Present Day
“This looks fantastic, Luca.” Ricardo stands sideways by the mirror, admiring the work I’ve just completed on his arm and shoulder. It’s taken me four one-hour sessions to complete the dragon tattoo which spans from his left bicep up his shoulder and down his back to the edge of his shoulder blade. He brought me in a sketch he’d drawn himself about six weeks ago. I drafted my own sketch, modifying details, coloring, and putting my signature touch on it, branding my artwork.
“So everything is to your liking? The shading? The thicker lines here?” I point to the edge of the dragon’s tail, where I emphasized the scarring that Ricardo said was important. It signifies his experiences being in battle somehow. He’s an army veteran. A lot of my customers are members of a motorcycle club that comprises a group of veterans from all branches of service. It surprises me how the group is so fanatical about their two-wheeled hogs as well as their tattoos. They are their main obsessions. But it brings me lucrative business.
“It’s perfect, man. Just like the rest of them. You’ve yet to disappoint. With any of my tats or any of the brothers’ tats. We’re lucky to have found you, Luca.”
The members of the club refer to one another as brothers. They are a brotherhood. They walk around with matching leather biker vests and jackets with insignia patches. At first glance, they look intimidating and murderous. But they are all gentle giants who have a common bond of fighting for our country and surviving it. They’re pretty cool in my book.
“I appreciate your business. It’s always a pleasure,” I say, tidying up the equipment at the booth.
Ricardo shrugs on his flannel shirt and buttons it. “I already have another design in mind for my next one. I just have to save up the dough for it.”
I nod. “Well, when you get a chance, bring by your thoughts on your design, and I’ll let you know how much it might cost. Plus, remember, you get a discount. For not only being a repeat customer, but this would be your fifth tattoo, so there’s an extra ten percent off for you.”
He chuckles. “Okay, I’ll bring something by next week,” he says, giving me a tap on the shoulder and exiting the booth toward the counter. I follow him to the register and give him the total, and he pays up.
“We have a new member. He is interested in getting an old tat covered up. Do you do cover-ups?”
“Depends on what’s already there. I’ve done some cover-up work. But I’d have to take a look at it. And if I don’t think I can do it, I have a great reference for a cover-up guy in Atlanta.”
“Sounds great. I’ll see you next week, and I’ll try to get him to come with me.”
“I look forward to it.” I take the toothpick I have in my mouth, my mechanism to help me concentrate, and point it in his direction.
Ricardo proceeds toward the door and gives me a lazy wave. “See ya around, Luca.”
“See ya later, Ric,” I say, reinserting the toothpick.
The bell above the door chimes as he exits. I check my appointment book to see what I have for tomorrow. Nothing until noon. I only do sessions by appointment. The two artists I employ handle the walk-ins. I gave that up a while back. After the one-thousandth tattoo of Tweety Bird on a girl’s pelvic bone, I had to elevate my services. I specialize in unique, customer-specific designs. I let Darma and Virgil handle the Tweety Birds.
My phone chimes, and I pick it up from the counter to take a look. It’s an Instagram notification. I’m not really into social media, but I do follow a few tattoo artists on Instagram to keep up with their work and to see which trends are staying in the forefront. Right now, superhero logos are a hit. I remind myself to let Darma and Virgil know to offer that up as a suggestion for walk-ins. Maybe get them to do some mock-ups for the portfolio.
I hear a commotion of women outside, but it doesn’t really faze me. There is always a commotion going on outside my door. That is one of the perks of having a shop on River Street. Constant traffic.
I check the clock on my phone. It’s pretty late. Ricardo wasn’t able to get here until almost midnight. I was completely fine with that. I enjoy that I can make my own hours.
But I definitely should lock up before the drunks start trickling in. I’m surprised they haven’t already.
A picture of a Phoenix tattoo grabs my attention on my phone. I zoom in, looking at the detail. Colors I never would have thought would work together. A fantastic piece of work.
I begin writing out a comment on the post, when my bell chimes. Shit.
I look up to see Stella—Padraig’s friend or girlfriend, I’m not sure—and another woman. They are both looking hot as fuck. And maybe a little drunk. I smile and flip the toothpick around in my mouth. “Snake charmer! And you brought a friend! I didn’t know Paddy was into doubling down.” I raise my brows at Stella. Hopefully, she understands I’m being playful.
“What?” she asks.
I point my finger in their direction, move it from one to the other, and then point my thumb to the curtain behind the counter. “You know,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows.
My comedy is lost on her. She looks over at her friend, with a sour and confused expression on her face.
Her friend chimes in. “He thinks we’re here to have a three way with Padraig,” she says loudly and then begins to giggle. Then she puckers her lips at Stella, making sloppy kissing noises.
