Tattoo

by Paul E. Cooley

  Jackson said nothing. Being shirtless in front of a beast like Scott didn't exactly make him feel comfortable. He half-expected Scott to stick his finger into the seeping wound and the idea made him shudder.

  "Man," Scott said softly, "he didn't charge you for this?"

  "No," Jackson replied. "He didn't."

  Scott's finger pushed the tape back against Jackson's skin, smoothing it out. "You just got a free eight-hundred dollar tattoo, my friend. At least. An hour maybe?"

  Jackson pulled his shirt back on, leaving it untucked and turned to face Scott. "Yeah, hour, hour and a half. Something like that."

  Scott nodded. "Fucking Nigel, man. Told you he's the best. He take a picture of it?"

  "Yeah, he did. Photographed me and then the tat."

  "He does that with all the good shit, man. Guy's got scrapbooks everywhere."

  "Scott? You ever hear of Pons Matal?"

  Scott frowned. "Pons..." Scott scratched the side of his temple and then snapped his fingers. "Yeah, I knew that guy." Scott laughed. "Crazy fucker. He's the one got the dragon."

  "Yeah, so Nigel said. What do you know about him?"

  "Not much, man," Scott said. He rubbed his hand across his chin stubble. "Just saw pictures of him and his tatts in the scrapbooks. Don't think I ever really met him, but I did see him leaving Nigel's once or twice. Big bastard."

  "You're a big bastard," Jackson said.

  "Yeah, I am," Scott agreed. "But this guy looked like he could bench press a Le Sabre. Why you asking 'bout Pons, man?"

  Jackson shrugged. "Just interested, that's all."

  "Hmm... Well, I better get my ass back to work or Valdedrama will be all over me." Scott wrinkled his nose.

  Valderama was the head of layouts, but everyone called him Valdedrama behind his back. The guy was always treating every small bump in the road like it was the apocalypse. Scott walked to the door and then turned. "Hey, man. You going to the thing tonight?"

  "Um, what thing?" Jackson asked, confused.

  Scott smiled. "Well now you got some ink, thought maybe you wanted to go to the reception tonight before the con starts tomorrow?"

  "Oh. What reception?"

  Scott shook his head. "Man, for a reporter, you don't know shit. Before the con starts tomorrow, the artists are holding a little reception, man. Some of the TV folk and raggers will be there. Gonna do some taping and shit. Free drinks and food, man."

  "Oh," Jackson stammered. "I, um--" He stopped. "Scott, do they always have these things before the con starts?"

  Scott nodded. "Sure, man. At least at this one. I bet at the other big ones too. See, it's a chance for the movers and shakers to get together before the madness of the general public gets in there and fucks shit up. Nigel gave me some tix to it. He always does." Scott crossed his arms and smiled at Jackson. "I got an extra for ya, if you want to go?"

  Jackson felt an adrenaline rush. Pons. Pons could be there tonight, looking for his next victim.

  Jackson smiled at Scott. "Sure, man. How much?"

  Chapter 10

  A call to Dewhurst, the promise of lunch, and Dewie had brought some Xerox copies of the police reports for Thomas Reed, Jacqueline Pierce and Ron Williams, another Houston victim.

  As they made the exchange over Cuban sandwiches at the dive down the street, Dewie kept looking at him. It was uncharacteristic for Dewhurst to make eye contact like that. Jackson rolled his eyes, swallowed and said "Dewie? What's the problem?"

  Dewhurst put down the sandwich and slicked back his thinning blond hair. He rubbed his blemished hands together and stared at Jackson with his brown eyes. "I want to know," he said in a soft drawl, "exactly why you want these."

  Jackson sighed. "Tony talk to you?"

  Dewhurst smiled without showing any teeth. Jackson felt a little afraid then. Dewie only gave that particular smile when he was getting ready to bust someone. "Yeah, Jackson. He might have."

  Dropping his own sandwich to the plate, Jackson wiped his hands on his napkin, breaking eye contact. "Guess I should have known he was going to do that."

