A Fool's Journey

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  “Tash says you have a question about a tattoo?” Sam smiled, showing off a row of perfect white teeth, made whiter by the deep plum lipstick she was wearing. I wondered what made her eyetooth gleam so brightly until I noticed the tiny diamond adhered to it.

  I held up the photocopy of the partly finished tattoo. “Do you recognize this?”

  Sam cocked her head and peeled off her gloves, throwing them into the trash. She took the photocopy from me, her expression serious as she studied it from every angle.

  “This might help to jog your memory,” I said, and offered the newspaper photograph of twenty-year-old Brandon Colbeck. “It was taken a few years back.” I omitted the year. Sam either remembered Brandon and his tattoo, or she didn’t. There was no point planting seeds that might otherwise not be there.

  Sam looked up at me, then turned her attention back to the photocopies, her fingers tracing the outline of The Fool tattoo over and over.

  “Yeah, I remember this tattoo,” she said, finally. “I never got to finish it, though…”

  11

  The sound of a throat clearing served as a gentle reminder that we weren’t alone. Sam handed back the photocopies and smiled at the young woman lying on the table.

  “Long enough break. Come back in an hour and we can talk more. We’ll be done by then, she’s my last client of the day.”

  I could grab a bite to eat and then stroll around the neighborhood to check out some of the other shops. “Sounds like a plan. What can you tell me about the food from the restaurants on either side?”

  “Triple P has decent pizza if you like a thick bread-like crust—”

  “I’m more of a thin crust kind of girl.”

  “In that case, I’d recommend the veggie panzerotti, which is stuffed to the brim with mozzarella, mushrooms, bell peppers, onions, and whatever else you want them to throw in there. The pasta’s nothing special, with the exception of the chicken lasagna in a to-die-for béchamel sauce. It’s decadent enough to be almost worth the calories.”

  “And the Thai place?”

  Sam shook her head. “Not as totally tempting as the name might suggest.”

  I apologized to the client for interrupting her time, thanked Sam and Tash, and made my way to Triple P, where I waffled between ordering the veggie panzerotti or the chicken lasagna. In the end I selected the lasagna. What can I say? I’m a sucker for creamy sauces.

  It was worth every single calorie.

  The stroll along Poplar Street revealed an eclectic mix of businesses. A secondhand store—perhaps more aptly described as third or fourth hand—took up the largest square footage, whereas a magic supply company was literally stuffed into a space not much larger than a storage locker. Rounding things out were a clothing consignment “boutique,” unisex hair salon, the posters in the window faded with time, and a new and used bookstore, where I picked up a paperback copy of A Hole in One, a mystery set in nearby Lount’s Landing, along with a non-fiction history of Marketville, both signed and in the “local authors” section. I’d never heard of either author, but the store’s owner, a fresh-faced blonde who introduced herself as Francis, assured me both books were popular. I added a gently worn copy of John Sandford’s latest Prey novel to my purchases and left with the promise to return.

  There were three more restaurants, one Mexican, one featuring “authentic Indian cuisine,” and a nondescript diner serving all-day breakfast and “the best burgers in Marketville.” I grinned at the all-day description, given that the diner’s hours were from seven a.m. to three p.m., but I made a mental note to come back and try it the next time I needed cheering up. There’s nothing like reading a day-old newspaper while eating bacon, eggs, and home fries to set the world right again.

  The sign on the door of Trust Few said Closed, but Sam was waiting for me when I returned. She’d changed from ripped jeans into a black denim mini and exchanged the Nine Inch Nails T-shirt for a flannel lumberjack-style shirt in black and red plaid, the sleeves rolled up, shirttails tied at the waist. The combat boots remained. There was no sign of Tash. Sam favored me with a narrow-eyed stare and I got the feeling something had changed in the hour since I’d left.

  “Tash and my client said maybe I should be a little more cautious about how much I share. What’s your interest in this case? It was a long time ago and you don’t look like a cop.”

