The artist—and he’d be damned if he didn’t call himself that after paying all that money to the Savannah College of Art and Design—stood and took in his work in progress. He used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his eyes and stole a glance at the clock. Thirty more minutes. He really needed at least forty-five. It was the damn eyes. He had to get the eyes right. They had to be predatory and patient, much like his client’s had regarded him when she walked into the shop.
“You have thirty minutes left, Mr. Courdin,” she said, without looking up. “No time to waste.”
Courdin stared at the back of her head, then bent to see if she had left a watch on the floor. Nothing. Her wrists were bare as well.
“How do you…”
“I’ve learned to mentally track time over the years,” she said. “It simply takes practice and discipline. Certain tasks take a specific amount of time. Planning and scheduling are of the utmost importance.”
A chime sounded from a pocket of the woman’s denim jacket draped over the metal folder chair a few feet away. The client sighed.
“He’s early,” she said. “That’s my phone. Hand it to me.”
“I’m wearing latex gloves and they’re cover—”
“Don’t worry about getting ink on the phone. I’m getting a new one shortly.”
Courdin did as she asked and wondered if this delay, while she took a call, would count against his time. To her credit, they’d been going for over five hours with only one ten-minute break. The lady, no stranger to tattoos, seemed oblivious to pain. The studs from the three piercings in her left ear clicked against the phone.
“Yeah,” was all she said.
Then to Courdin, “You can keep going.”
He started up the machine, self-conscious that the sound of the tattooing machine would make it impossible for her to continue the conversation.
She simply adjusted her volume accordingly.
“Okay, now I want to sell the stock and consolidate all of those into the offshore account. Right. I don’t care about the fees. No. No. The rest goes into real estate and mutual funds. Exactly. I’m meeting with them shortly and then the other deal will be done. No, I’ll call you. This number will be dead within the hour. Bye.”
She flicked her wrist, sending the phone in the general direction of her jacket. It slapped against the stone tiles of the floor.
Seconds hung in the air until Courdin felt their weight in his hands, making the needle hard to control. He cleared his throat.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what is it you do for a living? Something with the stock market?”
She didn’t respond and he swallowed hard, figuring he’d overstepped. He mentally scolded himself and focused on the darkness of the pupils he was creating. The trick was giving them the right amount of reflectivity that would bring them to life. People said Courdin could create some pieces with eyes so realistic one expected the design to wink. This might be one of those, Courdin thought. It’s almost there.
“I’m a trader,” she said.
“A traitor?” Courdin asked.
“Trade. Like quid pro quo.”
Courdin didn’t know what a trader did, so he made a sound that he thought indicated interest.
“There are different types of traders,” she continued, without prompting. “There are people who trade tangible goods. There are those who trade services. Of course, in a sense, you’re a trader. You trade your artistic skills for money. When properly motivated, you trade your specialized skills for more money.”
Courdin didn’t know what to say. Was she implying…no. Of course not. He was removed from all that now. She meant the short-order back piece. Let the senile woman ramble, he thought.
“Information is an undervalued commodity,” she went on. “Its worth varies according to the information, the customer, and the context. Much like other resources, the value of the material can be dependent upon where it was derived. People will pay more for wine from California and Italy even though most of them wouldn’t be able to tell if the grapes were grown in Georgia.”
She fell silent and the buzz of the needle filled the room. Courdin wiped away some excess ink and let his eyes drift to a few of the woman’s other tattoos. Many were old, done sloppily by amateurs. Frustration rose inside him. What he did was not only an art, but a craft. Well, he’d be damned if this nutcase walked out of his shop with anything less than his best work. What he was producing would overshadow every other piece this lady had. Let her ramble on about stocks and bonds or whatever. Scott Courdin had a reputation to maintain.
“Are you a smart man, Mr. Courdin?” she asked. “The world is full of smart people. They grab power and wield it over others, all the while looking for even more weaknesses to exploit. The smart ones know all about power. It consumes them. It blinds them. It creates tunnel vision. Do you know what that is?”
