Nico

by J. B. Hartnett

  Also in the envelope was a handwritten phrase in Hebrew. I had a large portfolio for these women, and I knew the phrase would be identical to one I had kept in its pages. Zack would be able to read it perfectly, but to share it with him would mean to break the confidence I shared with my client. Still, I had to know.

  I handed him the paper and asked, “What does it say?”

  “Dude, do you want me to rip off the band aide or give you the slow burn?” Zack, whose hands were still gloved, held the two papers in front of him.

  “Just fuckin’ tell me.” His client waited patiently and listened. I didn’t really care about the audience. I needed to know.

  “The girl you put this phrase on?” He angled his head toward it. “She went to my parents’ temple. Her dad was one of the youth leaders, and a few years ago, he raped a thirteen-year-old girl. He was well respected and so was his wife… that was her just now. The girl you gave the tattoo, their daughter, was totally cast out by her friends after it happened. My mom was one of the few people who went to see them. The dad was already in jail by then, awaiting trial.”

  “So they pressed charges. That’s a good thing. I mean, it sucks that it’s her dad, but he’s a sick fuck.” I momentarily felt some relief. I thought, shit, poor girl was probably tortured by gossip, and to think her own father had done something like that, holy fuck.

  But it was worse.

  “No man. That’s not all. That rape resulted in that young girl getting pregnant. She was so scared she was going to get in trouble, she didn’t say anything to anyone, and when she started bleeding one morning… I guess they couldn’t wake the girl up, and when they moved the blankets… it was pretty fuckin’ bad. She had miscarried probably days before. They tried everything, but the infection was just too bad and… she died, man. Thirteen, life gone all because of your woman’s sick-fuck father. Now he’s in prison; didn’t even try to fight it. His wife, Mrs. Lefhertz, just told me she’s moving back east with her sister.”

  I knew before he told me, but had to ask, “And my client?”

  “They found her last week, Nico. Overdose. But she left this for you.”

  He handed me the small note written in Hebrew. The symbols written larger at the bottom were the same I had put on her back.

  “What’s it say, Zack?” I held my fingers flat against my lips, keeping whatever might escape from my mouth held there.

  “Okay, man,” he started softly, maybe so the other guy couldn’t hear or maybe because he knew it was gonna be the final blow.

  I know what you do. You help women get the hate out. As much as I had hoped that you could help me, too, the blood of a monster runs through my veins. My life was tainted before it even began, because I am my father’s daughter. I know it may be hard to understand, but I think this is the only way I will ever bring atonement to my family.

  An eye for an eye.

  I pushed my hands back from my mouth and through my hair, pulling it as hard as I could.

  “Nico, man. You can’t help them all. This was a totally fucked up situation,” he said, folding the papers and returning them to the envelope.

  “Nah, man. I left something out.” I began to pace. “I have to start giving them my cell. I’ll give them my number and tell them to call. Anytime. Day or night. I could have found her someone to talk to. My parents would have helped organize it. Fuck!” I yelled out across the small space of the studio.

  “Here, friend.” The dragon man handed me a flask of I-didn’t-give-a-fuck-what. I took a drink and let the liquid burn my eyes and throat.

  That was the day I really became an asshole. I knew I couldn’t stop helping the women I had been helping. They needed me, but I couldn’t find any other way to cope with my own emotion. So I went out, got drunk, and fucked whatever equally drunk slut was hanging off of me. I gave everything to those thirty-three women, and the list was growing every month. My pop had raised me to respect nature, respect the land, and respect my fellow man. He said life was all about balance, and my job as a man was to do everything possible to maintain it. At that moment, I lacked calm, and I definitely lacked balance—something I’d only felt once in my life, lying next to a little girl with dishwater-blonde hair.

  Chapter 2

  September 2006

  It had been eight weeks since I got the news about my client, whose name I now knew was Sarah. I had gone through all kinds of emotions. I was pissed at her for fucking killing herself. The more I thought about it, she had her mind made up before she came to me. To put that phrase on her body, she already knew what she was going to do. Maybe she was looking for some hope, I didn’t know, but I hated that I wasn’t able to do anything to help her now. I didn’t take money from these women. It wasn’t about that. I felt like a Priest listening to people’s confessions, but I had totally failed her.

  Three days ago, I got a new client named Deanna. I guessed she was in her forties, but she told me she was about to turn forty and wanted to begin a larger tattoo that she would complete, “When it ends,” she said cryptically.

  She began to lift up her shirt so I could see her back then shook her head, “Do you have somewhere more private?”

  “Sure.” I led her to the back and immediately knew she was going to have a story.

  I leaned back against the wall, one hand held out to offer her a seat on the small, rolling stool I used to work, the other holding a sketch pad.

