“Kang Keo was in Vegas for a lengthy business trip,” said Liam. “Probably still there.”
Grace leaned her seat back. “Are any of these tattoo shops near a bookstore?”
• • •
After the sixteen-hour flight, Menchú gave them an hour to get situated in their hotel before they got to work. Once freshened up and somewhat alert, Sal and Grace headed out to scout for food, books, and tattoo joints.
Mama Tat’s tattoo parlor was called Baby Face, and it was a short walk from Amber Unicorn Books, in which Grace spent eleven minutes and forty-five seconds finding two Mary Shelley books. They dropped by a casino for a burger and to plan their next move.
“How are you going to fight a tattoo artist?” Sal asked through a mouthful of Angus beef. Twenty-seven dollars seemed a lot for a burger, but the Vatican could afford it.
Grace considered. “Same way I fight anything else. I find a place that hurts, and I punch it. It’s easier than you’d think.”
“But haven’t you gone up against, I don’t know, a ghost or anything? Something insubstantial?”
“Ghosts always have a physical anchor, like a book or a bed or a candle. Ghosts are easy.”
The waitress, a woman with bottle-red hair, wearing far too little and looking even more tired than Sal felt, came by to check on them.
Sal spied a tattoo on the swell of the waitress’s right breast. It was a hummingbird sipping at a delicate yellow flower. She pointed to it. “Beautiful ink. Did you get it in town?”
The woman smiled and stuck her chest out further. “I call it my tip magnet, on account of my tips doubling since I got it. Take my word for it, ladies. Men like boobs with the ink.”
Sal coughed, and Grace stared at the woman. “Thanks for the advice,” Sal said when she recovered. “Where did you get it?”
“Little joint on the Strip. Butler’s Tray, it was called. Odd place. It closed down a few weeks ago, in fact.”
“Why’s that?” Sal asked.
“Too much competition. If you’re not on a reality show, now, you don’t get the business. At least that’s how it seems,” she said, and left to check on other customers.
“Even if nothing was weird here, why would someone think only twelve tattoo joints could service a city as big as Vegas?” Sal asked. “There has to be something else going on.”
Grace shook her head. “I can’t see why someone would waste time and energy marking their skin on purpose.”
Sal thought about Liam with his ink, and smiled. “They have their place.”
Grace looked at her strangely. “Have you done it?”
Sal snapped back to reality. “Gotten tattooed? No, never. I’m not against it, just never found something I wanted to put on my body forever.”
Grace nodded. “Since forever is an even longer situation for me, I agree.”
Sal searched for the location of Butler’s Tray on the Strip, and for other tattoo places. Baby Face was close, in fact, and open all hours.
“Who would want to get a tattoo at three in the morning?” Grace asked as they left the casino.
“Jet-lagged businessmen. Drunk tourists. Jet-lagged drunk tourist businessmen,” Sal said.
Grace checked her watch. “How are we going to find this Mama Tat person? With her fame, I expect she will be too busy for chatting.”
“I thought about getting an appointment, but I figured she would be booked because of the TV show. So I’ll just flash my badge,” Sal said, moving aside her jacket and pointing to the badge on her belt.
“You mean the badge that says NYPD on it,” Grace said flatly.
“No one ever looks at the badge too closely. I had a buddy who got backstage at a concert with a school safety badge.” Sal laughed, remembering. “She got in trouble for that, big time. And she found out the guys from Maroon 5 really don’t party much. Bunch of yoga mats and fruit juice.”
Grace didn’t smile, and Sal wondered if she kept up with pop music. Probably not. “We can try the walk-in method first, then the badge, and if all else fails, we break in through the back door.”
Grace nodded at last. “Sounds like fun.”
“Let’s try the carrot before the stick, Grace,” Sal said, checking her phone again for the address to Mama Tat’s.
• • •
The front window of Mama Tat’s Baby Face was decorated like a lot of tattoo parlors: neon signs, roses, jesters, and the face of a baby Sal remembered from Mama Tat’s many baby tattoos. Inside, blue polyester couches and gaudy framed pictures of half-naked women and men furnished a waiting room full of impatient tattooed customers.