“It’s when you just see what’s right in front of you,” Courdin replied.
“Exactly,” she said. “You see, there is a difference between smart and intelligent. Smart reacts to situations. Intelligent creates situations and then forces others to react.”
“Uh huh,” Courdin grunted.
Fifteen minutes, he thought. I need to finish this up and check all the line work. Just keep holding still, old lady.
She inhaled deeply. He took the needle off her skin. It was the first time she’d done that during the entire session. Then she settled back in and he resumed his work.
“Smart people don’t notice the intelligent ones. They are outside of the tunnel, I suppose. It’s funny, because you can look like me and not physically blend in, but when smart people assign you a certain station in life, you become invisible.”
“Yeah. I guess I know what you mean,” said Courdin, mostly to be polite.
“Do you? Yes, I guess you would. Tattoo artists aren’t exactly invited to country club parties, are they?”
He was almost finished and she’d paid him in advance. Looking back on that day, he guessed that’s what prompted him to make his next comment. He’d worked every shit job possible before and during art school and sweated through endless days when opening his own shop. Sure, he’d had to supplement his income by questionable means to get his shop running. But he went one hundred percent legit, once he got up and running. Well, that wasn’t completely true. He still took on the occasional order for a special package but only for those whom he had some kind of leverage. If he even sensed a sting operation might be in play, he walked. That’s why he was the best. That’s why nobody owned Scott Courdin. That’s why he had money stashed away and could go to country club parties if he wanted to rub elbows with a bunch of pretentious snobs.
Bad, faded tattoos or not—what the fuck did this rich bitch know about having a certain “station in life”?—it was cool that she liked to go slumming at the occasional tattoo parlor and get all sorts of piercings, but a few minutes prior she’d been talking to someone about consolidating accounts and real estate holdings. He supposed it was the totality of it all, plus the fact he’d been tattooing for nearly six hours straight, that put sarcasm in his next comment.
“Work a lot of hard jobs, lady?”
To his surprise, she didn’t react. If his comment had been a raindrop, it had rolled off her and evaporated in the Florida sun.
“I once worked for a family,” she said, “and it was full of smart people. Now, mind you, I didn’t want to work for them, but they gave me no choice. The mother was a piece of work, but we’ll get to her. There were two cousins who probably could have gotten along if it were not for me whispering in their ears. That’s another thing about smart people. They’re so fragile and insecure. I’d make an off-hand comment to Zara about how Melody was showing interest in taking over the family business, and then maybe tell Melody that Zara was showing interest in Melody’s boyfriend, Timmy. As if I didn’t know Zara was banging her own bodyguard.”
Courdin lifte
d the needle and started to wonder if the woman was high, but realized she couldn’t be because he’d have seen her take something. Maybe she was having some sort of episode.
Whatever.
A few more minutes and he’d be rid of this one.
“None of that was true, of course. But legitimate information was my real game. Remember what I said? Intelligent people create situations. Who do you think it was who put a bug in Melody’s ear to run off with Timmy? Of course, I acted incredibly offended and surprised. I threw up my hands, cursed, talked like a redneck, played the part. But that’s when the chase was on. And once Timmy was in play, that’s when information became valuable.
“It wasn’t complicated. A tip to Timmy while he’s getting fitted for a suit and he wires me some money. Melody stayed in contact with me, stupid kid, so I knew where they were going. So I put the word out to my old biker associates knowing at least one or two would be a CI for the cops. There was no way the feds wouldn’t get involved with Olivia sending that many hitters after one guy. Of course, this was before I knew what Timmy really was.”
High, Courdin decided. Definitely high. She must have popped a pill when he was shading in the feathers and it just kicked in. Still…the name Olivia. Had he once worked up a special package at the request of someone named Olivia? Maybe, but that was years ago and it had been for one of her employees who needed to vanish. And if he recalled correctly, that Olivia had been from a bigger city out of state. Where was it? Courdin tried to remember. Whatever. Just a coincidence.
