by S. M. Nolan
Maggie produced an appointment booklet from the desk, “Hey. You're not due in 'til noon. What's up?”
“Yeah. I was wondering if we could start early. I've got a thing later. I wanted to get as much in today as we can.”
“Uh, yeah, but it'll cost more for more work.”
“That's cool. I got plastic today.”
Jaime flashed an elite, black credit-card her father occasionally bestowed to shut her up or keep her out of trouble. Maggie didn't much care what color the card was, money was money. Jamie always paid on-time, tipped well, and treated Maggie as an equal despite their financial divide.
Maggie moved to begin setting up, “I'll get everything ready.”
She hurried off, mind racing. Jamie's father could afford whatever Maggie charged, but her work's quality was her concern. Normally, she mentally planned the execution of every detail. With clients that came in off the street, she flew through as fast and accurately as possible, promising free, future, touch-ups in the event anything was lacking. Ryusaki was an example of this, her concern thankfully lightened by the work's simplicity.
Now however, she'd have to add extra work without proper, mental preparation. It certainly wasn't impossible, but it was worrying. She did her best to psych herself up while prepping her space. In retrospect, Jamie's piece was relatively easy; side-body lotus flowers entwined with lilies and roses on a vine. The color was straight-forward, easy to mix, and with only basic shading on flat stems.
She took a slow breath, finished prepping, then pulled Jamie in from the counter. She laid on her side, shirt off, on a gurney that replaced the normal chair. Maggie raised her stool to accompany the new height, jostled the dangling strings of Jamie's bikini top drawn up to reveal the tattoo's outline.
Maggie glanced over its inner-workings. They were only a quarter complete, but the outer-lines were finished. She thanked herself for her foresight, readied her inks and machines, and set to work.
Over the next few hours, they kept up a perpetually shifting conversation to help Jamie block out the pain. That such a flaky, high-maintenance woman, would ever consider something so permanent was always a wonder to Maggie. More so, it was surprising that Jaime'd stuck through it once the pain set in.
Such was the paradoxical nature of people though. Maggie had long ago learned as much from her work.
As their rapport strengthened, Maggie found a curious depth in the seemingly shallow woman. The tattoo was an homage to Jamie's mother and grandmother with a piece of herself, the lotus, entwined. Her grandmother had loved roses, her mother lilies, while Jamie saw the lotus as a flower of wisdom she hoped to become. Such depths of character defied the conventions usually applied to her.
For the most part, that was a norm for Maggie's stereotyped clientele. Most contradicted the views with such depths that Maggie found comfort when considered one herself. That she was not the only one to grate such monikers was reassuring. She did her best to subtly encourage the defiance too, no matter her clients' stations.
That said, it wasn't uncommon to find people befitting their stereotypes either. In that, some were downright shady. Then again, Maggie knew, that was the occupational hazard of such a niche market in a place like Oakton.
By one P.M, the session had finished. Maggie applied the last of the ointment with a wooden tongue depressor, then secured gauze to Jamie's side with medical tape. Jamie pushed up, sore but satisfied. She adjusted her bikini-top, slipped into her shirt and coat, then headed for the reception desk.
Maggie sterilized her space and supplies, joined two women at the counter. Jaime thanked Maggie with a one armed hug and a pair of hundred-dollar bills. She said goodbye to Mandy, and stepped past a man on her way through the door.
Jamie did a double-take at his rump, and cast a raised brow to Maggie as she slipped on sunglasses. The door shut on Jamie's giggles and Maggie shook her head, stepped around the counter beside Mandy.
The man's sneakers tread lightly across the floor beneath his denim jeans and blue wind-breaker. It swished loosely off his broad shoulders, its zipper half-down to reveal a light-brown shirt clinging to his chest.
Mandy nudged Maggie, who looked up, immediately taken by the casual confidence in his step. Her view was opposite what Jamie's had been, but she understood the school-girlish giggling better. The man gazed through well-set eyes that presented an air of razor-sharp intelligence and analysis beneath an attractive veneer.