Behind the red counter stood a woman with blond hair swept into a bun, blue hipster glasses, and a pink business suit. She looked closely at a clipboard, ticking something off a list. “Penelope Yancy, you’re next,” she called in a drawl Sal recognized as Georgian.
A young white woman with blue hair, several facial piercings, and a white tank top that showed off her many tattoos pulled herself off a couch. “My name’s Black Mamba,” she complained.
“I take your name from your ID, honey. Your friends can call you whatever they like,” the receptionist said without looking up.
Black Mamba flipped her the bird halfheartedly as she slouched through a door, following a heavyset black man. Sal blinked and realized the man was Charles, from the show.
“I’m almost willing to let you assume she’s the demon—just go ahead and punch her,” Sal said, nodding toward the receptionist, who clearly didn’t fit.
“There’s nothing demonic about this place,” Grace said. “Get your info, but whatever it is, it’s not here.”
“All right,” Sal sighed, and walked up to the counter. “We’d like to see Mama Tat, please.”
The woman looked at them over her glasses. “Do you have an appointment? The question is rhetorical because all of her appointments are already here. What I mean to say is anyone who thinks they can walk in and just get Mama Tat is deranged or drunk. And we don’t service drunkards. They bleed too much.”
“You don’t seem—” Sal began, but the woman interrupted her with a wave of her hand.
“—Like I should work at a tattoo parlor?” She rolled her eyes. “After the show started, they realized that they had to stop hiring their tattooed buddies to hold down the front desk and get a real administrative professional. Look at what I have to deal with, though—they don’t even have a computer here, though Mama Tat could afford a server farm at this point.”
“Is it usually like this?” Sal asked, gesturing to the waiting room. She let her Southern drawl creep into her voice.
“Every hour of the day,” the admin said.
“Impressive. And what’s the wait for a tattoo from Mama herself?”
“Three months.”
“Cost?”
“Fifteen hundred an hour.”
Sal choked back a laugh. “Is she that good?”
“She’s famous,” the admin said. “That’s all she needs. Now, is there anything I can do for you ladies that doesn’t involve Mama Tat? Perhaps an appointment three months out? Or you can see one of our other artists in two weeks.”
“You can tell me if there have been any complaints from the customers,” Sal said carefully, not wanting to say deaths right away.
“None. Mama Tat has satisfied customers or she touches up for free,” the admin said. “Are you from the health department? You’re required to show me ID if you are.”
“Not the health department,” Sal said. She moved her jacket aside so her badge peeked out. “But I do have some questions for her.”
“Let me see that,” the admin said, gesturing. Sal groaned inwardly and passed the badge over. “En, Why, Pee, Dee,” the admin said carefully. She glanced back up at Sal. “And I’da pegged you as Southern.”
“South Carolina, originally,” Sal said.
The admin’s eyes narrowed. “Clemson?”
“My daddy went to Georgia Tech,” Sal
lied smoothly.
The admin relaxed. While not a fan herself, Sal could speak the language of college rivalries.
“Is Mama Tat in some kind of trouble?” the admin asked.
“No. We’re asking questions regarding the TV show she was on, but she isn’t in trouble,” Sal said, silently adding, Not yet, anyway.
The woman nodded smartly. “Since you’re a Southern gal, I’ll tell you this. Mama Tat takes her after-work drink at Caesar’s. She gets off around eleven.”
“Thanks, hon,” Sal said.
4.
Menchú and Liam exited the taxi in front of Sunrise Hospital and Medical Center on South Maryland Parkway, Menchú in his usual priest’s garb, Liam in the black deacon’s shirt he wore if he needed to visit a place where priests were more welcome than brawlers.
Menchú squinted up at the hospital. “What did you say was Keo’s room number?”
“He’s still in the ER, according to their database,” said Liam, checking the cached info on his laptop.
“He can’t stay there,” Menchú said. “He’s a risk to the other patients.”
