“—live appearances?”
“Precisely.”
“Moe, pick up line two. It’s your daughter.” Brian’s voice came loud over the intercom.
“Excuse me a second, Devo.” I picked up. “Is everything okay with—”
“Mom’s fine, Dad. I mean, as fine as can be expected. I just saw her and I think she’s more embarrassed than anything else.”
“Good. I’ll be coming back up there tonight to check on you guys. Is the deputy still outside the door?”
“The cute one, Robby? Yeah, he’s still there.”
“Too much information, kiddo. Way too much.”
“Oh, Dad, grow up. Besides, I have something I want to tell you.”
“What?”
“Remember when we were watching that video of Uncle Pat—I mean, of the guy posing as Uncle Patrick?”
“I remember.”
“I said something wasn’t right about him even though he looked just like the pictures of Uncle Patrick.”
“Yeah.”
“I know what it is,” she said. “He was too comfortable on camera, too much at ease.”
“I’m not sure I’m getting you.”
“Look, Dad, think about those old pictures of your family from Russia. You know how they’re all so stiff and unsmiling and their eyes have that deer in the headlights thing going on. Then think about your folks’ generation and then yours. People got more and more comfortable with having their pictures taken, but not necessarily with being videotaped. My generation is really the first generation that’s grown up on video. Births, our first steps, first baths, birthday parties, bat mitzvahs, weddings, sweet sixteens, baseball games, dance recitals, almost everything my generation has done our parents taped. We’re really used to being in front of the camera. We like it. Being on tape is … for us, it’s affirmation. All the people I go to college with have cameras on their computers. And Uncle Patrick was killed in what, nineteen seventy-sev—”
“—seventy-eight,” I corrected.
“But you get my point. That was way before the ever present, all-seeing eye. That guy on the tape is no ghost, he’s my age.”
“Funny you should say that. I think Devo’s arrived at the same conclusion. Thanks for the assist, I’ll see you later.” That was met with a very loud silence from the other end of the phone. “Okay, Sarah, what is it?”
“I think you should leave Mom alone for a little while. Like I said, she’s pretty embarrassed and feeling kinda stupid about this. If she feels you’re there to judge her or…I just think you should give her some time. I can look after her for now.”
It bugged me that Sarah twice mentioned Katy being embarrassed, but I couldn’t say why exactly. There seemed to be a lot of things I didn’t have answers for just lately. In any case, I didn’t pursue it.
“I’m very proud of you, Sarah. I think I’ll take your advice, at least for a day or two. But I want to know if anything happens with your mother. I mean anything. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Love ya.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
I put down the phone and recounted Sarah’s theory to Devo, after first explaining what was on the videotape I had given him.
“My guess,” I said, “is that the guy you’ll see on that tape is the guy who got the part.”
“Yes, personal appearances and all. Why don’t you go talk to Brian while I get started with the tapes?”
I hesitated. “Just one more thing. This Tilliston Casting, they legit?”
“I am afraid not. They were a post office box and a phone number. The phone number has been disconnected and the P.O. box closed.”
I made a move for the door. Devo called after me.
“One last thing, Moe. Judas Wannsee.”
“What about him?”
“Here.” Devo handed me a folder. “I have tracked him down, He was a difficult man to find.”
“He would be.”
“He has changed his name several times in the past decade, but you should be able to contact him there.”
“Thanks.”
When I stepped back out into the main office, Brian nodded at Carmella’s office.
“She’s back, in case you’re interested.”
“Okay, but first, show me what you got.”
Brian slid a Polaroid across the desk to me. It was of a freshly done tattoo. The tattoo was of a rose threaded through the Chinese character for eternity, and 4/7/00 was written neatly across the bottom in black marker.
“By the way, boss, that ain’t one Chinese character, but two that have been superimposed on each other. My bud tells me that even that’s a sorta shorthand and that this one here means,” he said, pointing at the back of one of his business cards, “long or no change. This one here means never eroding.” He showed me the back of two more business cards. “The proper way to write it is like this or this here. These four mean forever and those four there stand for eternity.”