  “About nineteen years, to be exact, and you’re right, I’m not a cop. I’m the co-owner of Past & Present Investigations on Edward Street. The young man in the photo, his name is, or was, Brandon Colbeck. He left home in March 2000. No one has seen or heard from him since. At least no one who has come forward. His family would like to know where he went, what happened to him, and whether he’s dead or alive. I’m trying to get some answers.”

  Sam nodded. “I remember reading the story in the Marketville Post a couple of years back. A sad story, and if they’d mentioned a tattoo I might have put it together before now. I vaguely remember thinking, at the time, that the guy looked familiar, but he could have been someone I saw around town. It’s not like the police came to see me.”

  “Sometimes details are purposely omitted so the police can weed out false leads and attention seekers. But it’s possible that the reporter who wrote the story didn’t know about it.” I wondered when that detail had been added to the Registry and made a mental note to ask Lucy Daneluk if I had the opportunity. It also made me question why the police hadn’t paid Sam a visit. I felt the first frisson of doubt. Was Sam simply looking for free publicity at the family’s expense?

  “I don’t mean to go all Hawaii 5-0 on you, especially since I’m the one who’s come to you, but you make a good point about the police. Why wouldn’t they have come to see you? Marketville doesn’t have many tattoo parlors.”

  Sam shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “Probably because Trust Few didn’t open until 2003.”

  Three years after Brandon left? “I don’t understand. You said you remembered the tattoo and that you never had time to finish it. Are you saying that Brandon was here in 2003 or later?”

  “No, it would have been in 2000, and I remember that one because it was my first tattoo. I was apprenticing at the time, worked at the back of Nature’s Way.”

  Sam must have noticed my confusion because she clarified. “Now it’s Sun, Moon & Stars, the place with the psychics, beads, and crystals. But back then it was Such & Such Tattoo.” She barked a laugh at the expression on my face. “I know, terrible name, right? But Dave, that was the owner, he couldn’t think of a name when he was setting up the shop, kept calling it Such & Such and I guess it stuck.”

  I hadn’t seen Such & Such in my Google search. “Where did it move to?”

  “Oh, it didn’t. Dave was a great artist, but a terrible businessman. He closed the shop in August 2003. I could easily have found work somewhere else, but I took the plunge and bought this place. It used to be a hardware store, but the couple who ran it couldn’t compete with the bigger chains moving into town, and the location wasn’t exactly prime.” Sam chuckled. “You think Poplar Street is in transition now, you should have seen it back then. Anyway, it’s turned out to be a good investment, though the first two years were a struggle.”

  “I’m surprised the owner of Such & Such couldn’t make a go of it, what with tattoos being so popular.”

  “Ah, but we’re talking the late nineties to early two thousands,” Sam said. “There was still social stigma attached to tattoos, especially in small towns. Cities were another story, especially where twenty-somethings were running dot-coms. That was mostly in the U.S., but it filtered into Vancouver and Toronto. I started seeing eighteen-year-old hotties in first year uni getting tramp stamps, though something like a butterfly on the ankle was more common. But Marketville? Tattoos were still associated with bikers, gang members, prisons, and sailors.”

  “When did it change?” I asked, thinking of Brandon.

  “In 2005, a guy named Ami James linked up with netw
ork television to run Miami Ink, a reality TV show out of his South Beach parlor, 305 Ink, which he later renamed Love Hate Tattoo. The show made stars out of James and artists like Kat Von D, and before long singers and celebrities were lining up to get their own ink. Big stuff too—full sleeves and such. Tattoos went mainstream. Today, thirty-six percent of adults have at least one tattoo.” Sam grinned. “Something tells me you’re not going to be one of them. Needle phobia?”

  “More like commitment phobia,” I said, thinking about Royce and my reluctance to take our relationship to the next level. I envisioned “Royce” in fancy script on my bicep and winced. “I can’t imagine getting a tattoo.”

