As Joey took a moment to rub his eyes, the chime at the front entrance rang. He heard the door swing open. Peeking through the cut-out partition from the back room, he saw a policeman enter his shop.
He figured they'd come, sooner or later.
The cop, middle-aged with a moustache, gazed at the photographs of Joey's past tattoo projects hanging on the walls in the waiting room, then sat on the tattered couch there, leaning to one side and looking slightly concerned that the old piece of furniture might fall apart.
Joey stood, stretched, then went out to the front room. He immediately forgot about the beautiful tapestry tattoo nearly completed on Jimmy Cooper's back. Suddenly, there was a more pressing issue, something he knew he'd have to get involved in sooner or later.
The cop stood to greet Joey. He was older than Joey, probably in his mid to late fifties. His face possessed a dark, serious tone that nearly vanished when Joey came into the room.
"Good evening. I'm Detective Frank Ballaro." He held out his hand. Joey accepted it.
"Hello officer. Joey Zamp. What brings you in? Interested in a piece of skin art?"
The cop smiled, shook his head and raised his hands. "No, no, thank you. And please, call me Frank."
"Very well Frank. What can I do for you?"
"Joey," he said, pacing away, gazing once again at the photographs on the wall. "I'm one of the detectives investigating the tattoo murders."
Joey nodded, blew out a deep troubled breath.
"Obviously you're familiar with the case," Ballaro said, first glancing at Joey, then at a photograph of a woman's torso that had been tapestried into a demon's face, the nipples serving as its eyes; her naval, its mouth.
Joey nodded. "Yes, of course. I've read about it in the papers, and there's been talk amongst the clients too. They're very worried and upset over the whole thing. As you can imagine, so am I."
Ballaro stared at Joey. "Last night there was another murder."
Joey felt his heart pound. Dread nearly ripped him to shreds, and he had to fight back the tears in his eyes. "Damn..." He pounded a fist into his leg, clenched his teeth and stared at the ceiling. "This is getting terrible."
"Yes, it is," Ballaro agreed. "Do you know of a man named Tommy Jackson?"
Joey locked gazes with Ballaro. "Tommy? Yeah, I did the art on his back. He was nicknamed Scorpion because he had a big black one tattooed on the side of his neck."
"Well," Ballaro said. "It was him we found last night. In an alley on 21st in Gramercy Park. He'd been murdered like the rest. Stabbed numerous times through the heart. And then, his tattooed back...had been skinned. Meticulously sliced and peeled from his body."
Joey could say nothing, only shake his head in denial.
Ballaro said, "That marks the eleventh victim to date. All heavily tattooed men. Murdered, their entire backs stripped."
"I knew some of the others," Joey offered. "Three were friends that I'd done some work o-on." He stuttered, shaken. "T-This has become a terrible tragedy. And as you can see," Joey said, pulling his shirt off and turning around to display his own heavily tattooed back, "I'm concerned for my own safety as well."
"That's the reason why I'm here. First and foremost, to warn you of the potential danger. But I'd also like to ask you, since you're quite the expert, if you could lend me some insight as to what our killer might be thinking."
Joey smiled thinly. "I'm flattered you would come to me. But my art is my passion. My only means of support, as well as my recreation. I do nothing else but think of my trade. I couldn't possibly understand the thinkings of someone so...so deranged. Have you visited some of the other parlors in the city?"
"Yes, a few," Ballaro said, looking up at another photograph of Joey Zamp's work. Eyebrows raised, he seemed quite intrigued.
"What did you learn from them?" Joey inquired.
"What is this?" Ballaro asked, pointing to a photograph.
Joey grinned. "Exactly what you think it is. A woman came in once, had a nice variety of art on her body. She wanted a monster's face tattooed right there on her, er well...as you can see, this is the monster's mouth, here's the nose and eyes—"
"I see, I see," Ballaro said, shaking his head. "Can't believe it's real, though."
"I did a nice job, huh?"
