"Shoot." "First off, what kinds of people come in here?" Nigel shook his head. His deft fingers toyed with the braided ends of his beard. "We get all kinds. Frat boys who want a brand. We get--"
"Brand?"
"Yeah," Nigel said. "Sometimes they bring their own styled branding iron. They could do it themselves, but they're getting more and more worried about infection these days, so they come to me."
Jackson swallowed hard. "You mean like a cattle brand?"
"Exactly," Nigel said and exhaled a large cloud of smoke.
"And they make these things?"
"Sure do. Some of the frats and gangs have had branding irons for decades. It's mostly the blacks and Latinos, but we get some white boys in here occasionally." Nigel tapped his cigarette against a ceramic ash- tray. Jackson stared at it.
"Um," he said, pointing to the ashtray, "that's the same dragon that was on that...that tattoo at the front."
Nigel stared down at the ashtray, a slow smile filling his features. "Yeah," he said with a laugh. "That's the one. Kind of where I got the idea."
"Does, um, getting the tat, you know," Jackson said, pointing toward his crotch, "hurt?"
"Fuck yeah," Nigel said with a laugh. "Fucking guys come in here, want their cock and balls tatted." He shook his head. "I think they're crazy, man. I have my scrotum gigged and my cock pierced, but Jesus fucking Christ, these guys are insane!" He took another long drag, raising his eyebrows. "I charge the hell out of 'em for it too, man."
Jackson felt himself turning green between the smoke and the idea of someone piercing their dick. "So how many have you done?"
"Three," Nigel said. "Only three. Like I said, you got to be pretty damned insane to get that done."
"You the only one in town that does that sort of work?"
Nigel smiled, his face filled with pride. "No, I'm not. But I'm the best. And I'm the only one that does the dragon."
"Is the dragon the only, um, design you do for that kind of...work?" Nigel shook his head. Jackson removed a small notepad and gold pen from his shirt pocket. He flipped open the notebook. "Can you tell me who else inks that, um, area?"
Nigel stabbed out the mostly exhausted cigarette into the dragon's yawning mouth. "Guess so. But I don't want this coming back at me, dig?" Jackson nodded. "Johnny Peer, Alan Trudeau, and Howie T."
"What shops they work at?" Nigel gave him the names, counting them off on his fingers. Jackson wrote them down, scrawling notes to himself. "So tell me about the guys who got the dragon."
Nigel shrugged again, took another hand rolled cigarette from a dinged and scratched silver case. He raised the lid of the Zippo with a metallic "ting" and thumbed the wheel. The bright, yellow flame guttered out from the brass lighter, scorching the end of the cigarette. Nigel flipped it closed dramatically, took a puff, and then put his elbows on the scratched wooden table. He leaned his head forward. "You meet some pretty strange people in this biz," he said softly.
Jackson wanted to sigh. The melodrama this asshole was cranking up was just a bit thick. "Yeah?" he said, feigning excitement.
"Yeah," Nigel said. "See, sometimes you get the bunny-punks and the gang-bangers. Or you get the drunken frat boys doing it on a bet. But sometimes," he said as he leaned back in his flat, black leather chair, "sometimes you get the hardcore." He blew out tendrils of smoke from his nostrils.
Nigel paused. A swell of frustration rose within Jackson. He was going to have to drag every damned answer from Nigel, playing the drama game. "Hardcore?" Jackson finally asked, hating the grin that spread across Nigel's face.
"Yeah, hardcore. You know, the blokes who come in here, month after month, and get new tatts. I see some of these jokers once a week."
"Bikers?"
Nigel shrugged. "Not as many as you think. They go to another parlor. Me?" he said pointing at himself, "I'm the fucking artist in town. Most of those guys just want the standard templates. But me? I fucking make art."
The look on Nigel's face made Jackson smile. The guy was obviously full of shit, but hell, he might even be that talented. Jackson shuddered, remembering the dragon. It was a beautiful tattoo regardless of its placement. "So you deal mainly with the people who want their own personal designs?"
His lips curled in a sneer, Nigel ashed the cigarette. "Yeah, Jackson. I'm the guy you come to when you can't draw for shit, but you know what you want."
