To Thine Own Self Be True

by Judy Clemens

  “Good to see you, man,” I said.

  “And you.”

  I thrust a thumb toward Nick, whose mouth had yet to shut at the vision Rusty presented.

  “My friend, Nick. Never seen your kind of place before.” Or Rusty’s kind of person, at least up close.

  Rusty nodded. “Come for a Christmas present?” he asked Nick. “Could do you up a nice little tattoo.”

  Nick found a smile. “No. Thank you. Just came along for the ride.”

  “Sure. But you’re missing out. Without a tattoo, you’re just a hairless ape.” Rusty turned back to me. “So what’s up? You here about Wolf and Mandy?”

  “Yeah. I want to pick your brain about people they know. I also want you to take a look at this. Maybe finish it up.” I held out my wrist, showing him the aborted design Wolf had begun.

  Rusty took a hold of my arm and turned it from side to side, checking out Wolf’s work. “Nice stuff, like always.” He let go. “I can’t, Stella. Not till we know. Finishing it up would feel almost like… Wolf will be back. He’ll finish it.”

  I let my wrist drop. “Sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No, no, it’s fine.”

  “How about the one on your arm?” Nick asked me.

  Rusty’s forehead puckered. “What’s that?”

  I slid off my coat and pulled up my shirt sleeve, exposing my mutilated quote.

  “Yikes,” Rusty said. “What happened?”

  “Bike accident this summer.”

  “Skin grafts?”

  “A couple.”

  He studied it a bit longer. “I could fix that up. Take a little while, though. Have to think about it.”

  I let my sleeve back down. “Don’t know if I’m up for that today. Rain check?”

  “I need time, anyway. Hang on a sec.” He grabbed a digital camera from the shelf and I pulled my sleeve back up so he could get a couple of shots. He then took out a tape measure, held it to my arm, and jotted some notes on a yellow notepad. “I’ll make a drawing,” he said. “Get back to you when it’s ready. Now let me see my baby.” He set down the tape measure, put his hands on my shoulders, and swiveled me around, pushing my head forward. “Ah. I’ve always been proud of this one. Never done another like it.”

  “It’s been a conversation starter,” I said. “Or ender, depending on the person.”

  He let me turn back around. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about Wolf.”

  I swallowed.

  “And I wonder if we can’t help out the cops a little. Talk to some folks, see what we can find out.”

  I was relieved. I’d been afraid he’d balk at helping the police. “Like who?”

  “Got some people in mind. I could take you around.”

  I thought of Billy. Wolf. Mandy lying in the snow. “Let’s do it.”

  “All right.”

  I hesitated.

  “What?” he said.

  I grimaced. “I’m thinking I should call the detective. See if she wants to tag along.”

  Rusty frowned. “You do that, no one will talk. We might as well not go.”

  I knew he was right.

  “You can fill her in at the end of the day,” Rusty said. “Let her know if we found out anything.”

  “What about me?” Nick said. “Will I be a problem?”

  Rusty looked him over. “Nah. You’re obviously not a cop. We’ll vouch for you.”

  Nick grinned at this. Being vouched for by me and a man who had more colors on him than Nick’s painting clothes.

  “Let me call home first,” I said. “Make sure everything’s okay.”

  Rusty pointed at the phone. “All yours. And while you’re talking, I’ll show your boyfriend here the tools of the trade.”

  I opened my mouth to protest the boyfriend notion, but stopped when I saw Nick’s face. He thought it was funny, damn him.

  I grabbed the phone off the cradle. Lucy and Tess were fine, and Lucy encouraged me to do what needed to be done. She’d take care of the farm. Man, I was lucky to have her.

  I hung up and found Nick receiving a lecture from Rusty. One he’d probably given hundreds of times. He had Nick over at the work station, pointing out instruments.

  “You want to insist on several things,” he said. “Single-use items—things the artist uses only on you then throws them away or sterilizes them. You watch him open the sterile packaging, so you know for sure. Needles, ink, tubes, gloves. You watch your artist pour a new ink supply into a new disposable container. A righteous artist will do all these things, and if yours doesn’t, go find a professional who will.”