I have no idea what that is about.
She looks so familiar to me. Where do I know her from?
“Kerry, please stop,” Stella begs.
Kerry. Kerry. Do I know a Kerry?
“Nope. Sorry, Kerry, not into that,” Padraig says, coming from behind the curtain, which separates the tattoo shop from the small living space he has in the back.
Padraig makes his way toward Stella and places his hand on her face. I swear she’s got some magic in her. I have never seen Padraig act like this.
“We aren’t here to see you, Padraig. We’re here to get tattoos!” The way she yells out tattoos, I know she’s had more than a little too much to drink. I chuckle at her giddiness.
Stella rolls her eyes at Kerry.
“Is that so?” Padraig asks. Stella answers something in a low tone that I can’t make out.
“What’d you ladies have in mind?” I ask.
Kerry approaches me at the counter. “We’re going to get matching tattoos! Jellyfish!”
I belt out a laugh. I think that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. It’s never my place to judge a client’s decision, however.
“The fuck?” I hear Padraig say, but my attention gravitates toward Kerry, who is standing on the other side of the counter, flipping through a portfolio book. She’s leaning forward against the counter, and I can’t help but notice how her boobs are about to fall out of her shirt. She’s twirling her hair when she looks up at me. She points to a picture in the book. “Oh my God, did you really put Tweety Bird on some chick’s crotch?”
I look down at the picture she’s pointing to. I nod. “That’s one of many Tweety Birds I put on some chicks’ crotches. That one was my best one, though. That’s why it made it into the book.”
“Getting a Tweety Bird on your crotch is pretty stupid.”
She slurs the word stupid a little. But it’s not pitiful. It’s kind of adorable. Plus, her boobs are practically resting right there on my countertop. Good God, are they glorious.
“I don’t disagree, but I only do the work. I’m not here to be a moral compass.”
“Ooh, a compass!” She looks at me with wide eyes. “That would be a cool tattoo.”
“It could be.” I slide the book toward me a little and flip to some of the compass tattoos I’ve done. I slide the book back toward her, and she tilts her head one way and then the other to look at the pictures. “A compass would probably be better than, say, a jellyfish, don’t you think?” I ask.
She takes a deep breath and sighs. “If Stella wants a fucking jellyfish, I’m getting a jellyfish too. She’s the best friend anyone could ask for. If she wants a tattoo of a penis on her forehead, I’ll get one to match.” She winks at me and clucks her tongue. “You got any penis tattoos?”
This girl is cracking me up. I wonder if she’s this forward when she’s sober.
“Uh, no. No penis tats,” I answer with a laugh. “About as close as we’ve done to genitalia is a blossoming flower that my guy, Virgil, did on some dude’s bicep. The guy said it looked like his wife’s gorgeous snatch. His words, not mine.”
Kerry throws her head back and laughs. “Please tell me you have a picture of that.”
“I certainly do.”
I reach under the counter to find the binder that has the snapshot of that tattoo, when I hear Paddy say, “I suppose not. But ya won’t be gettin’ them done here.”
I straighten back up before I can find the binder. “Excuse me, Pad. Last time I checked, this is my shop. I think it’s my say whom I will and won’t ink.” I’m just goading him. I’d never sit these ladies down this late at night, in the state they’re in, and give them jellyfish tattoos.
“Not tonight, Luca. These ladies are drunk. We don’t need them making regrettable decisions.”
Kerry looks in my direction with an exaggerated pouted lip. I think I’d really like to bite that lip.
I reach down under the counter again to find the binder with the vagina tattoo. Padraig and Stella begin yelling at each other. I look up at Padraig, and his entire head is beet red. Face, neck, ears. Shit.
Kerry points to one of the compass tattoos and looks over to Stella. “Oh, look at this one!” No one responds to her. Padraig and Stella grow eerily quiet for a few moments as they shoot death stares at each other. I begin to grow a little anxious.
“Let’s go, Kerry,” Stella finally snaps.
“But, Stella . . .” Kerry pouts.
Stella storms toward the door and holds it open for Kerry to follow. “Let’s go!”
Kerry slumps her shoulders and obeys Stella’s request. Just before she leaves, she turns back to me and blows me a kiss. It sounds idiotic, but I swear I could feel it hit me right in the face. I raise my hand in return and offer her a small wave.
And they’re gone.
Padraig grumbles and rubs his hand over his face. He mumbles something and walks back toward the curtain.
“I’m locking up,” I say.
“Aye,” is all he returns, disappearing into his room.
I close up the portfolio book, lock the door, and shut down the lights. I head upstairs to my apartment, all the while thinking about Spitfire Kerry and her fantastic breasts.
I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
It’s probably in her best interest if I don’t.