  Sam laughed. “No biggie. Believe it or not, I spend a fair amount of time convincing people not to get tats. I always advise against getting a tattoo of a partner’s name. If the relationship fails, you’re stuck with it somewhere on your body or trying to cover it up. Then there’s superstition. Many people believe such a tattoo jinxes a couple. As for commitment phobia, you’d get over that soon enough, after your first tattoo. In my experience, most folks, once they get one, get another, and another. It can become as addictive as any drug.” She grinned. “At least that’s what I count on.”

  “You’re probably right. Everyone I know with a tattoo has more than one. But back to Brandon. Tell me everything you remember. Even the smallest detail can make a big difference.”

  “Right, okay. Well, like I said, I was working at Such & Such as an apprentice, not that Dave needed one given how little business was coming through the door. But I showed him some of my sketches, mostly astrological and tarot stuff, and he said I had talent.” Sam smiled at the memory. “‘Raw undeveloped talent’ is actually how he put it. For the first few weeks, I acted as a receptionist, janitor, bookkeeper, and observer, though Dave also had me frame some flash for the walls. It was the beginning of March when Brandon came in. There was an ice storm raging outside to remind everyone that winter wasn’t over, no matter what the groundhog said. Dave muttered something along the lines of, ‘What would prompt a kid—he might have said ‘college kid,’ to come for a tattoo on a hellish day like this?’ Brandon came in with a book about tarot, the corners all dog-eared, and told us he wanted to get tattoos of all the Major Arcana. Dave laughed at that, asked him if he expected to get them all done in one day, and the kid…he said he was twenty but he looked younger than that…blushed and said something like, ‘Of course not, I want to start with The Fool.’ And I remember asking, ‘Is that because it’s the first card in the deck?’ And Brandon shook his head and said, no, he was planning to go on a fool’s journey.”

  I sat up straighter, thinking back to what Misty had told me earlier. “Were those his exact words? A fool’s journey?”

  Sam nodded. “I knew what he meant, because I’d studied tarot, but Dave didn’t have a clue and he made a joke about it. Brandon got seriously pissed and I thought he was going to leave, but I explained to Dave that many believe the Major Arcana represents The Fool’s Journey. After that, Brandon insisted that I be the one to tattoo him, and he asked me to pattern it after the Rider-Waite deck like the cards in his book. I didn’t tell him it was my first tattoo, and since it was his first, he didn’t know what to expect, or how long it would take. We had some flash for tarot, but he wanted an original. I took a few minutes to sketch it and get his okay. I free-styled The Fool’s robe and the sun, added a few filigrees with a marker before getting started. The slight differences between the tattoo in your sketch and the Rider-Waite deck is another reason I recognized it as mine.”

  “How long did it take?”

  “About three hours, much longer than it would take me today,” Sam admitted. “Apprentices are notoriously slow, but the hourly rate is much lower, so it all works out, or at least that’s the theory. Anyway, Brandon started getting antsy, and I remember being glad I hadn’t gone into it beyond the sun and the top half of the robe, not to mention the filigrees. But I got where he was coming from. Three hours was a long time for him to sit still under the hot lights, and my shoulders were aching from being hunched over for so long. We made an appointment for the following week. He never showed.”

  “Did he call to cancel?”

  “Nope. Not a word. I figured he thought I was too slow and was going to get someone else to finish it. Dave told me not to take it personally, but I did, you know? It shook my confidence for a while, but I got it back. I owe Dave for that, too. ‘Never give anyone the satisfaction of thinking they broke you,’ he’d say, whenever I got to feeling sorry for myself, didn’t matter if it was a hard-to-please client, a cheating boyfriend, or the fact that the moon was full and I felt like howling at it.”

  I had to grin at the thought of Sam howling at the moon. I’ve felt like doing that myself, sometimes, not that I’d ever admit it to anyone. “Dave sounds like a standup guy. I’d like to talk to him.”

