Tattoo

by Paul E. Cooley

  Nigel stared at the ceiling, brows furrowed. "Fuck, man. I don't remember his name."

  "You sure one wasn't a guy named Renquist?"

  "Hmm." Nigel snapped his fingers and smiled. "I got it. Come with me, mate. I got a little booth down here so I can show off my tatts. Come on."

  Without waiting for Jackson's reply, Nigel spun on his heel and bumped his way through the crowd. His right hand cupped over the top of the whiskey, Jackson weaved his way through the people, saying excuse me at least a dozen times. Nigel was short and lithe and moved through the crowd easily. Jackson, somewhat taller and bulkier, had a much more difficult time. Twice, someone bumped him hard enough to make the whiskey jump in the glass against his right hand.

  As he made it through the last ring of partygoers, Jackson saw the small booths along the wall. Most were vacant, although people stumbled by to look at the photos spread across the white walls. Along with photos, portfolios were stacked, chains affixing each book to the booth wall.

  "Over here, mate," Nigel called.

  Jackson turned and strode toward the second to the last booth. Nigel stood in the middle of it, one of his portfolio books in his hands. He was flipping through the pages.

  "You keep all the photos--"

  "Unlike my mates," Nigel interrupted him, "I always take shots of the tatts and take the names of the lucky." He looked up from the portfolio and stared at Jackson, his expression serious. "I want to know who these fuckers are, so if they get famous, I can call in favors." He winked and smiled.

  Jackson shook his head, licked the scotch from his right hand, and took another sip. Nigel continued flipping through the pages, cursing softly. "No. No. No," Nigel whispered with each page turn. He finally threw the book down in frustration and grabbed another. "You know, someone broke into my fucking shop last night."

  "Really?" Jackson asked, another sip of scotch rumbling his taste buds. He was beginning to feel the double Glenlivet now. The warmth in his belly provided a pleasant sensation and drowned the pain from the tattoo to nothing more than a distant tickle.

  "Yeah," Nigel said as he flipped through more pages. "I closed early last night, so I could come over here and work on the mural," he pointed toward the ceiling. "Was up all fucking night. Seems like every year some asshole-- Ah, here it is." Nigel looked at the signature down at the bottom of the page and frowned. "Here. There's your Renquist guy."

  Jackson slammed the rest of his scotch and placed the plastic glass on the floor near the corner of the booth. He took the black leather portfolio from Nigel and stared. "Yup, that's a penis," Jackson giggled. The dragon tattoo was nearly identical to the one he'd seen in the shop yesterday. The only real difference was the size of the dragon's head and the eyes were painted on: no piercings. "Uh, smaller head?" Jackson asked, cocking an eyebrow at Nigel.

  Nigel shrugged, a big smile on his face. "Artist can only work with what's there," he tittered. "But that's your guy."

  The date next to the name at the bottom was four years earlier. Renquist was found in Michigan two years ago, the dragon skinned from his body.

  Jackson frowned. "You said you didn't remember this guy?"

  "Too much pot, man," Nigel said with a laugh. "I don't remember everyone. But I remember this guy now. He came in for some convention. Found me. And the day the convention ended, he showed up at the shop. Wanted the dragon."

  "So you did it in a day?" Jackson asked. "Are you kidding?"

  "Fuck no, man," Nigel said, shaking his head. "Guy extended his hotel for a week. You don't do something like that in just a day or two. Too much intricate artwork and too much pain. Unless you're Pons, man."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well," Nigel said, rubbing a hand across his beard, "Pons was exceptionally good at blocking shit out. I think he actually enjoyed the pain. Don't know. But there it is. I did Pons in a four-day marathon. Hours and hours each day, inking and coloring as I went." Nigel shook his head. "Think Pons enjoyed his balls being scratched just a little bit much."

  "Okay," Jackson laughed. "Can you find another one for me?"

  Nigel stared out at the crowd and looked down at Jackson's empty glass. "Tell you what," Nigel said, "you bring me back a crown and coke, get yourself another drink, and I'll look it up for you. Who you looking for?"

  "Persons," Jackson said. "Jaqueline Pierce and Thomas Reed."

  Nigel frowned. "Know what the tatts were?"

  "Not a clue," Jackson replied. "But they were both here in Houston."

