumped. We both just stood there, staring.

  I didn’t ask Peter if he knew Michael, didn’t even apologize for the spill. Just turned and walked out of the cafeteria and hightailed it to my truck and then to the bar. He probably thought I’d lost my mind. I was beginning to suspect it myself.

  Michael had been from somewhere in Tennessee and had the accent to prove it. From what Peter had told me, he’d spent most of his life in Chicago. Worlds apart. There was, of course, the possibility they were cousins or some other relation, but it was highly unlikely. Much more likely, there was a slight similarity in style and the biggest thing the pair had in common was the attraction I felt for both. After Michael, that was scary.

  When I’d been with Michael, I’d come close to breaking a steadfast Amazon rule. I’d come close to giving him my heart. I’d barely walked away. Without his knowledge, I’d kept up with him through online bulletin boards and occasionally an email to mutual tattoo acquaintances. Two years after the rally, a year and three months after the birth and death of our son, Michael had died too. Some freak dog attack.

  Still mourning the loss of my son and my tribe, his death had hit me hard-and the worst part was I couldn’t show it to anyone, couldn’t even admit I knew about it. Scandalized as Mother and Bubbe had been when I left the tribe, if I’d admitted to following what was happening with Michael…I smacked the steering wheel of my truck with the palm of my hand.

  Liar. It wasn’t Bubbe and Mother who had stopped me from publicly admitting my sorrow. It was me. I hadn’t been ready to face that I had felt a connection to a man. It was just wrong-against everything I’d been brought up to believe.

  I’d heard humans talk about Catholic guilt, but it had nothing on Amazon guilt. It was amazing how easily you could say things with your mouth, even believe them with your brain…but your heart, your gut…those two were a lot harder to convince.

  I pulled onto Frances Street and found a rare parking spot off street. The bar, actually more of a tavern, opened at eleven for lunch. It was five after. My timing was perfect. I went in and sat at the counter. A bartender, female and somewhere in her fifties, took my order-fried cheese curds and a burger. Major benefit of being an Amazon, no need to watch calorie intake.

  When she brought my water, I added a local microbrew they had on tap to my order. It would take a lot of alcohol to affect me, but maybe it would take the edge off my nerves. Besides, it gave me another chance to chat with the bartender.

  When she came back, I already had a twenty lying on the bar in front of me. I motioned to the bill. “You can ring me out if you like.”

  She cocked a brow. “You in a hurry?”

  I took a sip of the ale. “No, but I thought you might get busy. Might as well settle up now.”

  She shrugged and went to the cash register.

  A few seconds later she was back, my change in hand. “You need anything else, just holler.” She started to turn, but I held up a hand.

  “Actually, I was hoping to run into someone here. A boy my niece used to date. Great kid.”

  She waited, a noncommittal look on her face. “What’s his name?”

  “Tim.” It was all Dana had told me, because it was all she knew-I had asked for a last name. “Works part-time, I think, bartending?”

  “Common name.” The woman’s eyes drifted to the door, then jerked back to me. “But we don’t have anyone by it on the payroll.”

  “Really?” Dana hadn’t lied to me. She’d had no reason to. “I was pretty sure she said he worked here.”

  “A lot of bars around here. She must have been confused.”

  “Could be.” I held her gaze. She was lying to me. I didn’t know why, but she was. I wasn’t one to play polite and just let her walk away. “But I don’t think so.”

  The door to the bar opened and a group of state workers, easily identifiable by badges and practical shoes, filed in. She made a move to grab a stack of menus. I placed my hand over hers to stop her.

  “What gives?”

  She sighed, the wrinkles around her eyes relaxing with the breath. “He comes in sometimes. Works a few hours when we’re busy and he needs the cash. I’m a small business owner, trying to eke out a living. Someone’s willing to work for tips-who am I to send him away? You know?”

  I did know. I removed my hand and finished my beer.

  A man willing to work for just tips-even a young man. That was odd-Amazon-like, even. Cash-only jobs were our mainstay. Anyone’s mainstay who wanted to fly under the radar.

  What was up with Dana’s Tim? What was he hiding or hiding from?

  He, just like this bar, was a common thread connecting the dead girls and life outside the Amazon camp. I thought of Dana, her hand on her belly and her face alight with joy. The burger I’d just eaten hardened to stone.

  I slipped my messenger bag over my head and turned to leave.

  “Enjoy your lunch?”

  I
spun. Detective Reynolds stared at me over crossed arms.