He couldn't have been much older than Maggie, but he looked oddly out of place, much different than her usual clientele. A part of him seemed to recognize it and agree, and mustered an extra calm to compensate.
Maggie willed away her captivation, slipped the 100s into her back pocket, “Can I help you?”
The man stepped to the counter, business card in hand, “I found this card and was hoping to speak with Maggie Doherty.”
“That's me,” Maggie said lively. “What can I do for you?”
He glanced from Maggie to Mandy beside her, “Could we speak privately?”
Maggie's brow furrowed confusion. Her heart skipped a beat. “Uh. Okay. May I ask your name?”
He slid a hand into his jacket pocket, produced a badge, “I'm Detective Russell Williams with O-P-D Homicide. I need to ask you a few questions.”
Mandy's eyes bulged and darted between Maggie and the badge.
“U-uh, o-okay.”
He did his best to reassure her, “I just need to ask you a few questions is all.”
Maggie noted his shift. He was suddenly as uncomfortable as her. She muttered something and led him toward the back room. Mandy was frozen, watching through a perplexed stare.
Maggie cleared the back room's table, offered him a seat across from her. The bathroom door behind her cast opposing, incandescent light inward atop the fluorescents above.
Russell sat and removed a small, digital recorder from his jacket. “I hope you don't mind this. It'll make things easier when reviewing my notes.”
He set the recorder in the table's center. Maggie's pulse raced, “Sh-should I call a lawyer?”
Russell hesitated with a finger over the record button, thinking how best to put his thoughts into words. He sighed, approached it casually, “You're not in any trouble. I just need to ask you a few questions. I'll tell you a little about why I'm here, but it's privileged and can't be repeated outside this room. Personally, I'd rather you be at ease, but I'm not supposed to tell you.”
She stared at a loss. Her mouth slacked a little, “Oh…kay.”
He reiterated, “None of what you say here's admissible. This is strictly informal to help me. If something you say leads elsewhere, there may be a formal inquiry, then I'd suggest a lawyer.”
“Okay,” Maggie said again, less than reassured.
He grimaced, depressed the record button, “Last night, a man was found murdered in his hotel suite at the Royal Oakton Arms. The victim's name was Hiroshi Ryusaki.”
A brick wall of depression hit Maggie, “What? No!”
“You knew him well?”
“No,” Maggie said, deflating into her chair.
“But you did know him,” he stated. “We found your business card on him. And he had fresh tattoos.”
She slumped in her chair, stared at the porous table, “I—I worked on him yesterday. We had a long conversation and he was… well he was just a good man. He gave me an amazing tip afterward, said I needed it more than him.”
“A tip?”
“Yeah—it was a… it was a lot of money. He said he was “an old man. More money than years”, that I could use it more.”
“So he gave you a large sum of money in exchange for work?”
“What?” Maggie suddenly channeled Ashley, “Of course for work! You think I'm running some kind of—of whorehouse, or something? I run a business, Detective. A professional business. I'm certified by the state and city health-boards, and have the inspection and permit records to prove it and official, verified membership in
the National Tattooist's Union.”
“Of course, Ms. Doherty. I didn't mean to imply—”
“Yeah. Sure you didn't,” Maggie scoffed. She crossed her arms and avoided his eyes.
Russell rubbed his forehead, “Look, Ms. Doherty—”
“Maggie.”
“I'm just trying to understand why someone would kill Ryusaki. That's all. I just—if you know anything.”
“All I know, Detective, is that a man came here, got what he paid for, then died. And that's damned depressing.”
“I believe you,” He replied in earnest. “But the tattoos on Ryusaki's arm; did he say, or do you know, what they are?” Russell asked, attempting to move past his mistake.
“No. I don't,” Maggie replied, head still turned.
“You have no idea of what the symbols mean? You've never worked on anything similar or even identical?”
She relented with a shake of her head, “No. All Ryusaki said was they were part of a larger piece on ancient symbols. I don't know anything else.”