  "Okay," Nigel said. "I'll look. The Pierce chick sounds familiar, and the Reed guy? Shit, man. You got to remember, these guys go by other handles when they come to my shop. They don't always tell me their real names. But I'll look." He started flipping through pages. "Now get me a fucking drink," Nigel growled with a smile.

  Jackson shrugged and headed back toward the bar. As he made his way through the crowd, he noticed another suit standing by the door.

  "I'm gonna kill Dewie," he whispered aloud.

  The din of people talking was loud enough that he could barely hear himself think. He expected the keynote speaker, or whatever, would soon grace the podium and thank everyone for blah blah blah. These damned receptions were all the same. Some talking head who put the event together would jump up there, scream at everyone about how important he was for 15 minutes and then tell everyone to have a good time. Jackson sighed as he made it to the bar.

  The bartender smiled at him. "Another, sir?"

  "Yeah," Jackson agreed. "Same as last time and a Crown and Coke too."

  With a nod, the bartender began the bottle, ice, and drink shuffle. Jackson set his back against the bar and looked out over the sea of tattoos. Mythical beasts. Album covers. Faces and figures of personalities. Arms, exposed backs, necks, faces. He shook his head. What a goddamned freak show. And yet here I am, one of them now.

  "Here you go, sir," the voice from behind said.

  Jackson turned and took the two drinks. He looked down at them. The bartender had filled them both practically to the top. Jackson looked at the crowd of people. Yup, he was going to spill some of this. He took a deep pull from his scotch as he walked back into the throng. He managed to weave his way through without bumping the drinks against anyone.

  As he approached Nigel, he turned his head, not believing he'd navigated that mess of people without so much as spilling a drop.

  "Yo," Nigel said with a smug grin. "Jackie, man," he took the crown and Coke from Jackson. "Her name is Jackie."

  Nigel held the book out to Jackson. Jackson stared at it and frowned. "That's the same design you had stitched on Pons' shoulder blade." Furrowed brows, mouth open, Nigel stood there, his drink halfway to his lips. "Is that right?" Jackson asked.

  "Uh, yeah, I guess." Nigel took a long pull from his glass. "How'd you know that, man?"

  Jackson smiled. "Internet. Pons modeled in some rag and they showed the two tatts on his back."

  Nigel nodded. "Yeah, but look, man. Hers is on her tit. They that much the same?"

  "Yup," Jackson said after another sip of scotch. The world teetered a little, blurred at the edges. He knew he was drinking too much, too fast. But hell, he was almost finished. Couple more questions, and there would be no reason to stay. "So you recycle a lot of designs." It was a statement. Not a question.

  A flush rose on Nigel's cheeks, although it was difficult to see through his beard. "I-- I--" Nigel stammered. "I told you, man. sometimes people come into my shop and they don't know what they want. When that happens, I, um, well, I fall back on some of my fave designs."

  "Like the phoenix," Jackson said.

  "Yeah. I loved that tatt." Nigel shook his head. "Pons and I worked on that thing for a long time, and I never got a taker for the ink. Fucking frustrating as hell." Nigel took a drink and then stared into Jackson's eyes, his own gleaming. "That was a piece of art, man. And you're the first in a long time to give me a fresh canvas. A good canvas. You got tight skin there, bro, good musc
ulature. Perfect for the phoenix. I just had to give that fucker to someone."

  Jackson smiled. "S'okay, Nigel. Just wanted to make sure we got that straight."

  "You won't tell no one, right?" Nigel pleaded. "You find Reed in there as well?" Nigel's eyes stared down at the floor. "Yeah, man. Treed, is what he called himself. Remember that fucker now." When Nigel stopped speaking, Jackson patted the little man on the shoulder. "Nigel, I'm not going to tell anyone. Okay?"

  Nigel brightened, his eyes raised back to look at Jackson. "Thanks, man."

  "Now what about Treed?"

  "Well... Treed's right here." Nigel picked up another book and opened it to show Jackson.

  Jackson whistled as he looked at the tattoo. "Fuck me," he said softly.

  "What?"

  "Well, it's obvious that--" He stopped in mid-sentence, mind racing. "That's another Pons tattoo, isn't it?"

  "Well, yeah," Nigel said. "It's that Celtic design I put on his right shoulder blade."

  Jackson finished the rest of the scotch in a single pull. Pons is taking his tattoos back, he thought. "Okay, that all makes sense."

  Nigel's brow furrowed. "What makes sense?"

  "Nothing," Jackson replied. He handed the books back to Nigel. "You have any idea how many other designs you've recycled? I mean ones that Pons had?"