Jackson nodded. "Okay. So who's the guy you gave the dragon tattoo?" The chair creaked as Nigel leaned forward in his seat. He regarded Jackson with a thin smile. He put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, took a drag, and breathed out through his nose. Jackson fought the urge to roll his eyes. Was this asshole trying to look like a dragon?
"Pons," Nigel said. "Guy named Pons Matal."
The butterflies in Jackson's stomach departed, replaced with a rush of excitement. "Pons?" Nigel nodded. "Not Harry Renquist?"
"Harry Ren-- Who the fuck is that?" Nigel asked.
Jackson nodded to himself. "So," he said as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. "Tell me about Pons." Jackson put two twenties on the desk.
Nigel furrowed his eyebrows, staring at the bills with distaste. "What is that for?" he asked, pointing a nicotine stained finger.
"Um," Jackson said, blinking his eyes. "It's money? Call it payment for services rendered."
Shaking his head, Nigel stubbed out his cigarette without breaking Jackson's stare. "No," he said softly. "It doesn't work like that, Jackson."
Now it was Jackson's turn to look confused. "What do you mean?"
Nigel smiled. "I do my best talking while behind the gun."
"What?"
"I mean," Nigel said, "you're getting a tatt, boy." Jackson's mouth opened, but he said nothing. "Yeah," Nigel said with a nod and a wide cannibal-toothed grin. "So you better start thinking about what you want."
Chapter 5
Jackson walked away from the tattoo parlor, his teeth clenched in a death grip. Fuck, that hurt! That little bastard Nigel had done a number on him. The light in the sky had dimmed significantly behind multiple layers of thunderheads.
Fall. Rain. Jackson stopped on the sidewalk, looking up into the bruised and swollen cotton. Despite the pain in his shoulder, he smiled. "Should have gotten the fucker to tattoo that on my shoulder blade," he said aloud.
As if on cue, a rolling flash lit the purple layers, showing every crease and bend where the cloud masses joined. Jackson shook his head and walked toward the car.
The first raindrop hit the windshield just as he sat sideways on the seat and shifted his legs into the car. He leaned back in the seat by habit and immediately regretted it.
"Fuck." The second his shoulder blade touched the leather seat, it was like Nigel was stabbing him all over again. "Stupid, stupid fucker," he whispered and turned the key.
Sound pounded from the speakers. Jackson reached over and punched the radio knob, silencing Layne Staley in mid-growl. He closed his eyes.
The fat raindrops slammed into the windshield, a few seconds between each thunk of water against the safety glass. It was soothing, allowing Jackson's mind to float. The burning in his shoulder subsided bit by bit. Without opening his eyes, he brought out his cell phone. For a few seconds, he let it sit in his palm and listened intently as the frequency of the raindrops increased. His mouth and jaw relaxed. He took in a deep, deep breath and then opened his eyes.
He flipped open his phone and punched in the numbers "18". He put a Bluetooth headset on his ear and listened as it rang. One. Two. Three. "This is Tony."
"Tony! It's Jackson, man. How you doing?"
There was a slight pause on the line. Jackson imagined Tony bending down to hold his head on one hand, the way he always did when he was nervous. "Hi, Jackson. Long time no babble."
Jackson blew out a sigh. "Yeah, I know. I'm a bastard. I don't call, I don't send you flowers, yada yada yada."
Tony laughed on the other end. "Well then, I'll assume this is biz and not soci
al."
"Yeah," Jackson said. "Well, dunno. Could be both. Sort of. You got a minute?"
"Sure. I'm between interviews right now and no court today. I got some time."
"Cool," Jackson said. "I have a question for you."
"Shoot."
"What do you know about 'full body' tattoo aficionados?"
There was a long pause. "You doing a piece on them?"
"Not exactly," Jackson said. He grinned in the car, his eyes closed. "I'm following up a lead."
"Okay." Jackson listened as Tony took a deep breath. "There's a lot of contention in the psych community about this. Some say it's an obsessive-compulsive disorder. Some say it's an identity or dissociative disorder, and still others say it's masochistic or self-sadistic. Basically, Jackson, no one agrees on much."
Jackson frowned. "You know all that just went over my head, Tony."