  "He's worried about you, but he wouldn't tell me why." Dewie paused, tapping an index finger on the table. "Look at me, Jackson," he said, the soft drawl replaced by a growl. Jackson dropped his napkin and looked up at Dewie. "I would have ignored him, Jackson. I been friends with the two of you for a long time. If it was anyone but Tony, I'd have figured they were pissing in the wrong pot. But this is Tony we're talking about, Jackson. He said he was worried."

  "He's just got a crush on me, is all."

  Dewhurst flashed all of his white teeth in a grin. "Right. Sure. He's also got a knack for being right, Jackson. I looked at those reports, you know. I didn't hand them to some bimbo at the station to copy for me. I read them. I remembered two of them, because I was there." Jackson felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach. "So drop the bullshit. You know something about the perp that did this?"

  At first, Jackson said nothing. He was locked in the stare with Dewhurst's commanding eyes. They'd been friends for a long time; that was true. Dewie had always scared the hell out of him a little, considering the man had already shot three suspects as a detective, all clean, all warranted, all passing muster. Dewie was the only cop Jackson knew that had pulled his gun, much less used it. The look on Dewie's face told Jackson the man was a little scared himself. That didn't sit well with Jackson. Not at all.

  "I'm checking into a lead, that's all," Jackson said, his voice cracking on the last two words.

  Dewhurst reached for his coffee, took a sip and then placed it back down on the table. "I understand you checking into a lead, Jackson. What'd you say to Tony to set him off?"

  "I told him," Jackson said, his voice as firm as he could make it, "that I thought the killer was after the tattoos. There's something about certain tattoos that's driving him to find these people and excise the tatts."

  Dewhurst shook his head. "Bullshit," Dewie said softly. "We all have that shit figured out, Jackson. Now, give. What did you tell Tony?"

  "Nothing. He's just being a big pussy, that's all. Thinks I can't handle myself." Jackson watched as Dewie took another sip of coffee. The man was being dramatic, for sure, holding it up to his lips and then tipping the cup ever so slowly. Jackson rolled his eyes. "Seriously, Dewie."

  "Okay," Dewhurst said, the cup cradled between his hands. "Do you know who's doing this?"

  Without even thinking, Jackson lied. "No."

  "You," Dewhurst said, flashing those white teeth once more, "said that a little too quickly, Jackson. You have an idea, don't you?"

  Jackson sighed. "Dewie? Are you going to fuck this up for me?"

  The cop put the cup of coffee on the table, leaned back and crossed his arms. The expensive sport coat he wore was hardly wrinkled, even though Jackson knew he'd been in it since 6 a.m. "I'm going to say this to you, Jackson. No, I'm not going to screw this up for you, but I think you know who it is or have a pretty goddamned good idea. And that means it's cop business now." Dewhurst licked his lips. "And that means I can bust your ass any time I think you've got information you're not sharing. And there is no way," Dewie said, leaning forward, "that I'm going to let a friend do something stupid."

  The idea of sharing the name, Nigel's story, all the information he'd gone through hell to get, was an anathema. If he told Dewhurst any of it, the cop would start digging and digging fast. If Dewie dug in the right direction, he'd find out all of it before Jackson had a prayer of closing it up. Then again...

  "Okay, Dewie. Here's the deal." Jackson leaned forward in his seat and placed his palms flat against the table. "I'm going to give you the name. You're going to give me the call when you find the guy. You're going to share with me everything you possibly can, no matter what fucking procedures it breaks, right? Because I busted my ass for this information, and I'm not letting some wet-behind-the-ears mother- fucker who knows who to bribe steal it out from under me."

  Dewie blinked at Jackson. His expre
ssion had not changed while Jackson spat the words. But the blink? That was enough to let Jackson know the stoic cop had gotten the message.

  "All right, boy." Dewie uncrossed his arms and rubbed his hands together. The sound instantly reminded Jackson of the dream, the strips of flesh flaking off like ash. "I'll agree. You tell me everything you know, and I'll make sure you get dibs on everything. I want this fucker caught, Jackson." Dewie's eyes glared at Jackson as he spoke. "I want this fucker caught because he's been fucking with my town. Now give, dammit, before I kick your balls to the fucking moon."

  For a moment, Jackson sat with his mouth half-open. Dewie hardly ever used the f-bomb, and when he did, it meant very very bad things were about to happen.