“I can move him up in the queue,” Liam said. “I just need an internet connection. This is America—there must be a Starbucks around here.”
“Do it,” Menchú said. “That diner across the street says free Wi-Fi.”
They sat over coffee and watched the triage program as Keo moved up in the queue, then was taken to an ER station and diagnosed with a “cardiac incident.” By their third cup of coffee, he’d been admitted, room 350.
“Let’s go,” Menchú said, leaving money on the table.
Menchú signed himself and Liam into the hospital registry, showing his Vatican ID to an impressed receptionist who seemed embarrassed to tell them she was a Baptist (but she told them anyway). They found room 350 and peeked in.
A nurse was settling Keo, who looked to be about fifty, in with his monitors. She turned when they entered.
“Visiting hours are over, Father,” she said. “I don’t think anyone called for you. He’ll be fine.” She gave a friendly smile to the man in bed, who looked drawn and afraid.
“I’m with the Vatican, and I need to ask Mr. Keo some questions of importance to the Church,” Menchú said. The nurse looked startled but, after a quick check of a list, nodded and left the room.
Menchú made the sign of the cross and sat down next to the bed. Liam took up a post at the door.
“Mr. Keo, I’m Father Menchú of the Vatican. That’s Brother Liam.”
“Why are you here? I am not Catholic,” Keo said, his voice faint.
“That doesn’t mean you’re not in danger,” Menchú said.
Keo lifted a hand with an IV in it, and dropped it weakly back to the bed. “Do not minister to me. I have seen enough of your meddling in my own country.”
“I’m not here for ministry,” Menchú said. “We believe you are sick because of a tattoo you received from the Ink Stainz reality show.”
“Impossible,” said the man. “That was months ago. And this isn’t a skin infection, it’s my heart. Too much fried food.”
“Father,” Liam said softly. He had opened his laptop and was staring at the screen. “Police reports are coming in that the other clients from episode six are dying. A heart attack. A dog mauling. Drug overdose.”
Menchú looked at Keo’s heart monitor. It beat regularly at 70 beats per minute.
“How are you feeling now?” Menchú asked.
“Better than I was, actually. They gave me nitroglycerin. What is this about?”
“What tattoo did you get on the show?” Menchú asked. He knew the answer, but didn’t want to disturb the man.
Keo sat up with little effort and gestured with his non-IV hand to the back of his neck.
Menchú opened the hospital gown. The tattoo looked as it had on the television footage Liam had showed him, except now it was bright red instead of black.
“What does the tattoo mean?” he asked, gesturing for Liam to come and see. The Irishman swore softly.
“It’s an old symbol, protection against evil spirits,” Keo said. “Is something wrong?”
“What color did you ink it? All of your other tattoos are black.”
“Yes, black,” Keo said, frowning. “They’re all black.”
Liam stepped back as the tattoo glowed brighter.
Mr. Keo twitched, looking over his shoulder. “What’s the matter? It’s starting to burn. What do you see?”
“I wish Grace were here,” Liam said.
“Call Sal,” Menchú said.
• • •
Sal and Grace were sipping sodas at a bar in the grand sprawl of Caesar’s Palace when Sal’s cell vibrated. It was Liam.
Get here ASAP. Sunrise Hospital. Rm 350. Bring G.
“Shit,” she said. “Something’s going down at the hospital.”
It was only ten o’clock; they had an hour to wait for Mama Tat. Too long. Sal paid the tab and they ran for a taxi.
Late night on the Strip was not the time to get anywhere quickly, but after a ten-dollar tip to the driver they were whizzing down side streets; they reached the hospital five minutes after Liam’s text.
The hospital receptionist paid much less attention to Sal’s badge than the admin at Baby Face, and Sal and Grace took the steps to the third floor.
Clambering up the stairs, they passed a night nurse having a hushed, tense conversation on her cell phone. She barely paid them any attention.
Sal’s cell buzzed as they opened the door to the third floor: Liam, one word. Scalpel.
Sal stopped short. She didn’t think hospitals kept scalpels just sitting out for anyone to grab. The night nurse had been careless to leave her post for the phone call, but hadn’t left any sharp instruments out.
