Grave Markings: 20th Anniversary Edition

by Arnzen, Michael A.

  Roberts felt sick in the pit of his stomach. He considered running out of the front door.

  “Hey, typewriter man,” Corky said over his shoulder as he scrubbed the tops of his hands with a green bar of soap. “Sorry about joking around with that knife. I didn’t mean to scare ya, really. We all got our fears, ya know? Me, I’m scared of bugs. Can’t stand the fuckers. Makes my skin crawl just thinking ‘bout ‘em. You should see me when I get stung by a mosquito—I’m a like a little old lady who sees a mouse. Fuckin’ pathetic…”

  Roberts laughed, imagining the big biker being so scared of a little bug. He laughed—probably too loudly and too much—but he was laughing in relief, all his fear shuddering out from his shaking stomach.

  And he was laughing at himself, too, for being so damned paranoid.

  Corky looked over his shoulder at him, frowning. “Hey, fuck you, buddy! You shoulda seen the look on your face when I gutted that there squid, ya big baby!”

  Roberts felt silly. When his laughter died down, he lit a cigarette and helped himself to another beer from Corky’s fridge.

  Roberts looked over at the gutted fish, robbed of its identity. It was a familiar sight, like the museum piece. But it no longer bothered him.

  Corky noticed Roberts’ gaze. “Want it? There’s still a helluva lot of body meat on that thing.”

  Roberts gagged. “Uh, no thanks.”

  “So be it.” Corky twisted the spigot, dried his hands on an ink-stained towel, and got another beer for himself. “So what can I do for you today?” he asked, mocking the average five-and-dime store clerk.

  “Well, I just wanted to talk, really. I got a lot on my mind lately.” The truth was, Roberts didn’t know. It was another impulse visit, an escape from his nightmare in this case.

  “Who doesn’t? But I don’t get paid just to talk.”

  “Well…”

  “Tell you what. I’ll do all the talking you want to as long as I get to draw while I’m doing it. What do you say?”

  Roberts was still hesitant. He wasn’t sure if he could trust Corky with what he was about to tell him…but he told him nevertheless. “What I got to tell you involves the police who were questioning you and the other shops a few weeks ago…”

  “All the better. Now sit your ass down over here.”

  Roberts sat in the barber’s chair, trying to think of a way to get out of the situation. He was not only divulging important information, but he was also about to get another tattoo in the process. He didn’t know if he was really settled into the first one yet.

  Corky rolled up next to him in a new chair—it had rollers and hydraulics, the sort of thing a draftsman would use.

  “Nice chair,” Roberts said, trying to stall the event.

  Corky smiled, his white beard curling up. “It should be. You paid for it. Now c’mon, I know you want something good.” He sharply slapped a binder into Roberts’ lap. “Look for something in that flash book that you’d like, and I’ll give you a discount. I always do for my regulars, ya know.”

  Regulars. Roberts felt honored.

  He flipped through the pages: U.S. flags, pages of motorcycles, free-form dragons and swordsmen, a dozen eagles in different poses, leggy women with bared breasts, and pictures of beasts like something from heavy metal posters filled the book. Some were photographs, others were colored-pencil drawings.

  Roberts looked up. “I…”

  Corky swept his head from side to side, a squid tentacle dangling from between his lips. “Tell you what. I don’t want to do no more of that shit, anyway…it gets kinda boring. How ‘bout letting me do a freestyle on ya.”

  “Huh?”

  Corky looked him in the eye. “Trust me?”

  No, I don’t. “Of course I do, but…”

  “All right, then.” Corky rolled over to the table and grabbed a needle. “Where’d you like it?”

  Roberts looked up at the ceiling, and then slumped back in the chair, giving up. “How about making that typewriter a little less lonely up there on my back?”

  Corky grinned. “My man! You got it! I woulda suggested the same thing. I’ve been thinking about something I could add to that tattoo ever since you walked out of that door last time.”

  The inker hummed to life.

