Page 65 of Murder Notes

Once my ride is secure and my bank account is guaranteed to be $4,000 lower by the time I leave the city, spent on a private flight sans any other passengers, I gather my things, push to my feet, and head for the door.

It’s place number eight that directs me to a place off West Twenty-Eighth that sits next to Scores Nightclub, a topless bar. The neighborhood, once a bit rundown, is now peppered with shopping, but the side street where Reggie’s Tattoo Parlor sits has side alleyways and riffraff here and there. The kind of area a girl gets looked up and down and readies her knee for placement. And, of course, it’s just past dark, because what fun would it be to go to a place like this in the daylight?

I approach the front door to find a less-than-impressive operation, especially after some of the high-end, salon-style places I’ve visited. The front desk that was a shiny gray horseshoe number at the last place is a simple, glass-encased cabinet not more than ten feet long here. Behind it, four reclining leather chairs are occupied while artists work on customers, while a fifth sits empty. The walls are papered with overlapping, thumbtacked, eight-by-eleven-inch sheets with tattoo designs on them.

A twentysomething chick with bright-purple hair and a nose ring and ink everywhere on her pale skin approaches the counter to greet me. “What’s up?” she asks, giving my Chanel coat, a choice I’ve regretted more than once since hitting the parlors, a once-over. I have, however, made it work for me.

I approach the counter and smile. “I’m nervous,” I say when I’ve never been nervous a day in my life. “I’m a tattoo virgin.”

“No kidding?” she says, smacking her gum.

“I’m ready to dive in, though. Be a rebel. That kind of thing.”

“Yeah. Well, rebel that you are. We have a three-month wait.”

“Oh. Well, that’s okay. They say you should wait for the best and all, but I just want to find the right artist. I heard there was a guy named Mel that’s really good.”

“Mel!” she shouts so damn loud I cringe. “Mel!”

“Jesus,” a tall, fortysomething man with blond dreadlocks says, appearing beside her. “Mel isn’t here. How have you been here all day and don’t know that?”

“Sorry, Reggie.”

“Oh,” I say. “You’re Reggie.”

“I am, sweetheart. What can I do you for?”

“I heard Mel does amazing Virgin Mary tattoos. Does he have samples you might show me?”

“Any tat he’s done is duplicated on one of those pages on the wall. His is the last booth. Feel free to give his work a look.” He motions me behind the counter, and I waste no time darting around the counter and making my way to that corner. I start scanning artwork, lifting pages, and searching high and low, but I cannot find a Virgin Mary.

“You can look at this book, too,” Reggie says, walking over to me and setting a binder down. “You might find it there.”

He walks away, and I pick up the book and start flipping pages. Halfway through the book, I glance up to find an old man with long, gray braids and sunburned skin standing against the far wall, his gaze locked on me. “Why do you want a Virgin Mary?” he asks.

“It means something to me.”

“What does it mean?”

“Does it matter?”

“Does she bleed for you when no one else does?” He smirks and then turns away, disappearing down a hallway.

Adrenaline surges through me and I stand up, setting down the book to follow him down that hallway. I round the corner just in time to watch the alleyway door open and shut. I rush toward it but when I push the door, it jams, like it’s being held from the other side. “Damn it,” I say, rushing back into the salon. “Who was that man?”

“Who?” Reggie asks, looking up from a tattoo he’s giving.

“The old guy with the braids,” I say.

“Didn’t see him.”

“Anyone know him?” I ask.

They all give me blank stares. I rush out the front door and cut right, turning down the tiny walkway leading to the back of the building and rushing toward the back alley. Pausing before I round the corner, I remove my weapon from my ankle holster and insert it into my coat pocket. Cautiously, I turn the corner, my path now illuminated by a streetlight and paved with uneven stones, a dumpster to the left.

I start walking, making my way toward a connecting alleyway, cautiously approaching that dumpster and then another, when suddenly the old man steps out from behind it. “You want me?”

My hand flexes on my weapon. “Yes. I do. What do you know about that tattoo?”