by R C Barnes
R.C. Barnes
INK FOR THE BELOVED
The Tattoo Teller Series
First published by Stick and Poke Press 2019
Copyright © 2019 by R.C. Barnes
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
First edition
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
FOR:
RKB, DJAB, NESB
Contents
PROLOGUE - TROUBLE
I. COSMIC HEARTS
ACTIVATED: ONE CHEETAH BRA
SPIDERWAND
TEEN LIFE
STEPHANIE GAIGE
SNAKE IN THE GRASS
LUTHER
SHE’S THE WORST
CEASEFIRE
IS EVERYBODY HAPPY
THE SPARROWS OF SORROW
ANNIKA KANE
MUG WARS
PITY FOR A BROWNIE
SUGAR CITY
DUANE RODRIGUEZ - MAN OF ACTION
BOOKBAGS AND BREAKINS
SANITY CHECKIN
COOPER HAWKS
HOT WATER
A LOST CONNECTION
SANITY CHECKIN NUMBER TWO
CHRISTMAS FUBAR
SHEEP
INVITING THE VAMPIRE IN
MAYOR OF COSMIC HEARTS
FIRST FIGHT
WOLFIE
NANCY DREW & HER CREW
BIG DADDIES AND ORANGE KITTIES
SALLY’S STORY
TOBACCO JOE
MR. WHITTIER
VIENNA WAITS 4 U
DANGER, WILL ROBINSON
TERRY
COSMIC HEART
MERCY
II. PURSUE MAXINE
IT’S A GAME
WHO IS MAXINE?
BESS THE BOSS
CHRISTINA CROSS
FAT COW
FIDO
WILLINGHAM CATERERS
ATOMIC ALLURE
THE TINY DANCER
THE UNICORN AND THE SKATER BOY
MONTEREY BAY
GET OVER YOURSELF
PURPLE MEDFLY
ALL FOR CHLOE
PICTURE PUZZLES
CPS
HOWL
RUNES
MOUSETRAP
THIRTEEN THOUGHTS
MACKEY’S BACK
CONFESSION
LOOK UP CHILD
KORU
About the Author
Also by R.C. Barnes
PROLOGUE - TROUBLE
“When did the trouble start, Elizabeth?”
The woman sitting across from me was wearing a neat brown suit that was cinched in all the right places. She was attractive with her hair pulled high into a messy bun. I got the impression she had quickly whipped it up, tied it back, and then slid the tortoiseshell glasses down her nose so she would appear as if she were ready for anything. Her lovely suit was not bought off the rack. It was the calculated outfit of a young woman, freshly out of law school, who has shed the sloppy sweatpants for clothes to get her noticed. She was ambitious. She wanted me to talk. I had the information required to wrap the case up.
“When did the trouble start, Elizabeth?”
“Bess,” I said. “Call me, Bess.” I looked her square in the eye to make my point.
“Okay, Bess,” she smiled to defuse the tension. She thought she was making headway with me, gaining points by using the name I was comfortable with. I had no idea what I was going to say or where I should even begin, so I just smiled back. It was an awkward smile.
The woman displayed an immense amount of patience. I could see she had decided to wait me out. Well, I hadn’t decided if I was going to talk to her. I might not grace her with any information at all. She was too put together, and the tailored outfit was starting to annoy me. I needed to feel a connection, and I wasn’t getting it from her...I had already forgotten her name.
I picked up the business card that lay on the gunmetal table in front of me. “Tamara Blount, Assistant District Attorney” is what it said. Tamara. I bet she was Tammy to her friends. She just wasn’t Tammy to me. She was brusque and business and refusing to look me directly in the eye. She focused on her notepad with the pen, hovering, waiting for me to talk so she could take notes and jot down my jewels of knowledge. I understood the severity of the situation, but this was going to be a long night, and I was already dog tired.
I looked over my shoulder at the policeman who had brought me in - Detective Kline. He had that rumpled look of comfort I connected with. He had held me in his arms, tight and secure, when he pulled me from the fire days ago. He smelled like cinnamon. I liked cinnamon. He had been kind to a sixteen-year-old black girl whose world had come crashing to a halt. Detective Kline knew the outer shell of the story, but he didn’t know the details. They needed the details to prosecute.
I wondered if after I told them everything if the images and horrors would softly melt away. Or perhaps they would float out to sea the way the tide carries items from the sand. Would I be absolved of the guilt I felt? Would the doors to the past lock themselves shut, causing the pain to be snuffed out like a flame with no air? Will telling the police and the district attorney the story allow me to forget? Do I want to forget? Should I want to forget?
Detective Kline caught my eye when I turned around. “Are you thirsty, Bess? Did you need a soda or something?”
Something. I need something. “Could I get some coffee, please?” I asked. “Lots of cream and lots of sugar.”
“Right away, sport,” he said and hopped up and out the metal door, blocking me from the outside world. I wondered if Luther was waiting for me outside there. If not Luther, then I wanted Dusty. I hoped it was Dusty and Luther with Echo. I really wanted to hold Echo, tweak her nose, and see the shy smile emerge under her crazy red hair. I worried about my sister a lot.
