CHAPTER 24
Zoe
The upstairs of the tattoo parlor was, y’know, a tattoo parlor.
I shot Dylan a confused look — what were we doing in a tattoo shop? The operation seemed to be on the up and up. There were a handful of long, leather chairs that flattened into benches, and the walls were adorned with sketches of tattoos, intermingled with pictures of inked babes with banging bods. The place smelled faintly like seared flesh.
All in all, though, it was average. Not really the kind of place I’d visit for a fun weekend activity, but I didn’t begrudge anybody their body mods.
My thoughts were interrupted by Bull — which, incidentally, was a worse fake name than mine — by him briskly shoving aside a couple of stacked cardboard boxes, lifting a dingy bath mat that lay beneath them, and revealing a small metal handle that was built into the floor.
I looked at Dylan while he stared straight ahead, implacable. So I reluctantly turned my head back to Bull. I sensed that Dylan was focusing on the situation at hand, and if I were to distract him, the whole mission might go belly up.
With that in mind, I too watched Bull closely as he grabbed the handle with one enormous, meaty fist, with L-O-V-E across the four knuckles and tugged vigorously.
I know this sounds rather idiotic, given the obvious hint of the handle, but I was shocked to discover that Bull had opened a trap door.
“Oh shit,” I murmured, apparently loud enough to send Dylan’s eyes shooting in my direction.
This was more than I’d signed up for.
“Follow me,” Bull ordered before I could have time to assess how smart it would be to run out the front door screaming. The man — or perhaps guard dog was a more accurate descriptor — clambered down the opening, boots banging loudly against something metal.
I moved to go next, but Dylan put a wary arm in front of me, saying quietly, “Let me go first.”
I hesitated and gave an assenting nod. It would be unwise to play like I understood whatever this game was. Dylan went down the small hole and I brought up the rear. I peered over the edge of the space, and realized that there was a metallic ladder, some twenty feet long, that went into utter darkness.
With an agitated sigh, I yanked off my heels. There would be no getting down that ladder in five-inch stilettos. I decided to leave the heels there for the time being. God knows what was down that hole.
I took a deep breath and began to make my way down the ladder. What I lacked in ladder-climbing ability, I made up for in arm strength. I sent a mental thank you to all the dough I’d had to knead in my life. In a minute or so, I had joined the boys at the bottom.
Dylan passed me back my heels, and I used his arm to steady myself as I slipped them back on. Bull gave a little snort and led us through what appeared to be a short, steel-lined tunnel, at the end of which was a petite door. I wondered how he would possibly squeeze his girth through it.
“Welcome,” Bull said, “to the real Black Dog.”
He turned a crank and opened the door.
“Fucking hell,” I gasped. Bull nodded appreciatively at my amazement.
From this angle, I could see an intimate den saturated in red. Red Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling, red wallpaper decked the walls, red-covered poker tables occupied the greater portion of the room. My eyes swam with red.
“Let’s go,” Bull instructed.
Mute with shock, I walked after him and Dylan, who looked perplexingly at ease. Didn’t he, an officer of the law, care that this was at the very least an illegal gambling den? His sudden, lax attitude made me nervous, in part because it reminded me how little I technically knew about him.
But now wasn’t the time for a relationship-related conversation of where do you see us in a year or even in half an hour. Bull guided us into the swanky den, where I passed at least a dozen odd patrons entranced by rapidly flipping cards. I didn’t recognize any of them, but then again, they were all hazy beneath the glowing red lights.
I was able to decipher games of Texas hold ‘em and blackjack, but some seemed like imports. The room reeked of scented candles. From somewhere in the room, a low whistle shot in my direction. I knew because I felt Dylan’s hand protectively grip mine.
Bull didn’t stop amidst the sea of gamblers, instead choosing to lead us past the tables, and into a room that was partitioned by a folding screen. Behind the screen was what appeared to be an underground yard sale, piles upon piles of junk, with no discernible reasoning in their divisions.
“What is all this?” I inquired.
“You didn’t tell her?” This, to Dylan.
Dylan tousled his hair, and casually replied, “I did. Not sure it registered.”
Was that a jab? I was about to call him on the crap, then reconsidered. Perhaps this was part of the cover and besides, in this place I was no sure I wanted to overplay my hand. Starting trouble around here seemed like a grade A bad idea.
“Well, Miss Alabama,” Bull said to me. “This here’s the Black Market.”
The title of the tattoo parlor clicked in my head as being a rather thinly veiled reference.
“I thought that was all online these days,” I stated to no one in particular.
“Maybe in the big cities. In Fallow Springs, we like to conduct our business on paper, man to man.”
“Like,” I continued, wondering aloud, “he said there was a black market, but I didn’t get that it was so, so… literal.”
Bull chuckled at my innocence, but I ignored him, instead rotating to face Dylan. He gestured for me to examine the piles, presumably to search for my stolen goods. This entire affair felt distinctly unlike something an officer of the law should be endorsing, but I stayed silent on the matter.
“Where do I look for stolen baking supplies?” I asked Bull.
The man grinned and revealed a number of metal teeth, sending his face tattoos into motion as though pictures were shifting, alive on his skin.
He came back with, “Just start digging. Take anything that doesn’t belong to you and I cut off one of your fingers.” And as soon as the words left his mouth, he stormed off into the gambling den, presumably to indulge in what I assumed were a variety of colorful vices.
“I’ll try to be of some assistance,” Dylan offered, “but I’m not sure I could tell one cooking thing from another.”
“Baking,” I replied mindlessly.
“Yeah, baking. Let’s start searching, and you tell me if anything looks familiar. Sound good?”
Good. None of this sounded good. But it did sound like the first lead we’d had thus far, so I was willing to try.