"Yeah," Tony chuckled, "I'm not surprised. Look, basically what I'm trying to tell you is that no one can agree on why people do this to themselves."
"So what do you think?"
"Knew you were going to ask that." Tony sighed. "It sort of depends. What kind of person are we talking about here?"
"There's a guy," Jackson started, "who was a full body. He'd come in--"
"Was?" Tony asked, his voice suddenly interested.
"Yeah, was. He started coming to this tattoo parlor around eight years ago or so. My source tells me he started with some small tats and then gradually worked up to large, intricate designs." Jackson shuddered. "This crazy fucker got his cock and balls tattooed for Christ's sake."
"Hmm," Tony said.
"Yeah. So anyway, the guy developed some kind of skin condition after a motorcycle wreck. Guess the road-rash got out of control or something. Anyway--"
"When did the wreck happen?"
"About 6 years ago or so," Jackson replied. "Why?"
"Nothing. Keep talking."
Jackson sighed. "Anyway, the guy's skin was pretty badly damaged in places, messed the tattoos up real good. He came back to this tattoo parlor a few years ago to try and have some of the work salvaged. But my source says this guy was one big scar. You know what a keloid is?"
"Fuck," Tony said softly into the phone. "The scar kept growing?"
"Yeah. Is that even fucking possible?" Jackson asked.
"I guess." Jackson listened as the click and clack of a keyboard mixed with the steady pat-pat of the raindrops on the car's roof. "I mean it's highly unlikely, Jackson. There'd have to be some pretty serious trauma and maybe even a genetic component for that to happen."
"So my source may not be full of shit?"
"Well," Tony said, his voice trailing off. "What else did he say?"
"He said the guy wanted to have new tatts done on the scarring. But my source wouldn't touch it. Wouldn't go near the fucking things. Because, well, they were still...raw."
For a moment, Tony said nothing. The raindrops continued patter- ing against the windshield and tinging off the car's hood. He could imagine Tony biting his lip, thoughts swirling in his head. "Jackson," Tony asked, "what the fuck are you following?"
"A lead."
"Look, I'm a psychologist, not another journalist," Tony growled. "I don't steal your stories. I don't leak your sources. You and I have been through enough strange shit for me to ask this. What. Are. You. Following?"
"Okay, Tony, okay." Jackson ran a hand through his hair. "I think this guy may have started killing people for their tatts."
Tony took a deep breath on the other end of the phone line. Jackson imagined his friend leaning back in an office chair, staring up at the ceiling, lips uttering words without sound. "You need to go to the cops and stay the fuck away from this, Jackson. I mean it."
"Look, Tony, it's just--"
"No, man. It's not 'just' anything. This guy--just stay the fuck away from it, because you don't know what you're getting yourself into."
"Tony, why do you sound so--"
"Worried? Concerned? Freaked?" Tony said in a rapid-fire staccato. "Because you just described someone who could really be off their fucking rocker as it is. If this guy started killing people, you're talking about a dangerous son of a bitch. Anyone with a tattoo that he likes could easily be the next victim. You have to be careful with this shit, Jackson." Tony paused. "I've seen enough craziness in the last week or two to know just how fucked up things are getting around here. You need to just go to the cops and let them deal with it."
Jackson sighed. "Okay, Mom. Fine. I'll talk to Dewhurst. Give him the info."
"No you won't," Tony said. "I can tell right now you're fucking lying to me. Dammit, Jackson. I'm serious. You better think this out before you do anything."
"Okay, Tony," Jackson replied. "I promise I won't do anything until I get some more info."
"You fucking call me before you do shit. You hear me?" Tony said, the growl back in his voice.
Feeling like a kid being yelled at by the principal set Jackson's jaw into a tight clench. Tony was being dramatic. But Jackson also heard something else in Tony's voice that made the butterflies in his stomach return. Tony sounded frightened.
"Okay, Tony. I'll be in touch."
"Yeah," Tony said softly. "I'll bet."
The line went dead.
Chapter 6
Jackson didn't go back to the office. The idea of sitting in his chair for the rest of the day, shoulder blade screaming in pain, made him feel nauseated. Instead, he called and explained he was in research mode and headed back to his house. On the way, he'd stopped at the pharmacy, bought a large tube of Aquaphor and an econo-size bottle of extra-strength Advil. As an afterthought, he'd also stopped by the liquor store and picked up a 10-year old Macallan.