“Oh, Olivia. She thought she was the smartest. She went to another room to call Sheldon, but I’ve been pressing my ear to doors for years. Not that I had to most of the time. Like what you’re putting on my back, I’m a master of camouflage. Nobody notices the help, especially when everyone is accustomed to seeing you there. And I was always there.
“Getting Timmy on the run was important, and profitable. Keeping the pressure on was paramount. Zara had rewarded me when I tipped her and her bodyguard hump-buddy off as to Melody’s last location and then Timmy had done the same when I’d given him a heads-up that Zara and Beau were in town. Playing both sides was easy when everyone was smart. Of course, Olivia had no clue although she thought she was the smartest of them all. It had been Olivia that had me work off my debt by scrubbing toilets and cooking meals. She thought she was doing me a favor.”
Courdin felt the muscles—a surprising amount of muscles—in the woman’s back tense.
“Indentured servitude is never a favor,” she continued. “Although it was nice to be trusted. It’s ironic that the most security-conscious people will spend a mint on a home security system but leave their banking information and the combination to their safe in an unlocked desk drawer.”
Courdin wiped off more ink and stood. He leaned right and left. It was perfect. Across the woman’s entire upper back stretched the eyes of an owl. Most people didn’t understand owls, but Courdin did. Often depicted in cartoonish scenes for schoolchildren, the raptors were killing machines that operated off of nearly perfect sight, sound and had feathers specially designed for stealth. Of course, the loon on the table in front of him likely thought the eyes looked cool or had taken some mail-order DNA test and discovered she was one-eighteenth Native American and decided this was the way to go.
“It ended up being a tragic story for Olivia.”
Jesus, he thought, she’s still going. I’ll touch up this one line and then we’re done. I’m good at this. You can’t even tell it’s a cover-up. What had the name on her back been? Jolene?
“Her family was taken apart, piece by piece. Timmy returned to Atlanta and killed Olivia when she was home alone.”
Courdin froze.
Atlanta.
Olivia.
“Bludgeoned her to death with a paperweight. She’d definitely seen her attacker coming. At least that’s what the police determined.”
Courdin turned off the machine and the silence filled the room. He had been doing his best to work on his own tunnel vision and drown out the ramblings of this woman, but now she had broken through. Courdin turned slightly and changed out tools and opened ink he rarely used. It was a habit of his to keep his shop organized for maximum efficiency. Everything he could possibly need was always within arm’s reach.
He said, “I thought you said you were always there.”
At first she said nothing and he thought maybe she hadn’t heard him. He opened his mouth, unsure if he should repeat the statement. After a short debate, he decided to try again, but she spoke before he got his chance.
“What?” the lady asked.
“Earlier. You said you were always there. At the house.”
The muscles in the woman’s back tensed.
“Did I?”
Neither of them spoke for several moments.
Finally, the woman said, “Are you finished?”
“Nearly. I need to touch up one section. I want to make sure everything is covered.”
A buzz filled the air which now held added weight. After a few moments, he turned off the machine.
“Time’s up,” said the woman.
Courdin waited a beat before answering, “It’s done.”
“Excellent,” she said.
Neither of them moved for several seconds. Finally, the woman said, “Don’t you need to wipe off the excess ink before I look at the piece?”
Courdin gently wiped traces of blood and ink off her body. She rose from the table and walked over to a corner where three full-length mirrors were angled in such a way a person could get a view of their own back.
She smiled broadly which for some reason sent a chill down Courdin’s spine.
“You have quite the reputation for your work,” she said while admiring the owl.
“I’m known for realism,” he said without emotion.
She turned toward him and said, “I’m sure you are. However, I meant your other work.”
Courdin didn’t speak. She walked toward him and the smile vanished.