“Do you have a knife?” she asked Grace.
“Of course,” Grace said.
They got to room 350, which was the only door closed on the floor.
They opened it to chaos.
Liam was sitting astride a man who lay facedown on the bed, screaming into a pillow. Menchú was praying while pressing on the man’s back with both hands.
His pressing didn’t seem to help. Something black ballooned from the man’s skin like a huge bubble about to burst. It thrashed, swelling around Menchú’s hand, relaxing, and pulsing back with more force.
“Did you bring something sharp?” called Liam. Grace ran forward with the knife.
“Cut it out carefully, before it kills him!” Menchú leaned away, his hands still on the man’s back.
“Cut what out?” Sal said. “Shouldn’t we know—”
Before she could finish, Grace slid her knife along the membrane, and something burst out, spraying black goo.
It flailed on the floor, a childlike horror made of ink. It reminded Sal of a monkey crossed with an octopus, throwing tentacles about that tried to wrap around the chair leg, Menchú’s cassock, and Sal’s ankle. Its grip was weak, and it called plaintively, its mouth full of sharp teeth, its eyes red.
Grace impaled it on her knife, then cut its head off.
“Everyone all right?” Grace asked, and they all murmured some level of agreement.
Liam, Grace, and Menchú relaxed, panting. Sal kicked the limp tentacle off her foot, shuddering. The man on the bed ceased struggling and relaxed, his eyes closing. The wound on his back, a cut rather than the ragged hole that likely would have been there had they not arrived to give the demon an assisted birth, ran black threaded through with red traces, until finally the discharge looked like regular blood.
Menchú shifted Kang Keo’s head to the side so he wouldn’t suffocate, and reattached the heart rate monitor. His pulse was swift, but slowing, his breathing settling into something like sleep.
Menchú opened a drawer in the bedside table, found some gauze, and pressed it on the wound. Without being prompted, Liam brought him a wet washcloth from the bathroom. Menchú cleaned away the blood and black goo.
“It served its purpose,” Menchú said grimly. “The others won’t have been so lucky.”
“What the hell happened?” asked Sal as they tried to clean up. The black goo that splattered them was thin and odorless, but it stained their clothes.
“It’s ink,” Liam said, rubbing his fingers together.
“The time came for the sixth episode people to die,” Menchú said, continuing to clean Keo. “But this man received an ancient protection tattoo on the show, and that saved him. From the looks of it, a demon was implanted in the tattoo—but unlike with the other victims, it was not allowed to fester and rot and consume the life force from within. It stayed in the tattoo, finally trying to escape the only way it could.”
Sal toed the body on the floor, which was already melting. She was reminded of the movie Gremlins. “What was it?”
Menchú knelt beside it, taking a picture with an old-fashioned, film-loaded camera. “I don’t know. I’ve not seen anything like this before. I’ll send a picture to Asanti.”
“If you can find somewhere that develops film,” Liam said, snorting.
• • •
They cleaned up most of the ink before the night nurse burst in on them, face flaming with what Sal suspected was shame as well as rage.
“Mr. Keo’s heart monitor was interrupted. What—what happened here?” she asked, eyes going wide as she rushed to Mr. Keo’s side, checking his vitals.
Sal flashed her badge, and Menchu and Liam showed their collars. “We needed to ask Mr. Keo some time-sensitive questions. But, dammit, my fountain pen exploded when I was trying to get his statement. I use the old kind, with a bottle of ink. Used to think it was quaint. We are so sorry for the mess. We tried to clean up as much as we could.”
After she had determined that Mr. Keo was fine, albeit ink-stained, the nurse glared at them. “I am going to get the janitor. I want you gone when I get back, or I’m calling security.” She glanced at Menchú. “Even on you, Father.”
Menchú nodded graciously. “We’ll be but a moment longer.”
Mr. Keo was stirring now, and watching them all with bleary eyes. He remembered very little, even as Menchú talked him through his experience.
Bookburners: Season One Volume One Page 31