  Nigel shrugged. "I'd guess about a dozen. And I want this on the record, man. Some people come to my shop and actually flip through the books. They find a design they like, I tat 'em. That's the deal. So I ain't always just pulling the same shit out of my ass over and over again."

  "Okay, okay," Jackson said, his right palm raised forward. "You're an artist, man. And I love my ink," Jackson lied.

  Placing the books down in their slots and reaffixing the chains, Nigel smiled. "Yeah, thanks, man." He stood back up, a shine in his eyes. "Now, we done here so I can get mine?"

  "Get your--" Jackson asked, confused.

  Nigel rolled his eyes. "Need to show off your phoenix, man."

  "Ah. Right," Jackson's voice was thick.

  "Come on, dude." Nigel grasped Jackson's arm and pointed him toward the far wall. The two of them managed to make it through the crowd of people without too much difficulty. People just seemed to get out of the small man's way. Many of them said hello to him as they passed through. Jackson weaved a little. The alcohol was really starting to hit him hard.

  Jackson kept his eyes half-closed, allowing Nigel to lead him. At some point they stopped and Nigel let go of his arm. Jackson opened his eyes all the way just as Nigel said "Yo, Jimmy!" They were standing in a little nook not too far away from the bar. A tall, beefy man stood with a beer in his hand, his leather vest doing little to hide the strange designs imprinted upon his bare chest.

  "What up, Nige?".

  Nigel clapped his hands and turned toward Jackson. "Jackson, this is Jimmy. My fucking nemesis and good friend."

  Jimmy harrumphed. "Fuck you, Nige." His eyes slowly turned from Nigel to regard Jackson. A large welcoming smile lit his features, the sneer disappearing. He held out a meaty, tattoo covered hand. "How's it going, Jackson? Pleased to meet you." The large man's snarl had turned friendly.

  Jackson stared down at the hand noticing the greens and blues that crisscrossed one another. A set of vines perhaps? Jackson wasn't sure what they were, only that he was having difficulty focusing. He held out a hand and smiled at Jimmy. "Hi. Nice to meet you."

  They shook. Jackson felt like his hand was going to explode within Jimmy's huge paw. "Cool, bro," Jimmy said. They broke the handshake and Jimmy turned to Nigel. "This the guy?"

  "Yeah," Nigel said, awkwardly reaching to put a hand on Jackson's shoulder.

  Jimmy said to Jackson, "You mind showing me the bird?"

  Brows furrowed, Jackson turned toward Nigel.

  Nigel stared at him and then smiled. "Holy shit, you're jiggered, man. Totally fucking wasted." He laughed. "Jackson, he wants to see the phoenix. Your ink?"

  "Oh," Jackson stammered. "Yeah. Sure." He was certain his brain was still sending signals down to his fingers, but as they attempted to untuck his shirt, they seemed to lose the command just as they grasped the fabric. "Fuck," Jackson muttered, finally managing to pull the shirt out from his jeans. As he pulled it over his head, a little voice in the back of his mind told him he should feel self-conscious about doing this in front of all these people. The scotch, however, told the little voice to fuck off and mind its own business.

  Nigel took Jackson's shirt from him and slowly spun him around. "Here, mate," Nigel said and lifted the bandage from Jackson's wound. Jackson stood there for a moment, facing the crowd. He knew some of the people were staring at him now. The suits especially. Worse than being stared at, Jackson realized he'd lost the ability to stand without swaying. His balance was totally off. "What do you think, Jimmy?"

  There was a long pause. Jackson struggled to stand up straight and it was becoming more and more of a losing battle. A finger delicately touched his skin, just above the wound. "Stay still, man" Jimmy growled from behind him. A large hand gripped Jackson's right shoulder, steady- ing him. "I think that's exactly the kind of thing I hate you for," Jimmy growled.

  Nigel laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment, mate."

  Jackson closed his eyes. With Jimmy's hand on his shoulder, he wasn't swaying physically anymore, but that didn't stop his brain from fishtailing.

  "Yeah, Nigel. That's a beaut." Jimmy squeezed Jackson's shoulder and then turned him around. Jackson opened his eyes and stared upward into Jimmy's. "For a virgin, you got damned sweet ink, boy."

  "Thank you," Jackson said without thinking. "I'm really drunk," Jackson laughed.