  Then it all came pouring out of her like she was trying to sell me something. Her emotion was more enthusiastic than sad, so I guessed she thought I would say ‘no’. “I’ve been married for ten years. I have a six year old and a nine year old. Both boys. My husband and I were so in love, but there was always this other side to his personality. I do whatever I can not to antagonize him. Most of the time, our household and our lives run smoothly.” She turned around and lifted her shirt to show me scars, some old and some new. “When I’m bad, he punishes me. I know this is going to be hard to understand, but it started out… differently. He has needs… specific needs and… well…”

  I decided to save her from explaining, since I assumed what she was getting at. “So this was like… a sex thing?”

  She let out the breath she’d been holding, “It started that way, but then it became something else. It was about him having control.” She let her head hang down, and tears fell onto her jeans, leaving a darker patch. “I would have done anything for him. Anything. And I thought this would make him happy, but now he’s… different. I have a plan, but it’ll take me five years to get there… my five year plan.” She laughed awkwardly. “I’m taking classes online, in secret, and in five years I will have enough saved from my job to leave and take my children with me. He’s never touched the kids,” she quickly added. “Just me. He shows me no love.” Her voice changed as she said roughly, “Only hate. Every time he tells me it’s time for bed, the kids long asleep, he locks the door behind him, and I know what I have to do. If I don’t, it’s worse. Every last bit of rage goes into every hit. But if I can do it for at least three, maybe four more years, I can get away. The only difference my boys will notice is the absence of their father. Until then, I want you to give me this,” she handed me a small copy of a picture I recognized. Plenty of people had Giger tattoos, but mostly men. “He loves that picture. When he’s releasing all that anger, I want him to see something else he loved when he was the man I met. I know it’s silly, to think that maybe seeing this on me will change him, remind him, but I have to try something.” She lifted her head and wiped her eyes, “Will you do it? I can pay you.”

  Fuck.

  “You can put your shirt down.”

  She rolled it back to her waist and sat there, closing her purse, ready to hear my rejection.

  “Please stand up,” I said softly and offered my hand once again.

  I tossed the sketch pad and picture onto a reclining chair. She brushed her shirt free of wrinkles and stood, only coming up to my chest. She couldn’t have been
more than five-foot- two. I put my arms around her slowly and pulled her to my body. When I felt her relax, I pushed her back a bit and kissed her on the cheek.

  “You’re safe here,” I said. “You come in whenever you need me. You need to add to your tattoo, you call me or come in, any time. I’ll give you my card, day or night. You can say whatever you need to say and know that it will never leave this room. I can download this, make a stencil, and get it ready so we can start today.”

  She let me hold her, probably the first affection from a man, from anyone, she had felt in a while.

  “If you want to go get something to eat and come back, there’s a great little Mexican place just a block away. You can look at the ocean and have the best fish tacos in town.”

  She wiped her face again and moved out of my hold. “I heard about you,” she said. “I didn’t intend to come in here for this. I was happy to pay because I thought, you know, you would understand.”

  I didn’t understand, and I never would. What made a woman stay when the abuse got out of hand? I was pretty sure when her boys were old enough, they would have preferred her to be away from the abuse, no matter what they missed out on. My mom had explained it to me, and I understood the concept of loving someone so much, you would do anything for them. Then there was the psychological aspect of the abuse itself, and also, over time, the abused fell into that pattern, thinking they somehow deserved it. I was all for a little S and M, but to leave an actual scar on the flesh of someone you apparently loved? I would give this woman a scar she could wear and not be ashamed of.

  She began to move to the other side of the studio. “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Deanna.”

  “Deanna, when we start, it’s important he avoids the skin while it’s healing-”

  “I know. I already thought of that. He never goes above my shoulders. I thought, if we started on the neck, then the other scars can heal by the time we get that low. I know all about how the scars have to mature and how deep they can be and all that.”

  A moment of silence passed between us. I hesitated at first then thought, ‘Fuck it,’ and said, as gently as I could, “And last, I need your word you’ll contact me if it gets too bad. You know what I’m saying? That’s all I require from you… your word. I can get you and your boys a safe place to go.”

  “You have my word, Nicolas Grant,” she assured. “I’ll see you in an hour, and we can get started.”

  I watched her walk up the street toward Pepito’s, and it hit me that she knew my full name. No one called me Nicolas except for my parents. I was Nico to the rest of the world. I turned on the laptop and searched the image, enlarged it, and printed it onto transfer paper. Then I began to get everything else ready.

  Photo realism and nature tattoos were my strong suit. Zack and I could do just about anything, but we both had our strengths. Zack had great skill with traditional tattoos, abstract and dedication, but was also really good at 3D, which were becoming more and more trendy.

  I had always loved to draw and sketch, and, as I got older, my mom and pop started to buy me those books on how to draw a cat, then a parrot, and within a few years, the books changed to more advanced subjects of faces, hands, bodies, and nature in general. Having a good eye was essential for me and for the job. I fixed so many fucked-up tattoos of “artists” that were afraid to tell a client what they wanted was beyond their skill level. If a client asked me for a tattoo of their beloved Harley with flames and a skull, Zack would be better suited; I would ask the client to consider him instead. They were going to have that body art for the rest of their lives, so there was no room for ego. And Zack, knowing I was better at faces, flowers, and animals, would, in turn, do the same.