  Sam gave me a sad smile. “So would I. Unfortunately he went to that big tattoo parlor in the sky two months after the shop was shuttered. Pancreatic cancer. He never stood a chance.” She pointed to the Cowgirls Don’t Cry tattoo. “The first time I heard this Brooks & Dunn song, the one featuring Reba McEntire, I thought about Dave. That was fall 2008. I got the tattoo in his memory a few weeks later. I think he would have liked it.”

  “I think so, too,” I said, not that I’d ever heard the song.

  “Yeah, well…Reba’s quoted as saying you need three things in life—a wishbone, a backbone, and a funny bone. I kind of think this tattoo has a bit of all of that in it. Of course, I didn’t tattoo myself, but it’s my original artwork.”

  I could see it: the sense of the hope for the future, the strong woman, the elements of whimsy. “I do believe you captured it perfectly.”

  “Yeah? Thanks. Anyway, I’m hoping to pay it forward, you know? That’s what I want to do with Tash when she’s ready. But enough about me, about Dave. Do you have any other questions about Brandon and his half-finished tattoo?”

  “Just a couple. Today, would the tattoo look much the same? Or do they change with age? What if he’d had it colored in?”

  “All tattoos blow out over time, the lines get thicker, blacks turn a bit gray, the shapes don’t look as clean. If he’d gotten the entire tattoo done and colored in shortly thereafter, and never had any touch ups, it would definitely have faded. Vibrant colors like bubblegum pink, sunshine yellow, and bright green fade faster than darker colors like crimson reds. Watercolors tend to fade the fastest. But all colors fade.”

  “Which means, if someone got the tattoo as recently as a year or two ago, you could spot the difference.”

  “Almost certainly.” Sam cocked her head, blue eyes curious. “Why? Do you think someone might be trying to impersonate Brandon?”

  “Just covering all the bases,” I said, unwilling to share news of the call to Eleanor. “I never know what’s going to be important and as you can tell, my knowledge of tattoo art is sorely lacking.”

  Sam nodded, but I could tell she wasn’t buying the explanation. I pulled out the age-progressed sketches of Brandon, hoping to smooth out the moment. “This is what the police artist thinks he might look like now.”

  Did I imagine a slight intake of breath? I watched in silence as she compared both sketches, placing them side-by-side, her fingers tracing every line as if she was memorizing them.

  “He’s a good-looking man,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting that. I guess in my mind he was still twenty. Crazy, eh?”

  “It’s natural to remember people as we saw them last, not as they might have aged.”

  “He had a nice smile, I do recall that. Good teeth. Of course, the police never sketch anyone smiling, always with the lips closed.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said, wondering why Sam knew this odd bit of information.

  “Oh yeah. A closed mouth expression doesn’t change much over the years, whereas teeth do. They chip or yellow, people straighten them or lose them. It’s one of the
reasons you’re not allowed to smile in a passport photo. When a mouth is open, it makes it difficult for facial recognition to work properly.”

  Sam tapped on the clean-cut version. “I can’t imagine the young man who wanted to go on a fool’s journey would grow up to look like a banker, though. If he’s alive, my money’s on the shaggy-haired, scruffy look. But who knows, right? Maybe he decided he wasn’t cut out for a fool’s journey after all.”

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “If you’re asking if these sketches remind me of the guy who walked in here on an icy March day looking for his first tattoo, no.”

  There was something evasive in the way she’d answered. I reworded the question. “What I meant is, have you seen him? The man in these sketches?”

  “That would be another no.”

  I pushed back my disappointment, realizing it was irrational at best, and ridiculous at worst. What had I expected? “Did Brandon say anything about where the journey was going to take him?”

  “He was planning to follow the path of the Major Arcana and get tattooed along the way. He didn’t elaborate about the where or the when.” She paused, her cornflower blue eyes appraising me. “Did you ever consider that Brandon Colbeck might not want to be found?”

  Did Sam know more than she was saying? Was Trust Few more than the name of a tattoo parlor? Or had it simply been a rhetorical question?