“Thanks for the Chinese lesson. I don’t know, Doyle, maybe we should can your ass and hire your friend.”
“Maybe, but he ain’t half as charmin’ as me.”
“I’d like to meet him. I’ve never met anyone completely devoid of charm before.”
“Huh?”
“Forget it. Who’d you get the Polaroid from?”
“Mira Mira,” he said, as if that were explanation enough.
It wasn’t. “I’m listening.”
“She’s a tattoo artist. Works by appointment only and charges an arm and a fuckin’ leg.”
“Nice pun.”
“Pun?”
“Never mind.”
“Anyways, an old snitch of mine turned me onto her. When I showed this Mira Mira what I was lookin’ for, she pulled that Polaroid right out of her … whachumacallit … her—”
“—portfolio.”
“Yeah, her portfolio. She does Polaroids of every one of her creations. She even has photo portraits done of some of her work. She says those photos sell in galleries for thousands of bucks. Me myself, I don’t see it, paying for a picture of a fuckin’ tattoo.”
“I don’t think you’re her target audience, Doyle. She tell you anything about the client?”
“White kid, twenty, maybe younger. Came in with a heavyset guy in his late sixties.”
“Did she think they were lovers?” I asked.
Doyle cringed. “I didn’t ask. She did say that the old guy had an eye patch over his left eye. Here’s her contact info. I told her you might wanna talk to her.”
I slid the Polaroid and the contact info into my jacket pocket. “I’m curious. Why’d she give you the Polaroid?”
“Because she said she was embarrassed that she had even done the job and …” He hemmed and hawed.
“And … I’m waiting.”
“I paid her for it.”
“Don’t tell me how much. I don’t want to know, not now, not when I’m thinking of telling you you did good. Just put in your reimbursement request to Carmella.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“And Brian …”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t pad the request because I’m going to ask this woman how much she charged you.”
He opened his mouth to say something and thought better of it.
Carmella was once again sitting and staring out the office window. Only this time there was fire in her eyes and no tears to contain the flames.
“What an asshole!” she growled.
“Which one?”
“Me. The father. Take your pick.”
“The father?”
“The baby’s father. I told him that I was pregnant. That’s where I was, meeting him for a drink. He didn’t even ask me why I wasn’t drinking. When I explained it to him anyway, you know what he asked me?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “He asked if I was sure it was his. Like I’m out there soliciting sperm donations. What an idiot!”
“Him?”
“No,
me. I sure as hell can pick’em, can’t I, Moe? What am I gonna do?”
“Just tell me who he is and I’ll show him the error of his—”
“No. I wouldn’t let him within fifty yards of this baby, the selfish, self-centered prick. Not now.”
“Isn’t there anybody you can talk to?”
“I’m talkin’ to him.”
“I mean a girlfriend, someone in your family.”
“Someone in my family! Are you nuts? You know what they would tell me? Go talk to the priest. Yeah, like a priest’s gonna help me make a decision about an abortion. After … you know, after what happened to me as a girl, my mother took me to a priest to have him bathe me in holy water, to wash away the stink and shame. You know what the priest said? He said that my mother should pray for God to forgive me. Forgive me, a little girl! What did I do wrong, Moe?”
“Nothing. Your mother was a foolish woman. And priests … What can I say? But I’m sure your brothers and sisters would—”
“No, they wouldn’t. I hate this fuckin’ baby,” she hissed, her face belying her words.
“Sure you do, that’s why you’re so torn up about it. That’s why you said you wouldn’t let the father get near it.”
“Who asked you?”
“You did.”
“I shouldn’t’ve.”
“Would you think about giving the baby up?”
That stunned Carmella, the air going out of her as if I had caught her solid in the solar plexus. I don’t think the notion of giving the baby up was a possibility she had ever wanted to consider. It was the hardest option for a reluctant mother. Though I believe the concept of closure is complete bullshit, I have to think that carrying a baby to term and delivering it only to hand it over to strangers has got to be a vicious form of living hell. I’m not sure I could handle the uncertainty of it or the second guessing.