"Very nice Joey," Ballaro said cheekily, grinning, clearly wondering why anyone would mar their body like that.
"I've seen it all, detective."
"Ballaro locked gazes with him. "Well, if you've seen it all Joey, then please, give me some idea as to what our killer might be thinking."
Joey ran a hand through his hair, confused. "I've been doing this for almost thirty years. I know a good deal of people on the scene, all the artists and most of the customers. But, as you can tell from my display, I only work with those clients who are serious about their skin art. I don't do flowers and suns and birds on the shoulders of college girls, so I can't say I know all of those who frequent the tattoo scene. But as far as my acquaintances, I can't think of anyone being capable of such heinous acts."
Ballaro nodded. "Can you speculate as to why this person is committing these crimes?"
"The only thing I could think of is someone heavily overcome with jealousy, maybe someone who has never been able to master the art of tattooing themselves and feels the need to take it out on those who've been fortunate enough to make it their lives."
"But those killed weren't all artists. In fact most were enthusiasts."
"You asked me to guess, detective."
"Yes...of course. Well then what of the skinnings? Any speculation there?"
Joey thought about it. "A souvenir maybe? Unless the killer skinned the victims while they were still alive, in which case then there might have been some animosity involved."
"How do you mean?"
"Maybe the killer knew all his victims and in some way had been jealous of their art. We're a competitive bunch, you know. If you ever get a chance, you ought to attend a skin art convention. All of the attending artists are vying for top spots in the competitions. It gets pretty heated."
Ballaro smiled, handed Joey a business card. "Thank you very much for your time. Here's my number at the precinct. If you hear of anything, call me. Okay?"
"Of course, detective."
The two men shook hands. As Ballaro turned to leave, he stopped, then peeked through the cut-out partition into the back room where Jimmy Cooper was still lying on his stomach atop the futon. His eyes were closed. "I'm sorry if I interrupted your work."
"No problem," Joey said. "We were on a break."
Ballaro shook his head, blew out a sigh of wonder. "How long did it take to do all that?" he asked, referring to Jimmy Cooper's tapestry.
"Nearly six weeks."
"It's quite beautiful."
"If you want, Frank, we can arrange an appointment for you—"
Ballaro backed away from the window, palms up in defense. "Oh no. No thank you. I'd rather remain in the audience, if you get my drift."
Joey grinned, nodded. "I get your drift."
"Well, I must be getting back to the station. Thank you for your time, Joey. Be careful. And please let me know if you hear anything at all."
"I will. And likewise, if there's anything else I can do to help out, feel free to call on me."
"I definitely will."
Joey held the door open for Detective Ballaro. "Good evening, detective."
Joey waited until Detective Frank Ballaro was around the corner before he locked the door behind him. He then turned and paced slowly back to the tattoo room, taking a deep breath then letting it out slowly to relieve some of the tension that had welled up inside him during his conversation with the detective. Talking about the murders had unnerved him quite a bit. He wondered what the detective would come up with next.
He placed a hand on Cooper's back. "You asleep?"
Cooper's eyes fluttered opened, gazed at Joey with odd, unmoving eyes. He looked...crazy. "What'd that med
dling cop want?"
"I guess you weren't asleep, huh?"
"Resting my eyes, Joey. I hope you told him to mind his own business."
Joey felt uncomfortable with Jimmy's demeanor, hoping he'd lay there long enough so he could finish the job.
"Sit tight, Jimmy. I'll be right back."
Joey stepped away into the rear stockroom. Once inside, he slid a large wooden chest filled with supplies away from the wall, revealing a basement hatch. He took a key attached to a chain at his waist and slid it into the lock. He opened the door and put the key into his pocket.
He went down the steps into the basement.
Reaching bottom, he pulled a tiny ball chain hanging from the ceiling, attached to a single bulb. The room lit dimly, leaving the corners in darkness.
He had told Detective Ballaro that he knew only a few of the victims. He lied.