Russell turned the recorder in his hands, thinking. He stopped it and replaced it in his pocket before he looked to Maggie with sincerity, as though he knew her well, saw her as an equal. The attraction in the back of Maggie's mind slithered forward, but her anger blocked it from reaching the forefront.
“Look, I'll be blunt. I'm sorry if I offended you, but I need to know about these symbols. Ryusaki was the second man we found with them. They're connected, but I can't find out how if you're holding back. I understand you're offended by what I said, but I need to know if these symbols have some meaning to you.”
Maggie sensed simple desperation beneath his confidence. She knew it too well. She swallowed her pride, pictured the symbols in her mind, hoping to connect them to any inane knowledge from her artistic background.
She breathed calmer now, “No. I've never seen them. Ryusaki didn't tell me anything about them. I imagine they're ancient, but I have no idea what that means—and I have no idea why anyone would want him dead. He seemed like a good person. He did have a translator, Lu-Yen Chen-Lee, but he's from LA and I doubt he'd have killed him.”
Russell saw her sincerity, retrieved a business card from his jacket-pocket. It danced across his finger-tips with his thoughts, then slid forward across the table, “Thank you. I'll look into Chen-Lee. Take my card. Call me if someone else comes in looking for the tattoo or if anything comes to mind… and I'm sorry for upsetting you.”
Maggie slid the card forward, lifted it from the table. She accepted his apology, “It's alright. But I really don't know what you're expecting. If you want to learn symbolism, check OCA. There's a few professors there that might help. I can check some source-books I have, but otherwise all I can say's the symbols aren't common.”
Russell stood, “Thank you, Ms. Doherty.”
“Maggie,” she reminded him as she stood. “And you're welcome. I'll let you know if I find anything.”
She followed Russell into the reception area and watched him depart over the ringing bell. Ashley's machine was silent, her work-space filled with a quiet conversation.
“What was that all about?” Mandy asked.
Maggie felt a curious foreboding beneath her lingering attraction. She buried it in a turn toward Mandy, carefully relayed what she'd been told about Ryusaki, ended on her promise to try and aid him.
“Well, at least you were nice about it,” Mandy shrugged, oddly at ease. “Ash would've just told him to fuck off.”
Ashley appeared, “Who's fuckin' off to where?”
Mandy laughed. Maggie rolled her eyes.
6.
Fight or Flight
September 29th
10:15 PM
6th Street Train Station
Maggie stepped onto a ground-level platform. A few people filed into the darkness around her. The 9:45 train was the last to arrive at the 57th Street station near the shop, and her last chance to make it home before 1 A.M.
She'd only just reached it in time, exhausted even before the last block and a half's sprint. The day had worn on her, deepened her inexplicable grief over Ryusaki's death. She was confused, saw no rationale for her sorrow. Nonetheless, the grief remained, and only left her uneasy.
In wake of the shop's financial pressures, and the Detective's visit, her mental energy was long-past drained. She'd wallowed away the work-day in mindless paper-work and pointless stares until forced to sprint for the train.
Presently, she slouched along the sidewalk, her heavy backpack to one shoulder and the tracks at her left. The train rattled past and away, leaving the area in a ringing silence. Street-lamps and occasional window-light illuminated the road as it curved right, toward Maggie's apartment building.
She crossed the street at the curve's apex. An expansive public park sprawled out across the street. Maggie ignored its emptiness, fiddled with her keys at her building's door.
A faint rustle sounded. A stray tabby rocketed toward the park, disappeared into a row of hedges.
Maggie gulped a breath, forced a calm over her frayed nerves. She passed through the foyer, took staircases to the third floor, dismissing faint steps beneath her. Glen, her lone neighbor on the top floor, worked the grave-yard shift. Between them, they occupied the two, largest apartments.
Glen was far from mind as she used the last of her strength to reach her door and unlock it. The key clicked in the dead-bolt. A second click sounded behind her. Her brow furrowed. She pushed the door open, craned her neck backward.
A blow slammed her temple. She tumbled sideways into the apartment, dazed. A large figure loomed, silhouetted against the hall. It stepped in, kicked a foot backward to slam the door. Low-light sank into black metal in its outstretched hand. Maggie skittered back, scrambled to her feet.