“I couldn’t do that, Moe. How could I do that?”
Now the tears came. The fire was out. I took a step toward her.
“Leave me alone. Just leave me alone to think, okay?”
“Sure.”
IN CONTRAST TO her name, Mira Mira was as exotic as whole wheat toast. Oh, she was pretty enough—Italian, early thirties, svelte and dark—but with a Brooklyn accent that made mine seem minted on the Thames. And if her loft in SoHo was indicative of how lucrative tattoo artistry was, I was going to tell Sarah—a gifted painter—to lose the brush and oils in favor of the ink and needle. You could have played full-court basketball in the place and have had room for bleachers and concession stands. The exposed brick walls were covered in enormous photographs of body art. Some were rather stunning and done in colors you were more apt to find in a Klimt than on a teenager’s bicep.
“So, you wanna to tawk about an original Mira Mira creation.”
“Not original, really,” I said, sliding my business card and the Polaroid across the table to her. “I believe you already spoke to my employee about it.”
“That Brian Doyle works for you, huh? A real freakin’ charma, that guy.”
“Charm is a funny thing. Depends on taste.”
“Yeah, well, just because some assholes who are drownin’ think they’re just slow swimmers, don’t make it so. You know what I mean?”
I didn’t, but I wasn’t here to argue with her. “Exactly. So what can you tell me about that tattoo?”
“Nothin’. I mean, nothin’ I didn’t already tell Prince Charmin’.”
“Amuse me, okay?”
“Sure. Whaddya wanna know?”
“Everything. Anything. How were you contacted? Who did you deal with? Did they leave a contact number or address? What was the kid like and the guy with him?”
“Nothin’ unusual in how he got in touch. Got a call from a guy sayin’ he’s seen my work and that he’s got a friend that he wants to get inked. I asked him if him or his friend wanna come in to tawk about what kinda design they’re lookin’ for, but he says they already got somethin’ specific in mind. I told him I didn’t do crap. No Christ heads or hearts or dragons, you know, that kinda crap and that I don’t negotiate price. He says that ain’t no problem and when can he come in.”
“So you spoke to the older man, the one with the eye patch.”
“Yeah, it was Cyclops I tawked to.”
“Do you have names, addresses, phone numbers?”
“Sure do, for what it’s worth. I mean, I don’t like check references or nothin’, but I make people sign all kinda fuckin’ releases before I put ink to skin. You have buyer’s remorse with a house, you can sell it. Body art, the way I do it, it’s kinda hard to give back.”
“Could I see the paperwork?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“My studio got busted into in May. All the files got trashed.”
“Any other damage?” I asked.
“Some. Nothin’ that couldn’t get fixed.”
“You remember any names?”
“Nah. I don’t remember what they wrote on the release forms and when they tawked to each other, I don’t even think they used names. Cyclops called the kid Kid. I don’t remember the kid callin’ Cyclops anything, but his expression called him Asshole. I don’t guess that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”
It wasn’t, but I didn’t want to lose the momentum. “So they make an appointment and …”
“Yeah, at first when I see ’em I’m thinkin’ it’s the man-boy love thing and that sugar daddy is buyin’ his boy toy a little art as a token of his appreciation. It wouldn’t be the first time. But as things went on, I changed my mind. It was more like boss and employee kinda situation. In fact, the kid didn’t seem very into the whole tattoo thing at all. Kept whinin’ about not likin’ needles and shit like that. Cyclops told him to shut up and take it like a man.”
“Nice guy, huh?”
“A typical cop.”
I nearly swallowed my tongue. “What?”
“I’m pretty sure he was a cop. My dad, my uncles, my little brothers are all on the job. Just like you and Prince Charmin’.”
“Well, Mira, you wouldn’t have to be Kreskin to figure out that Brian and I were once cops.”
