by Rhys Ford
“Iced tea. And for you, I’ll bring you a glass too, because the malt’s kind of thick. I’ll give you boys a little time to talk. Kitchen’s a bit in the weeds, so it’s going to be a while. I’ll send one of the boys around with a mess of jalapeno onions to tide you over. Unless this one doesn’t do hot.”
“I came in with him,” Rob shot back to Marge’s delight. “I think I can handle any heat you throw at me.”
“You better keep this one,” she said as she tucked her pencil behind her ear. “Might just be the kick in the pants you need to get your life in order. If you need anything, scream for one of the boys.”
Rob watched her leave and then gave Mace a blinding grin. “I like her. She gives you shit.”
“A lot of people give me shit. I have four brothers, remember?” Mace pointed out. “You don’t leave that house unless you get a cupful of shit with your breakfast every morning. Two if you have to eat it with Ivo.”
They sat in silence as their drinks were dropped off, and then a moment later, a basket of onion petals and deep-fried jalapeno slices was placed on the table with a tub of sriracha-ranch dressing. Mace picked at the steaming clump to find a thick pepper, popped it into his mouth, and savored the crunchy heat. His eyes watered, and when he blinked them clear, he found Rob studying him.
“Are we just going to sit here and pretend like… we didn’t just fuck behind the shop?” Rob kept his voice low and glanced behind him when the kitchen door swung open and a tide of servers poured out, their trays piled high with dishes of steaming food. He pulled out a chunk of onion, dipped it into the dressing, and bit into it. Murmuring a happy noise, Rob waved the bitten onion back and forth. “Never mind. I’m just going to act like we’re on a date and eat all of this. Fuck the pressure to look hot in skinny jeans. I’m going to eat this and then harass you into talking to your brothers.”
DINNER WAS an odd affair with an undercurrent of frustration, sexual tension, and oddly enough, laughter. The emotions Mace locked down early that evening crept out from the boxes he’d put them in. Rob did most of the talking, but it was nice to sit back in his chair, pick off the skin of his fried chicken, and listen to stories about crazy clients and bad tattoos. He heard enough of those things from his brothers, but it was different from Rob, a perspective not tied to the family business. After half an hour, Rob felt comfortable enough to share how he saw Bear, Gus, and Ivo, as well as the shop he owned but wasn’t really a part of.
“Every place kind of has its own feel,” Rob said between slurps of his malt. “The shop I worked in before I came to 415 Ink was a shit hole. I mean, the work was good, and it was steady, but a lot of my time was spent trying to keep appointments, because the owner was okay with other artists sniping your clients. So I get a call telling me my one o’clock canceled, and I go in later thinking I don’t have to cover the shift, and when I get there, somebody else is working on the guy I’d booked.”
“Bear would tear apart somebody’s ass if they did that.” Mace shook his head. “I don’t even work there, and I know that. I gotta give you credit for working with Gus and Ivo, because they’re pains in the ass.”
“I was kind of intimidated by Ivo when I first started, because he’s got a rep for not taking any bullshit, but he’s a really good artist, and he’s serious about work. That’s hard to find sometimes.” Rob pushed his plate away and picked up his water to take a sip. “I didn’t know what to think about Gus because—and don’t take this wrong—but I’ve wanted him to give me a sleeve for a really long time. The shit he does with shadows and light is incredible, and it’s weird because he’s a little bit more aloof than Ivo, but when he’s with you guys, he’s kind of a goof.
“And Bear is just….” Rob let out a soft whistle. “The man’s just a fucking legend with Neo-Traditional. I’ve learned more about black ink and skin types from him in the time I’ve been there than I have my entire career of doing tattoos. It’s like God said, ‘Let there be this one family who knows everything about tattooing and put them someplace Rob Claussen can learn from them and be humbled by them.’ Because every single one of them can kick my ass nine ways to Sunday, and I will come back every single time to find out why.”