The figure locked the door with a swift move. Rounded features and earthen hues appeared as it whipped 'round. Maggie seized the distraction, stumbled into a sprint. The man's hands rose. A crack ejected plaster from the kitchen's doorway. Maggie dodged inside with a shriek.
She hurled herself across the tile, level with the floor cabinets. She shook. Terror streamed down her face, “What do you want? Go away, I don't have any money!”
She chanced a look over the cabinets. He stood beyond the breakfast bar, hunting with a predatory caution. A tile busted with a second crack! She shrank. Panicked gasps squeaked. Her mind raced, thoughts too fast to comprehend. They forced her harder against the cabinets.
Soft steps propelled her instincts. In a flash, she was digging in a cabinet, grabbing what she could. Bottles flew over the counter with reckless aim. The man grunted, cracked more shots off, then dodged from view.
She glanced at a single bottle of drain cleaner remaining. His heavy feet sounded. Her hands flew, grasped a large knife from a drawer. The feet hesitated. A hand unscrewed the cleaner's cap.
Her heart pounded. Steps began again, reached the doorway. Maggie slid up the wall, flattened against it. She felt him shift for a view of the kitchen. She pivoted, thrust corrosive cleaner at his face.
He screamed in agony, dropped his weapon to claw at his eyes. Maggie sunk the knife into his belly. It snapped in half as he stumbled sideways, howling and flailing limbs.
A random arm knocked her down. The broken blade sailed away. Erratic kicks forced her beneath the dining table.
She fumbled with her pocket, her body convulsing with fear. Her breaths were terror-filled needles. She clutched her phone, tried to dial. The table upended over her. Maggie shrieked, dropped the phone, scrambled sideways to avoid a leg.
A foot caught her ankle, tripped her back toward the kitchen. She spied the black pistol in reach. The man reared at her breaths. He tore the snapped piece of knife from his stomach, readied to charge.
Maggie jerked sideways, hands rising. Furious cracks riddled his torso with bloody holes. He fell back mid-step, slumped across the overturned table, and smacked against the wall, dead.
The weapon clicked mechani
cally in Maggie's, empty. Her body and brain were fused in autonomous repetition. Her brain sputtered to regain control. She dropped the weapon, forced herself sideways on all fours, and vomited around a corner. Her body heaved anguish until her vision could re-focus.
She crawled back to her phone, dialed: “9-1-1, what's your emergency?”
Maggie's reply came with acidic gasps, “A man. Attacked me. My apartment. Oh god, so much blood.”
“Ma'am an officer will be there soon. Is the man still in your home?”
“Yes, but he's. Oh god, what have I done?” Maggie sobbed.
“Ma'am, are you safe?” The operator asked.
“Still here. But. Dead. Had to—”
The operator soured, “Ma'am, please I need you to—”
“What—what do I need to—”
Maggie checked her phone; the call had dropped. She sobbed uncontrollably, curled up into a ball. Her fingers acted without volition to dial Ashley's number.
“What's up, Mags?”
Maggie's voice trembled with watery sobs, “I. I. Oh, god, I can't…”
Ashley's voice went flat, “I'm coming. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
Maggie sobbed harder, heard the rustling as Ashley gathered Mandy on the other end. When Maggie had gotten enough of the story out, Ashley responded.
“Call that cop, Maggie. Maggie, call him and tell him what happened. This isn't a coincidence. He'll want to know, and it's better having him on your side. The cops'll be there soon. Call him!”
Maggie sifted through her pocket, hands still trembling. She crawled into the kitchen, “I've. Got it. Here.”
“He's expecting you. We'll be there. Let him know. We love you.”
A knock sounded before the door burst open. A group of uniformed officers filed in shouting. Maggie ignored them to dial Russell with twitching fingers. He answered. She spoke fast, looking over the counter to see the group.
“I need your help…”
September 29th
11:02 PM
758 South St.
Russell retrieved his phone from his pocket as he entered his home. He threw his coat over the bar at his right, beside the entryway.