He knew them all. Joey was the artist that had tattooed their backs.
And, as a result, they had all unwittingly participated in his lifelong project, the project that now hung proudly on display before him: eleven fully tattooed skins, all pulled taut and sewn together, their designs flowing perfectly into one another to form the ultimate tapestry, a scene depicting a medieval landscape, a great warrior in battle, a castle behind him, lush trees filled with frightened maidens.
In the middle, an empty space. The final piece of the puzzle. A great dragon.
Joey took a deep breath, then leaned down and grabbed the six-inch razor he kept on the floor by the tapestry.
The instrument he used to create his work of art.
He gazed one last time at the tapestry, imagined what it would look like complete, then went upstairs where Cooper waited.
Finally, Joey Zamp finished the job.
Urban Sabbatical
While waiting for his wife to return from a tour of the city, Corbin sipped a gin and tonic on the balcony of the hotel suite. He'd been encouraged to accompany Roberta and her associate Darren Heller on the two-hour excursion, but decided to pass on the opportunity. Darren's wife Camille was inside fixing dinner for the four of them.
For an hour Corbin had been staring out over the lights of Manhattan. He hadn't wanted to visit New York in the first place, with or without the Hellers. Nothing against them. He simply detested the concrete jungle, especially in this section where he'd been invited to stay for the past two weeks. Just apartments and skyscrapers. No trees. No plants. No animals. Just a gray, dismal landscape.
And August in New York was simmering hot. Damn it, he felt like a heel for allowing Roberta to convince him to leave Myrtle Beach. You only get one summer off a year, he argued, and despite the fact the opportunity meant the world to his wife, he'd give the sweaty shirt off his back right now to be vacationing with her somewhere along the coast of Lake Ontario instead.
People leave the city to vacation, not go to it.
Heat and exhaust rose from the street in visible layers, the cars and trucks laboring through as if gasping with distress. It sifted high through the air so even the statues and buildings appeared to choke, the pigeons roosting on the eaves bowing their heads in torment, pleading for compassion.
Through the city's muggy breaths came a knock on the balcony door.
When Corbin turned he saw a black man standing just beyond the glass partition. Corbin had seen a great deal of strangely exotic people during his two-week stay in New York, but had paid them no genuine interest. Here in the vicinity of his temporary and somewhat sterile haven, the man's presence was a bit jarring. He stood at least six-three, and entered the balcony on thickly calloused bare feet. In his arms he carried a motionless Chihuahua.
Quite a laughable twosome, Corbin thought. Though he resented his wife for dragging him into this gargantuan mess-alopolis, he induced a welcoming smile.
The black man made their encounter non-welcoming, pressing his face against the dog's muzzle and whispering utterances in Creole.
Corbin had learned a few words of the Haitian language by default, living with a woman whose obsession with the culture ran to all extremes. Roberta had admonished him for not sharing her enthusiasm for the world's "most intriguing civilization," insisting that he, at the very least, show some interest in her passion. I'm a school teacher for Christ's sake, he'd argue. And if I were an anthropologist, I'd delve into more pleasurable areas, like Hawaii or Cabo. She'd shrug off his indifference to general pigheadedness and march off upstairs to read up on Haitian customs and language.
Here, all he could do was mimic the Chihuahua's somber expression and wait until the whispering verbiage ceased. He peered into the suite and called for some support.
"Camille! I believe our guest has arrived! Would you please come out here before I laugh in his face?" He gazed at the man and added, "If you'd have come a week ago, I'd be home by now."
Camille Heller stepped out onto the balcony wearing a sauce-spotted apron, holding a ladle. She was attractive, slim with dark brown hair, bubbling with vigor at the very appearance of their visitor. Roberta, Camille, and Darren had ventured together on two other funded sabbaticals in the past, one to South Africa and the other to Venezuela. When Camille called and revealed that Harvard had subsidized a trip to New York, Corbin questioned the validity of such a furlough.