  He gestured around the room. “You make sure the surroundings are clean, as well as your tattoo artist, and you feel free to ask anything you want about his sterilization procedures and isolation techniques. And you watch him work. Observe someone else getting a tattoo and make sure you like what you see. None of this hiding in the back room stuff. If he’s not doing his work out in the open, you don’t want to know what goes on where you can’t see. If he’s a qualified professional, he’ll have no problem with you doing these things. In fact, he’ll be glad you’re taking so much responsibility. The artist himself is actually in more danger than the customer, with all the people he sees and the bodies he works on. The gloves are as much protection for him as for you.”

  Nick took a breath to ask a question, but Rusty barreled on.

  “This is, of course, after you’ve found someone who does the quality of art you’re looking for. After all, you’re gonna have this thing forever. Oh, and you’ll have to sign this waiver before a qualified artist will even touch you.” He held out a sheet of paper I recognized, a release that waived Rusty’s responsibility for things from infections following the work, to allergic reactions to the ink, to variations in color pigments. It even said that you realize a tattoo will be a permanent change to your appearance and you’re not under the influence of any mind-altering drugs.

  “Change your mind, Nick?” I asked. “You ready to take the plunge?”

  He smiled. “I was thinking of something small. Like a hammer.”

  A hammer. For a developer. I forced a smile. “Would fit.”

  Rusty, oblivious to the sudden tension, clapped his hands once, a sharp, jarring slap. “So, we ready to go?”

  We went.

  Chapter Nine

  Our first stop was a house not far from Rusty’s shop, an attractive, older home on Washington Street. We’d driven in two vehicles, since we weren’t sure where we’d wind up at the end of the day, and Nick and I parked behind Rusty’s Explorer, inventing a space in the semi-plowed street.

  We stepped out, gawking at the Christmas scene. Two ten-foot blow-up snowmen waved from the front lawn, while an equally large Grinch swayed where the front walk met the sidewalk. Strewn about the yard were carolers, candy canes, moving reindeer, multiple strings of blinking colored lights, and a nativity scene with an all too life-like cow as part of the livestock. I almost felt like I should check her teats for frostbite, it was so cold. A glance upward revealed a full porch roof, with eight reindeer pulling a sleigh holding Santa himself. A fully lit star and wreath, bright enough to compete with the day’s light, ornamented the eaves.

  “Wow,” Nick said.

  Rusty grinned. “Come on. You’ll love these guys.”

  We were greeted at the door by two large rottweilers with heads as big as Queenie’s entire body. Fortunately, a person came close behind them to welcome us. Her eyes loomed dully above dark semi-circles, and she moved slowly, clutching her arms across her middle.

  “Rusty. It’s good to see you.” She turned back into the house, shrugged, and gave Rusty a half smile over her shoulder. “Mickey will be out in a minute, I’m sure.” She shooed the dogs away and gestured us inside. “Come on in.”

  She was a small woman, in her early forties, I’d say, about Wolf and Mandy’s age, with a
n orange and red butterfly tattooed on her pale cheekbone. Creeping up her neck from under her shirt collar were the tops of several varieties of flowers.

  “Oh, Rusty,” she said softly. “I can hardly bear it about Mandy.” Her painted nails clutched Rusty’s arm, then fell away.

  Rusty studied her face. “Would it be okay if we asked you some questions about her? About Wolf?”

  She glanced at me, and at the tattoo on my neck.

  “Stella Crown,” I said.

  She gasped. “But you were the last one to see them!”

  I tried not to show my dismay. “Yes, ma’am. Yes, I was.”

  “And this is Nick,” Rusty said, jutting his chin toward him. “Stella’s friend.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  Rusty put his hand on her frail-looking shoulder. “This is Jewel Spurgeon.”

  “Hi, Jewel,” Nick said, smiling.