The last few hours spent on the internet researching obsessive compulsive disorders had left his eyes feeling scratched and raw. Jackson succumbed to the urge to rub his eyes for what seemed like the thousandth time. So much fucking jargon.
Tony had said that no one agreed on the reason people got full body tattoos. Tony was absolutely right.
Different articles written by tattoo proponents and critics slammed one another, bordering into flame territory, savaged in the forums or comments. The tatt loving sector called it art. The grim, suspicious ramblings of the PhDs, on the other hand, called it everything from self-mutilation to personality disorders. All of which meant shit to Jackson.
Jackson put the computer to sleep and turned off the monitor. He went to the bathroom carrying a tumbler filled with amber ambrosia and his bag from CVS. He took a quick sip of the scotch, sighing as the liquid exploded in his belly, his taste buds singing with delight. Placing the tumbler on the bathroom counter, he opened the bag and pulled out the Aquaphor salve. Nigel had told him he needed to smear a thin layer of the stuff over the tattoo every few hours to help promote healing, but only for the first 4 days or so.
"After that," Nigel had said with a grin, "throw some lotion on there and keep that thing moist. Try not to dry it out, or the ink will get all fucked up."
Jackson unscrewed the cap and drizzled the salve on his right hand. With effort, he reached around his neck and spread a thin layer over the wound. He gritted his teeth at the first touch against the skin, and then continued with a lighter touch.
Fuck, that hurt. Goddamn you, Nigel, he thought. Why wasn't forty fucking dollars good enough for some decent information?
Nigel had walked him into the parlor, placed him in the chair and stared at him, another rolled up cigarette stuck between his teeth.
"Well, Jackson, know what you want? Or where?" Jackson shivered at the memory, the sadistic grin on Nigel's face. He sat there, withering under Nigel's intent gaze, unable to speak.
"How about a shoulder blade?" Nigel had asked.
"Small?"
"Sure," Nigel said with a deep drag on the cigarette. He blew a stream of smoke just above Jackson's head. "Know what you want?"
"No."
Nigel's grin grew larger. "Tell you
what," Nigel said with another puff, "I'm going to give you something beautiful. Nothing obscene, nothing faggy, just a really cool design."
Jackson stammered "No words or anything?"
"Hey," Nigel said with a hurt look, "I'm a fucking artist, man. Told you, that gang-banger, biker bullshit doesn't fly here. I design, man. And words," he paused for another drag, the end of the cigarette glowing in the parlor's dim light, "words just don't cut it. They're bullshit. They're for posers and other assholes who want to make some statement they'll regret later on. Art is life, man." He stabbed the cigarette into a full ashtray on the counter. "Art is forever."
A shiver ran up Jackson's spine. Images of the Canvas killer's so called "art" filled his mind. Tanned human skin spread over metal skeins, portraits of demons felled by angels or scenes from medieval religious artwork delicately painted upon them.
"So why," Jackson asked, his voice hitching and broken, "don't you paint or something?"
Nigel waved a hand. "We going to do this, or not?" The grin on his face had faded to a flat, humorless line.
Jackson sighed. "You're going to tell me about Pons?"
"Yeah," Nigel said. "Anything you want to know."
"Okay, man," Jackson said with a deep breath. "Do your worst."
While Nigel stenciled the left shoulder blade, he told Jackson Pons Matal's story. Pons first came in wanting little tats here and there, before finally spending thousands of dollars on decorating his entire body with disparate designs. His back. His chest. His legs. And finally, his cock and balls. Nigel had even pierced the guy's cock so the dragon appeared to have ruby eyes.
"Pons enjoyed the process, man. He had ideas and I made them real. Drew them. Created art on his body. It was beautiful, man." Nigel stopped stenciling and stood back.
Jackson lifted his head from the gap in the leather chair. The chair held him angled, but not completely prone. The gap in the leather cushions let him rest his nose comfortably, allowing him to breath. "What is it?"
Although he couldn't see Nigel's face, he heard the satisfaction in his voice. "Once again, I'm a fucking genius," Nigel said softly. "Fucking genius."
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