  Zack had the day off, and I was fine on my own. Monday night meant two things: early close and a drink at Roscoe Room. By nine, I’d had a few people come in to look through photo albums bursting with designs. We didn’t have a lot of flash on the walls. Instead, Zack and I had our own artwork framed. We left the designs and photos of previous tattoos in the albums.

  I kept myself busy with the daily detox of the studio—that’s what I called it. I was incredibly pedantic about cleanliness. From every inch of the walls, windows, floors, chairs, equipment… even the fucking cup that held pens on the counter. I made sure you wouldn’t hesitate to eat off any surface of the studio. I even wiped down the green couch. Some clients, the ones who had done all the Internet research available, would ask questions about the autoclave, ask to see our stock, made sure we used disposable ink caps and needles. It was tempting to tell them that this was Laguna Beach, not the back of your Uncle Jessup’s garage, but that would have been bad business.

  Quarter after nine, and I was ready to close. Everything I had prepared for the Giger tattoo had been put away. I stood up, trying to think of what I had in the fridge at home to eat, when the bell above the door rang. I thought it would have been Deanna, but it wasn’t.

  Angelica stood, shaking before me.

  “Hi, Nico,” she said, her eyes about to spill over with tears.

  “Come here.” I held my arms out as she ran into them and cried into my chest.

  “Can you… can you make me a heart?” she stuttered.

  “Of course I can.”

  She sniffled into my chest, the poor girl. I wasn’t sure if she had anyone she could really turn to. Angelica looked just like her name: white blonde hair and fair skin, bright blue eyes and the face of a cherub.

  Her rosy cheeks and small but full lips trembled as she spoke. “I’m just having a hard time. It would have been her birthday.”

  Angelica first came to me about six months after she turned eighteen. Her parents were very conservative, active in their community, and so was their perfect daughter. She had the highest grade-point-average in her school and a scholarship to Stanford. That was, until she came home and announced she was in love and engaged to her Marine boyfriend. She also told them she was pregnant.

  She explained that her boyfriend, even though he was older, had insisted they wait until she was eighteen to be intimate. He’d told her, “We have the rest of our lives; what’s a few more months?”

  The unfortunate part of her story was the absence of her fiancé. He had been deployed a week before she announced her big news, but he was happy and had bought her a very nice ring that she wore with pride.

  After her parents went crazy about her throwing her life away for some jarhead, they relaxed and took her to get a proper check-up. The doctor told her to come back for a twenty-week scan and gave her some general information about how to take care of herself. She said that first kick was amazing. Her fiancé, Rich, called her and Skyped whenever he could and was anxious for that scan, to know what they were having. She went to the long awaited appointment with her mom, who had warmed to the idea of being a grandmother. After a few quiet minutes, the technician left the room and returned with a doctor. He asked her to get dressed and come into his office where they informed her the baby had died.

  Something I didn’t know, but learned through her experience, was at that late stage of pregnancy, you still had to give birth. They do not put you to sleep and wake you up when it was all over. She was given a drug to start labor and delivered her stillborn baby girl, her mom and dad never leaving her side. It was fucking terrible to hear it the first time, and even though I didn’t have kids, I could feel it, the heartache. And every goddamn heart I had put on her skin since, it took me days to shake the melancholy that seeped into me. Her fiancé was still coming back to marry her when he got leave, and I hoped to meet him. I respected the fact he hadn’t just proposed because she was pregnant. For every day she carried that child, she got a small pink heart. I did the math, which was roughly one hundred and forty hearts I would eventually put on her body.

  My phone buzzed just as I locked the doors. I looked down and read the message,

  Nicolas,

  We’ll have to wait a few weeks. I’m fine, please do
n’t worry.

  Deanna

  “Motherfucker,” I breathed and started up the steps to my house. In the door less than five minutes, I was in the shower. I usually came home and listened to classic rock. The Eagles, The Beatles, The Stones… I listened to that music because it reminded me of growing up with my parents, how they sometimes danced in the middle of the living room together like I wasn’t even there. I remembered thinking how happy they were and that was the soundtrack of my childhood, their happiness and that music. But now, not even that memory was making a dent in my foul mood.

  Out of the shower, dressed in tighter jeans than I usually wore, black suede ankle boots, a button-down black shirt, and black wife-beater underneath; I was almost ready. I grabbed my wallet, made sure I had plenty of cash and some condoms, grabbed my keys, locked the door, and walked down to the highway to catch a cab downtown.

  ***

  Marcus worked the door at Roscoe Room six days a week. Zack had done most of his tattoos, and, because of that, and because I was a local, I not only didn’t have to pay the cover, I didn’t have to wait in line. Marcus, who preferred the company of men, had informed me I was good for business. “Hot guys like you bring ‘em in, Nico.”

  Well, this supposed “hot guy” was ready to take ‘em home, or the back room, or the parking lot; I didn’t care. I just wanted to pound my dick into something. I needed to forget about my fucked-up reality and the reality of thirty-three other women for as long as some random chick would let me.