  “You touching my woman?” A bellowing man hurtled toward us down the hallway, his hair flowing behind him. A Fu Manchu mustache drooped over his mouth, and his face sparkled with numerous piercings. I was about to step protectively in front of Rusty when the man lunged forward and hugged my friend so hard I thought his ribs might crack.

  “Where you been, man?” the guy said.

  “Around,” Rusty gasped.

  “And you brought friends!”

  I was next to receive the hug, and Nick accepted his with grace. In fact, I could see a smile niggling at the corners of his mouth.

  “Mickey, honey,” Jewel said. “They’re here about Wolf and Mandy.”

  “Oh, no,” Mickey said, his voice lowering several decibels. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “They want to ask us some about them,” Jewel said.

  “Well, what are we standing here for, then?” Mickey said. “Who wants to stand up all day?”

  He herded us into their living room, a space decorated with an eclectic collection of furs, velvet paintings, and Harley knick-knacks. I took a seat on a leather and chrome chair beside a lava lamp, while Rusty dropped onto a harvest gold recliner. Nick chose to stand. Jewel perched primly on the edge of a flowered couch, but Mickey hovered over us.

  “Something to drink? Soda? Beer?”

  “No, thanks, man,” Rusty said.

  Mickey spun toward me and I shook my head. Nick thanked him, too, but refused anything.

  “Relax,” Rusty said. “We’re not here to put you out, just to ask some questions.”

  Mickey sat close enough to Jewel she had to wiggle a bit to get out from under the side of his leg, and he put his arm around her. “How come you’re asking?”

  Rusty jerked his chin toward me. “You already know Stella’s involved. She was there when Wolf disappeared and Mandy…” He took a breath. “So now she wants to help the cops find Wolf, before it’s too late.”

  Mickey peered at me through narrowed eyes. “The cops? I don’t want no cops.”

  I held up my hands. “I’m not a cop. I just want to do whatever I can to get Wolf home.”

  “You don’t see any cops here, do you, Mick?” Rusty said, an edge to his voice. “I wouldn’t bring the Man to your house. You know that.”

  And I’d suggested it earlier. Talk about dumb.

  Mickey looked at me again for a long moment, and his face finally relaxed. “Sorry, Rusty. I’m just…it’s been rough. We’ve been trying not to think too hard about Mandy and Wolf.” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “We called Mandy’s mom and offered to keep Billy, us being his godparents and all, but he’s best staying put with her for now, poor little tyke.”

  Jewel sniffed and wiped an eye with a carefully manicured finger, a gem of some sort shining on her middle nail.

  “You’re good friends with the family?” I asked.

  Mickey pointed at some wedding photos displayed on top of a glass and stone coffee table. “Wolf was best man at our wedding. He and I grew up together, on the same block in Lansdale. Never lost touch except a couple years when I was in the army.”

  I leaned over and searched the faces in the biggest picture, a wedding party. It wasn’t hard to pick out Wolf in the bunch, his hair and beard long and unruly even for the formal occasion.

  “You have any idea where Wolf might be now? Who might’ve hurt Mandy?” Rusty asked.

  Hurt, not murdered. Even now he couldn’t handle the reality.

  Mickey and Jewel looked at each other for a long moment. Jewel put a hand on Mickey’s thigh. “Tell them what we’ve been thinking, honey.”

  Mickey shifted uneasily, glancing at Rusty, me, even Nick. “Okay. You guys hear about the new bill they’re trying to pass through the state senate? The one about tattoo artists?”

  “Sure,” Rusty said. “Pain in the ass if it passes.”

  “I don’t know it,” I said. “Fill me in?”

  Mickey stood, walked over to a roll-top desk in the corner, flung open the cover, and grabbed a stack of papers. He brought them over and dropped them in my lap.

  “PA House Bill No. 752,” he said. “The Tattoo, Body Piercing, and Corrective Cosmetic Artist Act. Should be called the Bunch of Bullshit Act. The State wants to regulate tattooing, all because of those damn scratchers who get people sick.”