“I need a new US driver’s license with matching birth certificate, social security card, and passport. I’ll give you the name and identifiers and you’ll have one week to deliver the package. You’ll be paid your usual rate, plus twenty-five percent. I’ll return here next Thursday.”
Courdin opened his mouth to deny having any knowledge of what she was talking about, but stopped himself. Whatever this lady was, she was no cop. Whoever she was, she was not to be toyed with. There was something about the woman that conveyed a sense of…what was it? Inevitability. That was the feeling Courdin had in his chest. Whatever this woman wanted to happen was going to happen. Yes, it had been years since he had been in the business, but Scott Courdin was the best. The best in a couple of businesses. Courdin felt the innocence he was struggling to maintain in his expression melt away.
He said, “If you’re already moving stolen money under your own name, you’re going to have trouble I don’t need.”
The smile returned and she said, “Oh, honey. I’ve already got more than one identity, but I need one to travel on.”
She walked back over to the mirrors and took another look at the artwork on her body.
“What’s an identity after all?” she asked while examining the razor-sharp talons. “I mean—do you really know what you are, Tattoo Man? Do you know what you want to be?”
Courdin thought for a long moment before answering. He thought about the past he could never seem to escape. He thought about this woman who could easily view him as expendable once services were rendered. Then Scott Courdin thought about the ultraviolet ink he’d used to complete her tattoo. He hadn’t written much and he’d printed it in small letters. To Jolene. From Scott Courdin. And then he’d scratched in the date. It wasn’t much, but it was a breadcrumb that linked her to him, provided her real name, and indicated a date for the visit. Later, he’d take more detailed notes, including a mention of the UV ink,
and put them somewhere they could be found should something unfortunate happen to him. She’d be none the wiser. He didn’t figure the woman would be looking at her back under a black light anytime soon.
“Well,” she said impatiently. “What are you, Tattoo Man?”
He met her gaze and said, “I’m intelligent.”
Back to TOC
Part Three
The Swamp
Duck
Gwen Florio
Duck Conard fell in love for the first time at the age of thirty-four, the day a black-haired, blue-eyed woman stopped by his flea market stand, picked up a bracelet he’d seen glittering in the swamp muck, and pronounced it strange and wonderful, words that could have applied to her own voice.
He learned her name a second later. “It’s strange all right, but there’s nothing wonderful about it. Put that thing down, Melody,” said the man with her. The man held a just-purchased spade, its price still stuck to the blade.
Melody.
Her voice should have sounded like music.
But music would have been tinkly, high, and off-putting, while Melody’s words slid slow and sandpapery from her lips, a hitch to them that made him think of the quick breath caught when his tongue found just the right spot…
And to think, back in school, his teachers accused Duck of not having any imagination.
So he said to Melody the same thing he might have said to a woman in different circumstances: “May I?” He held out the bracelet.
She raised her arm to him so that he could slide it on, wrapping his fingers around her wrist, holding it a little longer than necessary, feeling her pulse throb beneath his touch.
Again, that little gasp. “But it’s wonderful, Timmy, see?” She turned her wrist this way and that so her companion could examine the detail in the heavy carved silver, the alligator’s scales standing prominent, mouth open to show ivory teeth reaching for the tail, emerald-chip eyes catching the last of the day’s sunlight.
Already, Duck’s fellow vendors were packing up their wares, eager to flee this roadside tourist trap amid the scrub pines. Soon they’d return to town and all its comforts—cool, clean running water, food you didn’t have to catch, screens against the bugs whose chatter and hum was already beginning to rise as night fell. The flea market adjoined The Palmetto, a motel of the kind once known as a motor court, paint-peeling cabins set around a horseshoe driveway, a neon sign blinking VA AN Y. Just past the motel, low spotlights illuminated the barrier that marked the end of the road, the eternal blackness of the swamp beyond.
The Swamp Killers Page 16