  Jimmy chuckled and Nigel joined in. "Yeah, man. You're wasted." Jimmy looked at Nigel. "Hey, Nige. While this fucker's got his shirt off, let's get Patrick over to take a look."

  "Yeah. Definitely," Nigel said. "Hey, Jackson? You going to be okay if we leave you for a few minutes?"

  Jackson blinked and shook his head, trying to clear it. "Yeah," he said. "I'm just going to hold up this wall for a few."

  "Cool," Jimmy said and squeezed Jackson's shoulder. "Stay here man. Come on, Nige."

  They walked away leaving Jackson against the wall, eyes closed. He listened to the bartender taking orders. The sound of ice tumbling into plastic, the metal clink and pop of bottle caps snapping off glass, coins dropping into the glass tip jar. Voices rose and fell, words trampling over one another.

  "Sir?" a high-pitched voice asked. Jackson opened his eyes. A form stood at the edge of his peripheral vision. He turned his eyes to the right. It was the suit he'd seen lurking outside the entrance. "Sir, you look a little...inebriated."

  "No, not me," Jackson slurred.

  "Will you please come with me? I think you need to sit down for a while," the man said. The suit's smile flashed straight, white teeth.

  "You must have had a great dentist," Jackson slurred.

  The suit put a hand on Jackson's shoulder and led him through the doorway. "My friends are gonna be back--"

  "Don't worry, sir," the suit said as they walked out of the noisy balcony room and into the dead, echoic hallway. "I'll be sure and tell them."

  Jackson felt a slight sting in his neck. "Just keep walking, sir," the voice said. Jackson couldn't keep his eyes open. He just kept putting one foot in front of the other, letting the man lead him. A distant part of his mind wanted to know why it was so cold and why he wasn't wearing a shirt.

  Then, there was nothing at all.

  Chapter 13

  Music. Some strange mix of orchestral and rock. It flowed and ebbed, threatening to culminate into a storm of sound, and then retreated like low tide. The sound stirred visions inside his head of a dark storm approaching the land, lightning jagging through tortured and bruised clouds. As he listened, focusing on the twist and turn of the notes, the intersection of the guitars, cello, and violins, he realized he heard another sound. For a moment, nothing seemed to make sense.
Then he realized it was the sound of someone humming.

  Cold. The bottom of his feet were pressed firmly against cold concrete. His naked back and chest prickled with goose flesh.

  Am I naked?

  Jackson tried to open his eyes. They fluttered a bit, letting in low light, but only the slightest blur of color came through. He paused. Where am I? he wondered. He tried to lean forward and couldn't.

  Pain from his arms seeped into his consciousness. They were cramping. The sudden push forward had awakened them and the terrible electric tingling of sleeping nerves flowed up from his hands and into his spine. He convulsed and moaned. His feet and legs reported lingering numbness and then screamed as the blood began to flow once again.

  A surge of adrenaline rushed into his bloodstream, awakening every bit of his body.

  His hands were tied behind his back. Something bit into the skin of his wrists. His naked feet burned at the ankles, and his arms were pressed against his sides. Jackson moaned with the pain, his thick tongue making speech nearly impossible. The humming increased in volume along with the music. Jackson barely noticed.

  "What--" his broken voice stammered. "Where--"

  "Just let it wear off, Mr. Jackson," a baritone voice responded. "I'm afraid the restraints were necessary to keep you from falling out of the chair."

  With effort, Jackson managed to open his eyes. The world appeared in smears of soft colors. The music crescendoed one last time and held its volume, the guitars, violins, drums, and cellos fighting for supremacy in a blitzing beat. The world danced for a moment, the smears trying to coalesce into actual shapes.

  The lines took form and suddenly Jackson saw. A single black halogen torch lamp stood across the room in the corner, illuminating gray cinder block walls. A table sat near the lamp, its surface covered with plastic, many different tools atop it. Tools or...

  Jackson didn't want to see this.

  Something moved near the table.

  Back-lit, a large shadowy figure stood up from the table. The shadow's head was perfectly formed--no hair stood out from it. But the body...

  The edges of the figure's torso were marred by irregular lines, lateral mountain peaks and rounded hills jutting from what should have been lean curves. Jackson's mouth opened, but no sound came out. "Mr. Jackson, you look scared," the voice said to him. The figure was still. He could feel its eyes staring into him. "Mr. Jackson?" The thing began walking toward him. "I'm Pons," it said. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jackson."