The passion in Rob’s face was breathtaking. It was cliché and cheesy to say, but as he began to talk about his craft, he literally glowed. The play of the diner’s bright lights over his skin gilded the sweep of his cheekbones and played with the cognac streaks in his eyes. His hands were animated, a murmuration of delicate gestures combined with staccato stabs of his fingers in the air to make his point.
Rob had just begun to wax poetic about the joys of derma film instead of old-school meatpacking strips and gauze tape when he stopped midsentence and snorted.
“What? It’s interesting to hear this, because I sat through the same conversation a couple of years ago with the three idiots back at the house, and by the end of it, they were all arguing for it but with each other, for some reason.” Mace organized his utensils next to his plate and moved his elbow out of the way as a server collected everything to box up their leftovers. He murmured his thanks and then turned his attention back to Rob. “Really, I used to spend a lot of time buying supplies for the shop when it first started, so I can tell you all about the pros and cons of the film. For one, it might be more expensive, but in the long run it’s a hell of a lot cheaper. Do you have any idea how much those pads cost?”
“I was supposed to spend this time trying to get you to talk to your brothers about your dad, remember?” Rob set his water glass down, and Mace saw the tease of a smile that touched the edges of his lips. “I always thought you were an asshole because you ragged on Ivo and the others. But now I think it’s because you’re backing Bear up.”
“Most of the time, yeah.” He shrugged as he remembered the days of runny oatmeal and dragging teenage boys out of bed so they wouldn’t miss the bus to school. “He and I kind of divided up the adult shit between us. I was going to school and doing training while he was working through his apprenticeship and tattooing at night. The house was crappy, but the roof didn’t leak once we figured out how to fix it, and over the years, we just sorta tackled projects on the weekends… with a lot of fighting.”
“Ivo looks like he would fight dirty.” Laughing, Rob shook his head. “They give me shit about calling Bear by his nickname.”
“It’s important to them. But that’s Ivo’s thing. His story to tell.” Thanking the server for the packaged-up leftovers, Mace handed her the check folder and the cash he’d tucked into it. “I’ve got to stop at my place to pick up a tricycle that Rey got for Chris. I’ll be heading over to Ashbury afterward, but do you want me to drop you off at home or back at the shop?”
“Are you going to talk to your brothers? About your dad and the crap he pulled?” The skepticism in Rob’s voice was as thick as the malt he’d sucked down.
“Probably not tonight, because it’s kind of shitty to follow a party up with that, but I promise I’ll sit down and have a talk with them. It just… Jesus, I really don’t want to. There’s a lot of shit smeared on me, and it’s going to be hard to let them see it.” The idea of facing his brothers turned the greasy food he’d eaten into a sour mess in his stomach, but Mace knew Rob was right. He had to tell them what had happened when he was a kid and hope for the best. Luke’s reaction worried him, but it would kill him if Ivo looked at him with disappointment in his eyes. “Come on. I’ll stop at the garage first to grab the tricycle out of my storage and then take you home. You live in Chinatown, right? What street are you on?”
“Funny you should bring that up.” Rob’s chair screeched when he backed it up across the linoleum floor. “I seem to live right across of this fire station where a bunch of guys come out every once in a while and wash their truck.”
“I CAN’T believe you sit in your living room and watch me wash the truck,” Mace repeated for what was probably the fifth time since they’d left the diner. “That’s—”
“Don’t take this wrong, but you’re not the only guy out there in a wet T-shirt and shorts. And Lilith swings all ways, so it’s kind of like a buffet for her,” Rob corrected him. “But I’m not going to lie and say I don’t like how you have to squat on the roof to scrub it. And it’s nice when you guys have a water fight and your shirt gets soaked through so you take it off and wring it out. I had to talk Lilith out of recording it so we could watch it at night over and over as we ate ice cream. You should thank me for that.”
Mace glanced at Rob in the passenger seat and narrowed his eyes. “So I should thank you for not turning me into soft porn that you fantasize over while you eat mint chocolate chip ice cream?”
“Mint chocolate chip? Please. Rocky road with caramel Magic Shell. Only plebeians eat mint chocolate chip. It’s either rocky road or rum raisin. Double Rs all the way.”