  I adjusted my bag so it sat in the small of my back, then smiled. “Hit the spot. What about you? What brings you here? You aren’t following me, are you?” I tried to sound flirty, but failed miserably.

  “Should I be?”

  Behind him a blond man watched us with interest. I could tell by the travel-worn suits they were together.

  “Long drive to stalk one lone tattoo artist, but…whatever.” I dug another five out of my bag and slipped it under my beer mug. I hoped the extra tip would convince the barkeep I was on her side and maybe keep her from telling Detective Reynolds too much about our conversation-in case he asked.

  He raised a brow. “Big tipper.”

  Ignoring the jibe, I nodded to his partner and made for the door. I only got a few feet.

  “You going to be around this afternoon?”

  I stopped but didn’t turn. “Should be.”

  “Try. I think we might need to have another chat.”

  Goody. I couldn’t wait.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Once on the street I let out a breath. Just what I needed, Detective Reynolds poking around the shop while Zery and company were doing whatever the hell they would be doing today. Maybe if I were lucky, they’d have brought up a team of horses and be jousting or something.

  That would be fun to explain.

  Maybe I’d just go for the truth. Detective Reynolds, meet my old friend Zery, the Amazon Queen. I know she looks thirty, but really she’s pushed past ninety. And don’t mind Bubbe over there in the corner-she’s just calling up a serpent to guard her prized collections of animal parts and hunks of stone. And Mother? She wouldn’t hurt anyone with that broadsword-at least not today. After all, it isn’t that “time of the month” just yet.

  Yeah, good times.

  Mumbling to myself, I looked for an excuse to hang out-out of view-and see how long the detective stayed in the tavern and where he went next. A book/crystal shop across the street offered the best solution and, as a bonus, it doubled as a coffee shop.

  I wandered in, bought a coffee, and plopped myself down at a table near the window. I had barely got my coffee to proper drinking temperature when Detective Reynolds and his companion stepped out onto the street. I pulled back, letting the purple gauze curtains disguise my presence, but my caution was unnecessary. Reynolds and his friend made a hard right, back toward Frances Street where they, like I, had most likely left their car.

  I wandered out of the shop, keeping enough distance between myself and the pair that I could play at coincidence if caught. (Not that I thought the detective would buy that excuse, but he wouldn’t be able to disprove it either.) One block down, they climbed into an unmarked car, did a U-turn, and left.

  I walked over to a park bench and sat down. I’d said I’d be back at my shop today. I hadn’t said when.

  I took a sip of coffee and let the caffeine roll through me. It was lunch hour on a warm October Monday, and State Street was busy with state employees and university students resisting the work week by stretching their lunch break as much as possible. I tilted back my head and closed my eyes, let the sounds and smells of State Street encompass me.

  The downtown area was one of the reasons I’d picked Madison. Like Dana and her friends, Zery and I used to come here back in our younger days-the late 1960s, so not that young for me, but still a lot younger than I felt now. Our hangout of choice had been about a half mile southwest, off Mifflin, home of counterculture and all things anti-establishment. A dream for an Amazon looking for a no-commitment fling.

  Zery and I had been friends before that too. Our families seemed to wind up at the same camps a lot. We’d first met in Texas when I was ten and Zery was seven. A hurricane had destroyed a safe camp there, and Bubbe was called in to help with cleanup. We had met off and on every decade since then, surviving everything from the Great Depression to disco. And we had always been friends, always found a place and a way to be ourselves, to have some fun no matter how horrid things were in the human world at the time. But here in Madison, those had been some of the best times-the last few years before Zery started her queen training in earnest.

  When I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend I was there again, when things were simpler and no one but me was dependent on my actions.

  “You spilled.”

  My eyelids flew open. A boy not much older than Harmony, and decidedly too clean-cut to have walked out of my daydreams even with the diamond stud he sported in the tip of one ear, pointed at the brown circle of coffee developing on my leg. “Crap.” I grabbed the paper coffee cup that had lurched to one side and placed it on the ground under the bench.

  “Here.” He pulled a napkin from a white paper bag.

  I started to wave it off, but realized most people probably objected to walking around with coaster-sized coffee stains on their clothing. Me? I was more disturbed by the loss of my brew.

  “Thanks.” I began dabbing at the spot in what I hoped was a convincing manner. When the damp denim was properly coated with paper fuzz, I wadded the napkin into a ball and retrieved what was left of my coffee.