  Roberts smiled. It was nice to know that Corky had thought about him when he wasn’t around. He looked at the man, who was still smiling. “Geez, you look happy. I thought you hated Thursdays.”

  “Not really. They’re just so dead, ya know? No business. Fucking boring…dead.”

  Dead. Like the victims of the Tattoo Killer.

  The familiar buzz on his shoulder blade reassured Roberts, like a masseur’s oil on his back. He felt guilty for ever doubting Corky. If you can’t trust a guy with a sharp needle stuck against your back, who can you trust?

  The purr of the needle was so soothing, Roberts felt totally relaxed as he told Corky the story about the Tattoo Killer.

  IV.

  “He signs his work?” Corky couldn’t believe it. “Man, the work should speak for itself. Everyone recognizes the tats I do, and they all know I did ‘em when they see ‘em. That’s half the joy of being an artist! After all…every piece of art ever created, every image, is as unique as the artist who did it. What a jerk this guy is!”

  Roberts was very relieved. Corky’s reaction was sane, and again, he felt stupid for ever doubting the man. “You can’t think of anyone with those initials, can you?”

  “Hmm…I don’t know anyone with MKI or MMK in the biz. That’s no surprise. Everyone goes by a handle, not his initials, anyway.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, handle. Moniker, label, pseudonym, nom de plume.” Roberts looked at him dumbfounded. “A fucking nickname, okay? Like mine. You don’t think my momma named me Corky do you?”

  Roberts chuckled, half at the tone of Corky’s voice, half at the tickling sensations of the needle etching his back.

  “Hey!” Corky suddenly said, “I betcha this guy is from outta town. I remember seeing that crispy critter on the news—what’s his name? ‘Cooling’ or something like that?”

  “Kuhlman.”

  “Yeah, Kuhlman. I saw him on the news that one day. The style, from what I remember, was nothing like what the ink slingers around here do. More free-form, more European-styled. See what I mean about being able to recognize an artist by his work? Anyway, my bet’s on this asshole being an outta towner. That’s probably why I can’t think of no one with them initials for his handle.”

  Roberts shrugged. Corky was probably right—Colorado Springs wasn’t exactly known for its psycho killers.

  He thought about the idea of handles, remembering how Schoenmacher got nicknamed Birdy in the army. “So how’d you get the name Corky, anyway?” Roberts asked, wondering what the story was.

  Corky lifted the needle, and presented Roberts with his forearm. “See that?”

  Roberts looked at the tattoo. He’d seen it before, but didn’t realize how detailed it actually was. The brown liquor bottle—subtly shaped like a male organ—had a label around it that said CORKY. Beneath that were three “X’s,” XXX. The bottle, naturally, was bursting a cork from its pulsing neck, and feminine tongues were dancing around the shiny tip, licking up the spray that shot from within.

  But there was even more to the intricate tattoo, subtle shades that smacked of more than mere macho pornography: shaded inside the brown length of the bottle was not liquid, but a Pacific seashore, with palm trees and boats. Correction…battleships. War boats, blowing tiny planes out of the sky. Clouds of smoke puffed in the sky, explosions shot fireworks in the background, naked bodies sunned on the beach as troops stormed them…all behind the thin brown filter of the booze bottle, behind every shade, a story within the story.

&n
bsp; “Amazing,” Roberts said, mouth agog.

  “Nuff said. See what I mean about images? Tells the story better than words. And even if it didn’t, I’m not telling you shit about how I got my name. Corky is just a measly word anyway, and it doesn’t mean much. Just like the tattoo, there’s more to me than just my name.”

  “Yeah,” Roberts said. “Makes perfect sense.”

  Corky worked the needle, his eyebrows lowered in concentration. “I wonder who that is, running around giving us artists a bad name.”

  “Me, too.”

  Corky clicked off the needle, and set it down on a table. He stood up and went to the cooler again. More beer. He turned off the pot of boiling squid. Sitting on the edge of his desk, disrupting a pile of paper (bills and sketches), Corky said, “I think what pisses me off most about this guy, though, is his style. No class.”