“I happen to like mint chocolate chip,” Mace grumbled back as he eased the SUV into the parking level of his building.
“I will have to teach you the error of your ways and bring you over to the rum-raisin side of the Force. Not strong enough for rocky road yet but soon….” Rob tsked. “You will be, just not tonight. Tonight you’re going to be a good little fireman, grab your nephew’s toy, drop me off at home, and then head out to the family estate, where you will masterfully assemble said toy for a three-year-old who would probably rather play with the box.”
“So, I see you’ve met Chris. You’re not far from wrong. The kid does like a good box.”
Even though it wasn’t quite midnight, Mace was fairly certain most of the tenants in the building were already asleep. His headlights flashed across the small dumpster the residents used for their trash, and as he pulled into his parking space, the fluorescents next to the stairs flickered erratically. Barred half-moon openings ran around the perimeter of the level and pulled in some illumination from the streetlamps, but for the most part, the level was lit by pale yellow bulbs, barely strong enough to turn the shadows milky. Only a few of the other residents had cars. Most lived a walking existence, which was easy to do in Chinatown.
“It’s kind of spooky down here.” Rob peered out at the deserted level. “And just so you know, I’m really resisting the urge to ask you to take me upstairs. Not because I don’t think I’ll have a good time, but because I think you and I need something more than just a good time.”
Mace turned off the SUV’s engine and shifted in his seat to face Rob. There were so many things he wanted to say—needed to say—and the words came to him too quickly to sort out. Swallowing the garbled sounds he knew lingered in his throat, Mace nodded. “You’re easy to talk to. And that’s not something I’ve ever really looked for. You make me hot, and there are times when I just want to pull you down to the floor and make you scream my name.
“And then—especially now—I just want to see what it’s like to sit on the couch with you and watch a movie or read a book.” Mace raked his hand through his short hair. “I like how you’re noisy even when you’re not saying anything, because I kind of need that. You also don’t… you’re not scared of me. You give me my shit right back, and that’s something, in my books. So yeah, I think you and I deserve something more than just a good time.”
“Okay.” Rob flashed him a quick, rueful grin. “Let’s go get the tricycle box into the SUV so you can take me home, and I’ll fall asleep on the couch with ice cream on my face instead of partying with rock stars.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, at least you know Lilith won’t be bringing one home with her tonight,” he pointed out with a laugh. “Actually, your help would be great. Rey just tosses the stuff in there sometimes, and I usually have to dig things out.”
The ground was a little wet under their sneakers, and the weak light made opening the lock on his storage unit a little difficult. He’d just gotten the latch popped open when Rob made a startled sound, jerking Mace’s attention up. A shuffling noise echoed through the parking level, the click-click-click of something being dragged slowly down the open staircase.
Moments after Rob seemed to catch his breath, a long shadow lumbered from side to side, thrown against the retaining wall at different angles from the various light sources in the garage. A form emerged from the faded brown darkness, armored with a helmet of tightly wound pink curlers and clothed in a floral housecoat bright enough to burn Mace’s retinas. A pair of yellow plastic slippers embellished with rainbow-hued vinyl flowers caught the light at the bottom of the stairs, and a single red dot flared up, glowed bright, then faded back down as a stream of smoke ghosted over the person’s face.
“Mrs. Hwang, I thought you quit smoking. The doctor told you to stop.” Mace let the lock drop, and its heavy weight slapped the storage door. “And what are you doing taking out the trash this late? I would have gotten it for you in the morning.”
“Hush. Just don’t tell the doctor.” Mrs. Hwang peered out from her thick glasses and strained to see past Mace’s shoulder. Switching to Cantonese, she asked, “Who’s that? Is that a boyfriend? Did you bring home a boyfriend? I know the other one isn’t your boyfriend, because he’s seeing your blond brother, the one with the motorcycle. So who’s this?”
Rob chortled under his breath, and Mace was trapped between answering the old Chinese woman dragging a pair of trash bags down the stairs or pretending he didn’t understand her and hoping Rob didn’t know Cantonese. The smug look on Rob’s face did nothing to reassure Mace.