  Jackson closed his mouth and cleared his throat. "Pons Matal. I think that's the guy you're looking for.

  Chapter 11

  Jackson told Dewhurst everything. He explained about his meeting with Nigel, leaving out the phoenix tattoo. Dewie would have laughed his ass off about that, and Jackson wasn't sure he was ready for the ribbing. Not with the pain still fresh in his mind. Dewie wrote down all the information in a weathered, leather note-book with a gold Cross pen. The lunch, scheduled to last merely an hour, had taken two.

  Jackson still felt violated. Having to share all of his hard-won information with Dewie was almost as bad as having another reporter jack his story. At least he trusted Dewie, though. Dewie had never fucked him over.

  Back at the office, Jackson went over the police reports. They were chock full of useless information. The victims had been killed in either their own dwellings or somewhere unknown and dumped. There were no fingerprints. No hair or fiber. To make matters more strange, there was no evidence of forced entry. It appeared as though the perp had been invited inside.

  The police tried to make some kind of connection between the different victims, but nothing stuck.

  Jackson went through the list of places and stopped. Nigel's shop was on the list for Ron Williams, a two-time ex-con who'd had his entire arm skinned. Nigel's shop was on the list for Reed. The same with Pierce. The other two parlors listed were the ones Nigel had sneered about. But all three had been Nigel's customers.

  Jackson felt a shiver in his spine. Pons. Why would Pons be chasing down people who'd visited Nigel's store? Jackson opened his notebook and flipped through pages until he found the number for Nigel's place. He punched the buttons on the office phone with a shaking finger. The phone rang and rang. No one answered. The machine clicked on. "You've reached Nigel's Art of Ink. Leave a message and I'll get back to you if I feel like it."

  "Nigel. It's Jackson. I had a question for you. Can you please call me back on my cell?" Jackson left the number and hung up. It was 4 p.m.-- getting late. Nigel wasn't answering his phone. But then again, who the hell knew what kind of hours the guy kept? Plus, he could very well have been inking someone.

  Jackson tapped a black pen against the desk. He felt.... He felt nervous and scared and he didn't understand why. He picked up the phone once more and punched out Scott's extension.

  "Yeah?" "Jackson." "Uh-huh," Scott said in his baritone voice. "What do you need, Mr. Jackson? You are coming tonight, right?"

  "Sure am," Jackson said. "Hey, you think Nigel will be there tonight?"

  Scott laughed. "Fuck yeah, man. He'll be there. He's got a chance to show off his shit. He'll be there."

  The fear left Jackson like a wave. "Okay, Scott. Thanks. I'll see you there, man."

  "Cool, brother. And don't wear nothing too fancy. Nigel may want you to show off that tatt."

  Jackson hung up the phone. Nigel. He laughed. Nigel was probably getting ready for the show. Getting his books together or something, or primping models or who the fuck knew what he was doing. Regardless, Jackson felt sure he'd be there tonight. Then he could ask him questions.

  Pierce. Renquist. Reed. Williams. Did Pons know these people? And better yet, what about the others around the country?

  Jackson checked his watch again. Shit. He wrote down the names in his notebook as well as the dates. Nigel would have some explaining to do.

  He threw the police reports into his file cabinet, locked it and pocketed the keys. It was time to get back to the house, pick out something appropriate to wear, and get his ass to the reception.

  Chapter 12

  The George R. Brown convention center was one of the ugliest buildings in the world. Jackson wanted to find the asshole architect who designed it and smack him a new one every time he saw the damned thing.

  The incredibly long building was festooned with bright tail pipes jutting from the roof that made the damned thing look like a boat, plain and simple. A fucking beached cruise ship next to the beautiful Minute-Maid baseball park. Whenever he covered a convention in town, he felt embarrassed that out-of-towners saw the architectural abortion.

  Inside the building, it was a completely different story. The walls that made up the outer areas had been left exposed. Crisscrossed support beams formed neat metal webs all along the glass-lined interior. While the rest of the meeting rooms and convention halls were unremarkable, the escalators that led up and down showed the beauty of downtown Houston.