“I guess not, but Cyclops was once a cop. I’m tellin’ ya. And then when he pulls out that picture and shows me what he wants me to put on the kid, I almost threw them both out on their freakin’ asses.”
“The rose and Chinese characters?”
“Yeah,” she said, tapping her finger on the Polaroid. “It was an enlargement of an old photo, all grainy and shit, but clear enough so’s I could copy it.”
“The person in the photo, was he a—”
“Tell you the truth, I just looked at the tat. It was a man’s arm. That much I could tell.”
“Why’d you want to throw them out?”
“’Cause it was a bullshit job. Any hack coulda done the work and I didn’t wanna waste my time.”
“If it was a bullshit job, why come to you?”
“You’re askin’ the wrong party here,” she said. “I don’t know. Some people they think like expense equals quality. So for what I charged ’em, they got lotsa quality.”
“You mind me asking how much quality they received?”
“Three large cash.”
“He paid you three grand for—”
“That’s where my prices start, not where they finish. And he tipped me an extra few c-notes on top.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
She pointed at an eight foot by ten foot photo on the wall behind me. It was a tattoo of a peacock, its tail feathers fanned across a woman’s upper thigh and right cheek. The colors were incredibly vivid, the iridescent blues and greens fairly jumped off the subject’s flesh, but it was the subtle shadings, the gold and beige, the darker browns and black that were the real trick of her art.
“You do that, you can charge what I charge,” she said. “Until then …”
“I see your point. You’re good.”
“Good. Pfffffff. Fuck that!” She made a face like she’d bitten into a bad nut. “I’m the best.”
“So what about the kid?” I asked. “I mean beside the fact that he was whining.”
“He was handsome enough if you like the type. Kinda a young Travolta without the charisma.”
Bingo! I thought back to when I first got involved with Patrick. The Maloney family had plastered the kid’s high school prom picture all over the city. I remembered thinking that he reminded me of Travolta. But that was before Patrick had colored his hair and gotten his ears pierced, before he had gotten his tattoo.
I stood to go. “Thanks for your time. Here’s my card if you think of anything else.”
“So what neighborhood you from?”
“Sheepshead Bay via Coney Island.”
“I went to Lafayette. You went to Lincoln, huh?”
“I did.”
“Well, screw that, I like you anyway,” she said.
“Oh, yeah, why’s that?”
“’Cause most people walk in here or my studio and within thirty seconds say ‘Mira Mira on the wall,’ or some stupid shit like that. Not you.”
I wished she hadn’t said that last part, because now I couldn’t get it out of my head. Mira Mira on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all? Mira Mira on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all? Mira Mira on the … At least when a song gets stuck in your head, there’s a melody to mitigate the annoyance. Like I didn’t already have enough crap to drive me nuts.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I HAD SURELY disappointed Sarah a thousand times over the years in ways both large and small. Nothing hurt more than seeing disappointment in my kid’s eyes, but letting your kid down is an inevitable and likely beneficial part of parenting. You can’t pick kids up every time they fall, you can’t and shouldn’t give them everything they want, nor is it in your power to come close to living up to their image of you. Yet, in spite of my myriad foibles, missteps, and mistakes with Sarah, there was one way in which I couldn’t recall letting her down. I had always kept my word to her. It was in my nature to keep my word even when it worked to my detriment. You need only survey the shambles I’d made of my marriage to know the truth of that.
Had I walked out of Jack’s apartment in the West Village twenty-two Februaries ago and called Katy to tell her that I had found Patrick … Sometimes in my blackest moments, I think about what might have been had I, just that once, broken my word. I mean who the fuck was Jack White to me? And Patrick, what had he done to earn my trust? If anything, his behavior had earned my scorn. All those times my father-in-law asked me about ghosts, he was off target. He should have asked me about being haunted. For while I still didn’t believe in ghosts, I did believe in hauntings. Who needs ghosts when questions will suffice? Ghosts, one in particular, were the reason I was heading back upstate and why I was about to break my word to Sarah.
Empty Ever After Page 12