I was thirsty and exhausted, and I had only been there an hour. My eyes felt heavy. The bright lighting in the room was not helping. In the back of my head, I could feel one hell of a headache threatening to make itself known. After weeks of being wound up tighter than a rattlesnake in the grass, this was my body’s way of crashing. It was saying it’s over now, Bess. It’s over. You can rest now. You can close your eyes and not worry about the shadow images, the symbols, the threats, the sharp tang of ink, and her sparrows – especially the sparrows.
Assistant District Attorney, Tamara Blount was looking at me expectantly. She was so patient. I could see she was trying to be kind. I could see that. But what could I tell her? I didn’t know where to begin. Wasn’t it enough it was over? Dealing with family court and with the police in the past had soured me on everything legal. It was so easy to manipulate the system, get people to believe things that weren’t the truth. Look at my mother. She was a master at deception.
“When did the troubles start?” she prompted. Again.
When did they start? I cocked my head as if I were in contemplation. That’s a good question, Assistant District Attorney, Tamara Blount. How far back should I go? Trouble and my family go way back. We are as tight as thieves. Look up our thick file in family court. That’s Wynters with a “y,” not an “i.”
The metal door groaned open as Officer Kline reentered with a cheap Styr
ofoam cup of coffee. In his grasp, he balanced a handful of creams and sugars. The creams were the good kind, not the crappy powder stuff. There was a red plastic stirrer for me to complete my drink. I looked at the assortment of items in front of me and started to add them to the cup. Officer Kline had poured in just the right amount of coffee so adding the three creams didn’t create an overflow. Three creams and three packs of sugar. White and sweet.
I looked at the finished drink, and suddenly, hot tears splashed down on the table. I don’t know where they came from. They just poured out of my eyes like a spigot. Detective Kline rested his hand on my shoulder. He glanced at Tamara Blount, Assistant District Attorney, and they exchanged a look.
“Bess, can you talk?” Detective Kline squeezed my shoulder. He leaned down and said the words softly in my ear. It felt too personal and intimate, but I didn’t care. After all, the man had pulled me out of a burning building, and he smelled like cinnamon.
I nodded my head and tried to staunch the falling tears with swipes at my eyes. But I continued to stare at the coffee on the table. White and sweet. Just the way my mother liked it. This was my mother’s coffee. Not mine.
Tamara Blount, Assistant District Attorney, had a concerned expression on her face. It was a patronizing look, and she was ruining the moment. I wanted to kick her under the table. Her arm was extended out as if she had thought about comforting me as the tears splashed down. Her palm was open and facing up. It was then I saw it. The ink was peeking out from under her wine-colored silk blouse sitting low on her wrist. It was hidden, but now I could see it.
“What is that?” I asked her. I sat straight up and gestured towards her arm.
She looked down and saw I was pointing where her shirt sleeve had pulled back, revealing the small design past her wrist bone. She subconsciously pulled on her cuff to cover it back up.
“Could I see it, please?” I asked. Tamara Blount, Assistant District Attorney, shot a puzzled glance at Officer Kline.
“Her mother ran a tattoo parlor,” he explained.
“I ran the tattoo parlor,” I muttered under my breath. I reached out towards Tamara Blount, Assistant District Attorney. “Can I see it, please?” I was dying to touch her arm. Suddenly, I knew how to make things feel right. To power me up and tell the story that needed telling.
She hesitated, looking about her as if there were eyes in the conference room and we were being observed. Perhaps we were. She made the decision and pulled the sleeve up from her wrist, revealing a small cavalcade of stars. It was a simple design showing multiple dark tiny stars, splattered as if a paintbrush had been flicked over that portion of her arm. Off to the side was a larger star with more detail and finesse to its creation. I had an idea as to what it meant, but I asked her anyway.
She stammered before telling me. I could see she was embarrassed by it. “I got it while I was in law school. I had it done right before I took the state bar. It’s for courage. It means I’m a star.” She said the last part with a whisper.
I thought it probably means you are a superstar. “Can I touch it?” I asked. Tamara Blount, Assistant District Attorney, nodded her head in agreement. I reached over and touched the tiny stars on her wrist. I ran my fingers over the more significant star with the defined points and shooting flares as if it was speaking to me. I doubt Tamara Blount, Assistant District Attorney, was aware of this but the tattoo was – speaking to me.
They all do.
That’s when I saw her. I saw Tammy. I saw the girl who studied diligently through law school. The girl who raised her hand in the large lecture halls and was ignored by the professors and other students. I saw the girl who knew she was better than how she was perceived. I saw the girl who bristled inside when she saw injustice and believed in staying true to those she represented. I saw the girl who the week before she took the bar exam, marched into a tattoo parlor on a whim, and sketched out this tattoo to the artist at the desk. She was a superstar amongst the stars. That was what this tattoo was about. Having it on her wrist allowed her to glance at it periodically to draw inner strength. This tattoo gave her the extra bounce when she began to falter. I decided I could talk to Tammy.