“I know the sound of a woman digging for gossip no matter what language she speaks.” Rob’s smirk grew until dimples appeared in his cheeks. He took a few strides over to Mrs. Hwang and held his hand up to her. “Hi, I’m Rob, Mace’s friend. Let me help you with the trash.”
“Let me get rid of the cigarette,” Mace replied in Cantonese. The old woman had her chin up, but she let Rob take the bags from her. Mace wasn’t fooled. Mrs. Hwang was gearing up for a fight, and he was going to have to go a few rounds with her before she surrendered her contraband… providing he won the argument. “You can’t smoke. It’s not good for—”
The sound of Mrs. Hwang coming down the stairs was as familiar to Mace as the clang of the station’s bell for an alarm, but the heavy tread of boots coming up the slight incline of the driveway into the parking structure was unfamiliar, especially close to midnight. It was rare for any of the residents to use the driveway to enter the building, especially since the elevator was closer to the front door. A car pulled in behind the large man walking toward them and threw him into a silhouette.
“Rob, drop the bags and get Mrs. Hwang upstairs,” Mace ordered firmly. He didn’t need to see the man’s face. He knew exactly who was walking across the painted concrete. He’d felt those fists clenched at the man’s side, and his ribs ached on cold wintry nights where the man’s boots had stomped on his torso. “Move now. Don’t ask—”
“Now is that any way for a son to greet his daddy?” His father lengthened his stride, and the car came to a stop, angled across the narrow driveway, and blocked them in. Mace glanced quickly back as another man got out of the vehicle, but he twisted around when he heard Mrs. Hwang shakily ask him to explain what was going on in a string of stuttering Cantonese.
“Mrs. Hwang, you and Rob go back to your place.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but a thread of strident begging wove through his words. “I’ll be up in a bit.”
“You just park your ass right there… Rob, is it? Tell you what, you keep the China lady from doing anything stupid and I won’t blow your brains out.” His father pulled a wicked-looking gun from his waistband and let his jacket drop back into place. He held it loosely at his side, but there was no doubt in Mace’s mind that Rob and Mrs. Hwang would be shot the moment they turned toward the stairs. Moving into the light, his father’s face peeled out of the shadows and revealed a network of bruises that ran down his cheek and over his jaw. “Boy, you and I need to have little talk.”
“Leave them alone.” Mace slid over and p
laced himself in front of the others. The gun was up now, raised as soon as Mace closed the distance between them. His father was a couple of yards away, but Mace could still smell the reek of cheap gin and stale cigarettes that rolled off of his father’s clothes and skin. “You and your friend need to go. I don’t want any trouble with you. And you don’t want any trouble from me. Just walk away and your parole officer won’t ever know you were here.”
“See, that’s the problem, Johnny. I was in jail. Do you know what they do to a man in jail? They make it impossible for him to earn any money, so when he gets out he’s got to go begging like a dog, because the kind of job he could get hired for, a damned immigrant came across the border and took it from him.” His father’s hand shook slightly, but the muzzle of the gun was tilted up, aimed at Mace’s chest. “And since you couldn’t see to doing right by your old man the first time, I thought I would bring Bruce by, and we could teach you some manners until you changed your mind. So, what’s it going to be? You going to see the light and cough up some cash for your daddy, or do I have to remind you how little a shit I give about people who aren’t good enough to wipe my ass?”
Thirteen
THERE WAS nothing more ironic than standing in the shadows in front of a tattoo artist you were falling for and an elderly woman who taught you Chinese and facing down the man who’d forged your fear of darkness. It was also the moment when Mace realized the only thing more bitter than irony was regret. If they walked out of this, he was going to spend the rest of his life making sure he told everyone he cared for how much they meant to him, and he hoped he wouldn’t die trying to prove it.
Because his father’s face held no affection, no concern over Mace’s well-being. He would as easily pull the trigger as he would kick a dog walking past. And Mace had seen his father kick many a dog.