  I thumbed through the pages, but couldn’t make sense of the legalese at first glance. “So what exactly are they proposing?”

  “Bunch of crap,” Mickey said.

  “It’s a hypocritical, ill-written, open-ended bill, made for people who don’t like seeing tattoos or people with body modifications,” Rusty said.

  Mickey raised his hands. “Preach it, brother.”

  I scanned the pages again, hoping something would jump out at me. “Like what?”

  “Okay, first thing,” Mickey said, “they say all piercing would be regulated by the government, but that’s bullshit. It’s the people who do it right who would get in trouble. The ones who don’t know what they’re doing have no problems at all.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a powerful piercing gun industry, that’s why. They’re calling the shots. I mean, we now have a law that says if you’re under eighteen you need parental consent to get pierced, but do you see police cracking down on those jewelry stores in the mall, where you get ‘free piercing with the purchase of studs’? I don’t think so. They’ll do pre-teens, even babies, if the parents—hell, if the kids themselves—shell out their money. People like Mandy, who know what it’s about, they don’t use piercing guns at all.” He was rolling now. “Another thing. The bill talks about safety regulations, but says the Department of Health still has to define them. So they want to pass a bill that basically states it’s ‘to be announced’?”

  Rusty sat up. “What really gets me is they want to make tattoo artists get a notarized statement from a doctor saying they don’t have any infectious diseases. They gonna make customers get statements, too? The artists are more at risk than the folks getting the tattoos.”

  “And how about that part that says you can’t tattoo anybody’s face?” Mickey said. “You want to tell me Jewel’s butterfly isn’t gorgeous?”

  We all looked at Jewel, who slanted her cheek away, embarrassed.

  “Sounds pretty biased,” I said. “Who came up with this stuff?”

  “His Righteousness,” Mickey said. “Trevor Farley.”

  “The state senator?”

  “Himself. The bastard.”

  “Why does he care about tattoos?”

  Mickey shrugged. “All I know is he’s trying to make life hell for those of us in the community.”

  I looked from him to Rusty. “So how does this involve Wolf and Mandy? I mean, obviously it does because of their professions. But is it more?”

  Rusty shrugged. “I don’t know. Mickey?”

  Again Mickey looked at his wife. She nodded.

  “Wolf and Mandy have gotten real involved in the cause,” Mickey said
. “You heard of Dennis Bergman?”

  I shook my head.

  “Tattoo artist in Harrisburg. Also a lawyer, believe it or not. He’s heading up the lobby, which is made up of tattoo artists and piercers from all parts of the state. Call themselves Artists for Freedom. Wolf and Mandy found out about Bergman a few months ago, and, well, you know Mandy. Not about to let the government tie her hands, or Wolf’s. Jumped in with both feet.”

  I spread my fingers on top of the papers on my lap. “And you think it could lead to this? To Wolf disappearing? To Mandy…dying?”

  Jewel whimpered, and Mickey returned his arm to her shoulders.

  “Just last week Mandy was on a rampage,” he said. “Said Farley was trying to sabotage their lobby. Said he sent a spy to infiltrate the meetings and get dirt on whoever was there.”

  I sat up. “You think Farley had to do with Billy getting beat up last month?”

  Jewel’s face hardened. “Asshole boys, whoever they were. I could just kill them.”

  Mickey patted her arm. “Wolf and Mandy wouldn’t talk about that. Never told us who was behind it. But they kept on with the lobby. In fact, they were going to meet with Artists for Freedom the night Mandy died. Mandy had gotten hold of something she said would stop Farley in his goddamned tracks.”

  I whipped my head toward him. “They were meeting that night? In Harrisburg?”

  “Well, sure. That was the plan.”

  A plan no one else knew about. I wondered if a certain state senator had been informed.

  Chapter Ten

  “You don’t happen to have your cell phone on you, do you?” I asked Nick. We were back in the truck, while Rusty made tearful good-byes with the Spurgeons.

  “Sure.” He reached into his coat and pulled out the smallest phone I’d ever seen.

  “This thing actually works?”