  “Is that all? No class? People are dying, Corky…”

  “Oh, that sucks, too, don’t get me wrong,” he said glibly. “It’s just that doing what he’s doing goes against everything I got into this business for. That really pisses me off.” He sipped thoughtfully on his beer, and then wiped his beard. “That shit ain’t what tattooing is all about.”

  “So tell me what it’s all about, wise man.”

  Corky kept his lips tightly shut.

  “Come on, confess. And use words…they aren’t all that bad, ya know?” Roberts smiled.

  Corky broke. “Okay, okay.” He leaned back on his palms. “See, tattoos are all about freedom, man. I like to think about it this way: when I tattoo somebody, I’m freeing a part of their soul. I’m helping them bring out something that was inside of them all along. Like the needle itself, I’m a tool that anyone can use to release that part of themselves that they want out in the open.”

  The room was silent, and Roberts thought he could hear the cogs and wheels of Corky’s mind churning. Freedom, he thought, that’s exactly what I need. Freedom from my job, my boring life…everything. And I DO feel better now, ever since I first got that typewriter put on my back….

  “But this guy, this ‘Tattoo Killer’ as you call him, he’s the living definition of too much freedom, and it’s all his own. He’s not helping anyone but himself. He’s got no values, and people like that don’t deserve to be locked up—they deserve to be dead.”

  The word “dead” was spoken violently.

  “And I’d like to do the killin’.” Corky’s muscles were locked, flexed. He stood, shook his arms.

  Nervous silence as Roberts listened. He was sure Corky could do it…something about his voice indicated he’d probably killed before. And not just in the war, either.

  Roberts waited. He hadn’t expected to see this side of him.

  Corky growled, and lit a cigarette. “Listen, man, why don’t we just quit for today. I don’t want to talk about this anymore, not only because it pisses me off…but because I might screw up your ink, and I wouldn’t want to do that.”

  Roberts wholeheartedly agreed.

  In silence, Corky rubbed lotion onto the fresh ink, and taped on a fresh gauze pad. He stood up, and then began pacing around his shop. He was flexing his arms and balling his fists, like a man getting ready for a fight.

  Why is he THAT mad about the Tattoo Killer? Roy wondered. Does he feel threatened?

  “This bastard is gonna scare away all my clientele,” Corky said as if answering his very thoughts. “Fucking Thursdays, man…I told ya.”

  Roberts slipped on his T-shirt, eager to leave. “I’ll try to drop by Saturday or Sunday.” He pulled the wallet out of his jeans. “How much for today?”

  Corky waved the money away. “Forget it. Pay me when it’s complete.”

  That word again, complete. Having been too preoccupied during the whole day, Roberts hadn’t even seen what the tattoo Corky had put on his back looked like. It was a mystery…he couldn’t wait to get back home and check it out.

  Corky got Roberts’ phone number, just in case he thought of something that might help. Another self-appointed pseudo deputy, mentally on the case. Roberts gave him his card from work, with both home and work numbers, as well as both addresses. “Call anytime, man. For any reason. Even if you just want to shoot the shit.”

  Corky nodded, uncomfortable with Roberts’ friendliness.

  Roberts walked toward the door and opened it. The cowbell clanged.

  “Wait!”

  Roberts turned and faced his friend.

  “Sure you don’t want that squid?”

  Roberts laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  “C’mon! I don’t want it stinking up the place. It smells like Samantha’s genitalia after a three-day rut.”

  “Tell you what, Corky. You tell me what your real name is, and I’ll take the squid.”

  Corky, smiling: “Fuck you, buddy.”

  Roberts laughed and left, wondering what his own handle could possibly be.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I.