  The boy sat down beside me and began pulling lunch from his sack.

  It seemed rude to immediately jump up and leave. I sat there, sipping my drink and wondering how long I needed to stay for pretense’s sake.

  After a few minutes he finished with his sandwich and flipped open a notebook. Without saying a word, he began sketching.

  This was the obvious time to leave, but what he was drawing kept me in my seat. Tattoos. Or what would have made great ones.

  “You’re an artist?” I asked.

  He looked up, his eyes rounded as if surprised I was still there. “I guess. I play at it.”

  I nodded at the stylized version of a badger. “That looks like a tattoo.”

  “Really?” He looked pleased with my observation. “A buddy wanted a tat, but couldn’t find one he liked. I said I’d draw something for him.”

  “Badgers are pretty popular around here. I wouldn’t think he’d have a problem.”

  “Yeah, if you want a cartoon wearing a red sweater with a big W on the front. He didn’t.”

  “Oh.” I glanced at his drawing again. “You did a good job capturing the…” I searched for a word. If I’d been talking to an Amazon, it would have been easy. What he’d done was capture the essence of what a badger was: their wild aggressive nature that made the small animal formidable, made bigger creatures-including men-fear it. I reached out a hand, then pulled back, realizing what I’d been about to do.

  I had to stop seeing powers everywhere. First with Peter, now this random boy.

  “Are you into art?” He lowered his pencil and looked at me, genuine interest on his face.

  “You could say that.” I paused, feeling strange telling him too much about myself…old habits I needed to get over. “I own a tattoo shop. Mel’s.”

  “Really? I’ve heard of you.”

  He looked impressed. My head swelled a little.

  “Thanks.” Lame response, but I wasn’t used to compliments…at least his tone had made it sound like a compliment.

  “You don’t know…” He stopped, looked down at his drawing and twiddled his pencil, hitting it softly against the paper.

  “What?” I took a sip of coffee and tried to look supportive and not nosy.

  “It’s just I’ve been trying to get on at one of the tat shops down here. Just cleaning up, working the desk, stuff like that. Eventually I’d like to apprentice, but I realize that could take awhile. I could do Web work, whatever they needed until they thought they could trust me.” He added a line to the badger’s snout-a small mark that somehow added another dimension to the creature, showing not just his aggression, but his determination.

  All animals had multiple aspects. How the artist chose to depict them could make all the difference in the power the totem enhanced in its owner-in Amazon art, that is-but what I was
looking at was just a drawing, a human drawing.

  He looked up. “Anyway, I was wondering if you knew someone who might be willing to give me a shot-just sweeping up and stuff to start.”

  He was so damn eager. Made me think of the first time I realized I had a talent for art, finally had something of my own. I’d trailed every artisan I could find until one finally agreed to just let me watch her work. I’d just wanted a chance to learn.

  That’s all he was asking for too, and he’d do the grunt work to get that chance.

  “I just might.” I pulled a business card from my pocket. “Stop by and ask for Mandy. She’ll have some paperwork for you to fill out.”

  He stared at the white rectangle like I’d handed him the key to the city. “Really?”

  “Really.” Then I picked up my cup and stood to leave. “Oh, what’s your name?”

  “Nick. Nick Johnson.”

  “See you tomorrow, Nick Johnson.” I left feeling like I’d done something good, for him and for me. Another step away from my Amazon hang-ups; now not one but two men would be working at my shop. How free-minded was I?

  The rest of Monday passed; I did some routine tattoos, worked with Mandy a little, and closed up. To my relief, Detective Reynolds didn’t make an appearance. After work I went to the gym and told Zery what I’d learned at The Tavern, but I didn’t mention seeing the detective there. Our deal had been that I’d talk with him, not that I’d tell her every time I did. Besides, she was already battling the pressure of the tribe’s suspicions of me. If she learned the police shared the view…well, there was no reason to go there. My time with Zery cost me, though. I missed hearing what happened at Harmony’s art class. She was in bed by the time I returned, but with my daughter I knew the “no news is good news” adage held true. If she hadn’t liked the class, she would have sought me out and made sure I knew.

  I didn’t get a chance to talk with her the next morning either. Before Harmony had even rousted herself from bed, a muffler-less compact chugged into the parking lot. I knew without looking it was another Amazon arriving. You just didn’t see a lot of vehicles two door-dings from a life on blocks rolling around Madison. You did see them at Amazon safe camps. It was about all you saw there.