I pulled back, satisfied, and placed my hands in front of me on the table. I stared again at the coffee drink I had created and pushed it away. “I’m sorry,” I said to Detective Kline. “I don’t really want this. I’m ready to talk now, but can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, sport,” he responded.
“I really really want some packets of hot sauce. That’s what I want.” As to be expected, whenever I made my request, I’d see raised eyebrows showing a combination of surprise and what the hell?
“I know how it sounds. I just want some hot sauce. Not a bottle or anything, but the packets they give out over the counter.”
“There’s a taco stand two or three blocks down. It’s on the other side of the parking lot.” Tamara Blount offered.
I bolted up in my chair. “That’s perfect. Tell AJ to give you the extra hot ones. He knows me. Say it’s for Bess.”
Detective Kline shrugged and left the conference room again. Right when he went out, I could hear him murmuring to folks outside. There were many voices, and I couldn’t pick out anyone in particular. But the voices didn’t sound like there was only police officers or lawyers out there. Not that I would warrant that much attention, but I was just hoping there was someone out there who was waiting for me.
Tammy, (yes, now she is Tammy in the sloppy sweatpants) was relaxed and smiling. She had removed her glasses as if she had decided since we shared a secret, she could let her hair down and be herself. We weren’t besties or anything, but she sensed something positive had passed between us when I touched the constellation display on her wrist.
“Is it okay if I tape this?” she asked.
I nodded. “That’s fine.”
She reached down and brought out a recorder. It was one of those old-fashioned numbers with manual buttons that you pushed down. “I like to have it here on the table,” she explained. “It’s better than signaling to someone outside the room or using my phone. I also think it will help you if you see me listening rather than taking notes.”
“Okay,” I said. I felt myself warming up to her. I liked Tammy.
“However, I will jot things down from time to time. I will do that, so I remind myself to follow up with questions or to clarify something. I don’t wish to interrupt you once you get started.”
“Okay. Where’s the microphone?”
“You don’t have to worry about it. But it’s right here.” She pointed to an area that was facing me already. “Can we begin now? Or do we need to wait for Detective Kline to return?”
“We can start now,” I said. Knowing hot sauce was coming was enough of a motivation to get me going.
“Okay. I’ll begin.” She pressed down the button on her tape machine and began talking. Her voice was precise and authoritative. “This is Assistant District Attorney, Tamara Blount, and I am speaking with Elizabeth Delilah Wynters, a minor, age sixteen. Elizabeth, also known as Bess, is here to make a statement regarding the fire in the Fruitvale district in Oakland, California and the events leading up to it.” She looked at me, alerting me to the fact I now had the floor. “Bess, when did the trouble start?”
There was that question, again. When did it start? When had the warnings of trouble begun? Was it when Terry threw Luther out? Or was it when Annika began her solo work? Did the trouble go back to when Spiderwand disappeared? Or was it when Malcolm died? I realized I was going farther and farther back in time, looking for the thing that ignited it all. When had the trouble started was not a question I could answer because there had always been trouble.
But, in my mind, it all started with Todd. Todd was why we were here.
I looked at Tammy and started talking.
I
COSMIC HEARTS
ACTIVATED: ONE CHEETAH BRA
“Mom is dating again.”
&nb
sp; The tiny voice spoke softly, but those four words sent a chill down my spine. I had been sitting at the small desk in my room, going over my analytic geometry assignment and despairing I was not arriving at the proper answer. I had skipped dinner, my eyes were tired, and my stomach was growling. The lines on the page were evolving into cartoonish squiggles, and my thought process was anything but analytical, so to say my mood was not receptive would be pretty damn accurate. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to five before I turned and looked at my younger sister standing in the doorway.
“What do you mean?” I asked since clarification was in order.
Echo hung onto the doorway and leaned her body in to talk. She was trying to honor my rule of privacy and not enter my room uninvited. The toes of her shoes were planted outside the door frame. “I saw the dating bra.”
“The dating bra? Mom has a dating bra?” I cracked a smile because my six-year-old sister was assigning labels to our mother’s lingerie. Was there a cooking bra? A reading bra? A crossword puzzle bra?
“Yes. The dating bra is hanging in the bathroom.” There was no mistaking the concern on Echo’s face.
I laughed. “Do I have a dating bra?” I was curious because this whole thing was more silly than ominous. Echo blinked. She looked at me like my question was the most ridiculous thing to be uttered in a conversation with a child about bras. Of course, I don’t have a dating bra. I don’t date.
“C’ mere,” she gestured for me to follow. I got up and went down the hallway with her. My bedroom is off the kitchen in the house. Originally it was designed to be the utility room or the walkthrough room. I like it because it is small and away from everyone else. Plus, I have easy access to the back porch if I need to escape. We walked past the front room, which was quiet and headed for our mother’s bedroom.
It was the early evening. Dishes were still in the sink, probably waiting for me to do them. But the dining area was clear, which was a blessing. I guessed folks who had been here earlier had gone out, and mom was kicking back with her business partner, Dusty, having a beer at the studio. We had the place to ourselves - a rarity.