  Roberts viewed the monitors in the KOPT control room, watching Schoenmacher go through his usual weather spiel: pointing at nonexistent patterns on the computerized satellite map of the United States; gripping his other hand, which was stealthily wrapped around a secret clicker that changed the map projections behind him; his soothing voice calming the imagined reactions to his prediction of thunderstorms and other maladies of weather; taking stolen glances at Judy behind the news desk; and on and on. Roberts loved his friend dearly, but he absolutely despised the snake oil salesman quality of his work.

  Roberts believed no one could predict the future, not even the best-trained scientists. And weathermen weren’t exactly scientists, either. Sure, they went to technical school and called themselves meteorologists, but when it came down to it, they were no different from modern-day prophets, selling their guesses at the days to come.

  Roberts wondered: did people really hang on to every word Schoenmacher said, planning their events around the false pretense of knowing how the weather would be the next day? Would there even be a next day?

  Roberts lit a cigarette and watched Schoenmacher’s smooth talking. Yeah, he figured, they probably did believe in the things he said. Dan was slick. But Roberts knew better.

  The thing that irked him the most, he figured, was that Schoenmacher’s job lacked journalistic integrity. News was based on facts—or at least an appearance of fact—and facts could only be found in the past and present. The weather didn’t belong on the news because it treated the future as fact. It wasn’t sound reporting. It was alchemy, sorcery, wizardry, witchcraft.

  Plus it was so damned boring.

  Sick of watching the five-day forecast, Roberts looked up from the monitor and peered through the glass window of the viewing room, which was basically there for visiting network people and high school tours. He saw Schoenmacher standing in front of a completely blank blue screen, waving his arms around, and talking about something in Texas. Roberts turned to face the news desk with the KOPT logo that housed the anchor team. Rick Montag was whispering something into Judy Thomas’ ear, and Judy was smiling and nodding. They made a good team on screen, but off the air it was obvious that they didn’t know jack shit about journalism. Judy, actually, had been a news reporter for the papers in her youth, but acted as if she’d forgotten everything she’d ever learned once she got the cushiony job of being a pretty face for a hard-up public.

  Images, again. That’s all Rick and Judy were: images that symbolized an objective, endearing world of facts each night at five-thirty. Small-town celebrity images. Images of friendliness and calming. Identifiable images. Pretentious, false images.

  And Roberts put the words into their mouths.

  He wondered if that was what was bothering him about his job lately. That his whole career was a struggle to make false images like the gl
itzy anchor team seem real by force-feeding facts into their mouths. Because the simple truth of it all—as he had recently learned—was that it was an impossible task. The images spoke for themselves, no matter what words came out of their talking heads.

  He looked at the monitors, then back through the glassed wall. Empty blue. Schoenmacher was missing.

  Roberts went to find him, and discovered him in the bathroom—which was where the weatherman usually went after his sales pitch of clear days and cold nights. Roberts figured that Schoenmacher didn’t like his own job too much, either; or if he did, he had fooled himself. After all, a guy who likes being on television and lying to the public wouldn’t have to go to the bathroom out of stage fright every night, would he?

  Schoenmacher was furious, staring at himself in the mirror. “Did you see her? Letting Rick stick his tongue in her ear like that, when he thought no one was looking? Geez!” His cheeks were bright red, his tie crooked from removing the mini mic.

  “I was watching,” Roberts said, leaning against the wall. “And I didn’t see any French ear-kissing going on, Dan. It’s all in your head.”

  Schoenmacher blew air straight up from the corner of his mouth, like Popeye tooting his pipe, and his heavily sprayed brown hair flopped from the current. “Well, if not that, then I’m sure they were at least talking about me. And Judy, giggling, acting like nothing was going on…”

  “C’mon, lighten up.” Roberts put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got a date with her Sunday. Can’t beat that!”

  “Well, I don’t know if she’s even fucking worth it!” He faced himself in the mirror again. “Or maybe I’m not worth her, eh?”

  Here we go again. The Dan Schoenmacher Self-Pity Hour. This bastard’s more unpredictable than the damned weather….

  “Shut up, will ya? Let’s go get a beer.”