  While Jackson loved the interior, he always felt as though he were on the inside of some rust-bucket sailing a concrete sea. Tonight, however, he was headed toward one of the smaller areas. He'd shown the ticket at the entrance to a burly security guard who wore a shirt that said "STAFF."

  Mr. STAFF had not even blinked or made eye contact with Jackson. Instead, he'd yanked the offered ticket from Jackson's fingers, scanned it, and handed it back. No words were exchanged, just a grunt from the guard and a quick nod toward the entrance.

  He figured maybe the guard was a little overwhelmed by the number of tattoo-adorned, leather-clad people in the crowd. You couldn't swing your eyes in any direction without seeing the greens, reds and blues of tattooed arms and faces. The number of piercings made the idea of metal detectors ridiculous. Jackson wondered how they planned to ensure people weren't carrying weapons when the actual convention started. He shook his head at the idea of frisking thousands of people. No amount of money in the world, he thought.

  Inside the convention center was no different. The cool October air had given some of the tattoo laden the excuse to wear leather vests, chaps and other accouterments.

  Once on the second floor, Jackson walked right into the throng of people heading into the balcony reception area. Most were wearing short-sleeved, but fashionable-shirts and jeans. A few suits prowled the room, looking like bull's-eyes on targets.

  The suits were stationed at different sections of the room. Each stood without expression. Jackson cursed under his breath. Cops. Fucking cops. Fucking detectives. "Goddamn you, Dewhurst," he thought. He looked around the room, wondering if Dewie was there too. He didn't see him. Shaking his head, Jackson walked into the maelstrom.

  The room was filled with about two hundred people, including the suits. The high vaulted ceiling was adorned with intricate designs, presumably tattoos. A dragon chased itself in glorious lines and colors. In a red rose covered field, a tower, black and distressed, vaulted toward the sky. Jackson's breath stopped short, his smile of wonder dropping into a wide O. Standing out from them all, a brilliant phoenix, all reds and orange with bright blue, glaring eyes, just like the tattoo on his shoulder blade.

  "Fuck," Jackson whispered. He shuddered and then returned his gaze to the milling horde.

  It had to be Nigel's work, so Nigel had to be around. Jackson saw the bar over in the corner, pulled gently at the top of his jet-black silk polo, and headed that way. He needed a whiskey, something to calm his jittery nerves. The bartender, wearing the standard white shirt, red vest and red pants of the convention serving class, nodded to him with a smile.

  "Glenlivet," Jackson said.

  "Rocks? Neat?"

  "You got crushed?"

  "Certainly." The man turned and pulled a green bottle from the shelf behind him and
placed it on the counter. He watched the man cover the bottom of the plastic glass with just enough crushed ice to make Jackson smile. A bartender who actually knew what the fuck he was doing. Two fingers of amber liquid. Jackson licked his lips, craving it now more than he ever had. When the man handed him the drink, Jackson reached into his jeans pocket, pulled his money clip, and put a fiver in the jar.

  "Thank you, sir," the bartender said.

  The first sip was enough to warm his belly and send the jitters off into space. He was surrounded by nut-cases, tattooed nine ways to Sunday. The room echoed with discussions that usually ended in "fuck," "damn," or "shit." As he took another sip, Jackson's smug feeling of superiority disappeared. He was one of them now. They may not know it, but he had a brand just like the rest of them.

  "Yo, Jackson!" a British accented, nasal voice screamed over the din.

  Jackson turned to his left and watched as Nigel approached. He was shirtless save for a beautiful snakeskin vest. His leather britches ended in hard, dangerous looking motorcycle boots.

  "Hi, Nigel."

  "How's the tatt, mate?"

  "It's healing up nicely. I think I saw its twin," Jackson pointed toward the ceiling.

  Nigel continued staring at Jackson. "Yeah. Only I like yours better. That design was always meant for skin."

  "Still--"

  "Yeah. Hey, I want to show your tatt to some people. Okay?"

  Jackson took another sip. "Okay, but can I ask you a question first?"

  Nigel shrugged. "Sure."

  "How many people have you given the dragon to?"

  Nigel frowned. "Two, I guess. Pons was the first."

  Jackson nodded. "What about the other one?"