It's for a project we've been working on, Roberta explained. And this time I'd like for you to come.
Gazing at the strange black man and his dog, he questioned it even more.
Camille held a very lively discussion with the stranger in Creole, then turned towards Corbin, her face ablaze with excitement. "It's official!"
"What's official?"
"We've been invited to a Haitian voodoo ceremony, right here in Manhattan!"
"Oh, good God. Are you kidding me? Isn't that taking things a bit too far?"
"And I would like for you to come." Roberta's voice filtered in from behind the stranger. Peering around the Haitian's body, Corbin saw his wife glaring at him, Darren Heller at her shoulder.
"No Roberta. Uh-uh," he said, pointing his gin and tonic. "You never told me about...about this!"
"You would have never come to New York if I did."
"Well I'm not going anywhere, especially with this freak."
"Well I'm attending. Whether you decide to go is your business." She tramped back into the suite. A frowning Camille followed, leaving Corbin alone with the Haitian and his tiny dog.
Corbin smiled weakly. The black man ignored him, whispering secrets to his dog.
There was much to consider. If he stayed behind then he would have to entertain himself for the night until the three of them returned from the so-called ceremony. He'd have to prepare his own meal, or eat out alone without a soul to talk to. And then the city with the heat and the awful smells and all the hustle and bustle—it would just about send him over the edge. And besides all that, having to deal with an angry Roberta would not be a pleasurable way to end the trip. She'd hold it against him for weeks.
The next evening, following a hearty meal and considerable supply of mixed drinks, the four of them left by cab with the Chihuahua-toting envoy relaying directions. He went by the name Namor, and he spent the last eighteen hours on his knees in prayer in one of the suite's three bedrooms. The ride took them to the outskirts of the city, past Harlem and well into the heart of the Bronx. Once there Namor guided them into a subway station where they made three stops. Corbin was nervous in the squalid environment, but Darren and Camille's sociological work in New England's worst areas had the two of them taking the journey in stride. Roberta's wandering eyes told him that she was savoring the cultural experience.
Contemptfully, Corbin took in the hot, horrid stenches of New York's underground, the variety of colorful people and the potential threat they carried with them, all the while trying to share in his wife's enthusiasm, to imagine what everyone else might be thinking and how they could possibly be enjoying the experience. He failed to find any satisfaction in the moment, seeing only
the inside of a stained subway car as it ground to a stop at their destination.
Namor led them out into a gray deserted street, a neighborhood lined with abandoned tenements and stripped vehicles. They made a quickened approach towards the entrance of one building with its brick facing lost beneath layerings of colorful graffiti. The windows were long shattered, leaving iron bars as the only means for security.
In the entranceway rats and insects roamed freely like house pets, some of them, Corbin imagined, ending up as meals for the local children. Trash filled the place, age-old phone books swollen and stained, crushed cans, shattered bottles littering the floor. Corbin considered retrieving a shard of glass for a weapon, just in case, but had no time as Namor quickly ushered them into a stairwell.
The odor here was hot and foul, assaulting Corbin's gorge as he fought back a bitter mix of bile and gin. The group remained quiet as their footsteps echoed their ascension of four flights, and when the stairs went no further they came into a hallway. "We are here," Namor informed them, then entered into the first room on the left.
This undoubtedly was the voodoo locale. The walls to the two adjacent apartments had been torn down, creating one very large area. The floor had been completely blanketed in hard-packed soil, twigs, leaves, rotting flowers and fruits littering it in scattered heaps. Mosquitoes buzzed about the place in clouds, seeking to mount themselves upon the new, fresh-smelling visitors.
A black man about the same size and height of Corbin approached from behind a brown curtain draped at the bathroom entrance, scowling and grunting in foreign tongue. Corbin backed away, gripping Roberta's arm, repulsed at the shocking sight of him. "Namor, what's he gibbering about?"
"He is the man of mission. The houngan. He says he can make the insects go away, if you prefer."
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