Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

Carmella, my client, was older than me, maybe in her forties. She was here for her ninth tattoo: tribal ink on her left thigh, running from her hip to her knee. Carmella had found some designs, and I’d put together something that she was thrilled with, even though it was pretty simplistic overall and as an artist, not too challenging for me. It was time-consuming, however, and two hours later we were making arrangements to finish it up in a couple of weeks.

Joel was leaning against the front desk when Carmella finally took off, pleased with her half tattoo.

“Bitsy’s been filling me in. Why did you pretend you were going to marry Jeff Coleman? I would’ve gone over there with you.”

I appreciated the thought. But Joel’s girth, his barbed-wire tattoos, the long braid that almost reached his waist now, and the chain that snaked into his pocket and held his keys all screamed biker, while his soft, lilting voice and almost girlish mannerisms revealed his true nature. No one would buy us getting married.

I smiled and thanked him. “I’m all done with that now.”

“Are you? What about that impersonator?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does he really look like Dean Martin?” From the way he asked, I began to wonder whether Joel didn’t have a Rat Pack crush, too. While we suspected his inclinations, we weren’t positive which way Joel swung; he hadn’t come out to us, and we never saw him with a date, girl or guy.

“Not without the wig, really,” I said.

Bitsy pushed open the door. I hadn’t realized she’d gone out. She was carrying a take-out bag from Johnny Rockets.

“Lunch,” she announced.

It was two o’clock, but who was paying attention? It was always lunch in the shop, especially with Joel around. Although we had been eating way more burgers lately because of this Atkins thing. I wondered what it would be next. I couldn’t see him turning vegetarian or vegan. Weight Watchers made a load of money off him, and he swore them off. Maybe that Jenny Craig thing I kept seeing on TV, where you have to buy their food.

None of it appealed to me, and fortunately, I was skinny enough and my metabolism obviously still worked well enough that I didn’t have to worry about it.

We followed Bitsy to the staff room, and she handed out burgers. Joel’s next client had arrived, though, so he downed his burger in two bites before taking his client into his room.

“Where’s Ace?” I asked between bites.

“He’s taking the afternoon off,” Bitsy said. “He’s working on some new paintings, and he wanted some time for that.”

Of all my employees, I knew Ace the least. The things I did know were fairly superficial, like where he lived and how he got into this business. Ace was a frustrated artist, thus the comic-book paintings on our walls, but since he didn’t make much money off those, he had to make money somehow. He’d fallen into tattooing by meeting up with Flip Armstrong, the guy who owned the shop before me, and training with him. I’d done the same thing back east with Mickey, but unlike Ace, I embraced my new career. Ace did great work, don’t get me wrong, and was very conscientious about it, but he was always a little removed from it, as if he were too good for it.

A buzzer sounded. Someone had come into the shop. Bitsy jumped up off her chair and went out front. I kept eating.

But the burger almost caught in my throat when Bitsy came back.

With Will Parker behind her.

Will Parker grinned at me. Bitsy was smiling widely behind him, giving me the thumbs-up.

Great.

“Oh, hi, there,” I said, standing awkwardly, acutely aware of some sort of burger dribble on my chin. I grabbed a napkin and wiped it across my face, hoping there wasn’t anything else incriminating there.

When I gave him my card, I honestly didn’t think I’d see him quite so soon. If at all. It had been only a few hours since I’d met him.

While I’d been worried about his intentions earlier, now I hoped he wasn’t some sort of weird stalker.

Bitsy discreetly left the room. I was sure, however, that she hadn’t gone far, since she probably wanted to hear every word. A good thing. Just in case.

Will Parker hadn’t stopped grinning, but he was taking in the staff room: the lunch table, the fridge, the bulletin board with our favorite tattoo designs stuck to it, the light table with papers and file folders scattered on it.

He’d shed the tuxedo and was wearing a nice pair of beige slacks and a white button-down shirt under a navy blazer. He even wore a tie, baby blue with little yellow fleur-de-lis. I wondered what the occasion was.

Dressed the way he was and without the black Dean Martin wig, I had to admit I was totally intrigued. Even if he turned out to be a stalker. Bitsy would be pleased.

“I didn’t think I’d see you so soon,” I said to break the ice.

His head bobbed up and down. “I know, lame, right? But I showed your card to one of the guys at the chapel, and he said your shop was over here at the Venetian, and I was headed over here anyway, so I figured I’d stop in. Maybe see if you could touch up my tat.”

The red lights that had been flashing in my brain kicked up a notch. “Someone you work with knows my shop? Who?” I hoped I didn’t sound too paranoid.

“Guy named Lou Marino.”

I tried to place him but couldn’t. Had he been a client? Something about his name was tugging at my brain.

Will was still talking, and I missed the first part of what he said, but his next words jolted me. “His wife’s father got married the other day at the chapel. Lou said he married a woman who owns a tattoo shop.”

“Sylvia Coleman? She used to own Murder Ink.” Small world was suddenly an understatement.

He nodded, and it hit me. That was why the name was familiar. Rosalie Marino. Bernie’s daughter.

“His wife is Rosalie?” I asked, thinking about Rosalie’s tattoos. I wasn’t sure Lou Marino was someone I wanted to cross paths with.

At the mention of Rosalie’s name, Will Parker’s grin vanished and he looked a little uncomfortable. I began to wonder whether Lou Marino’s coworkers knew about the abuse.

“That’s right,” he said, “Rosalie.”

“What does her husband do there?” I asked.

“He’s another Dino.”

I thought about Sylvia and how she’d requested Ray Lucci that day. Requested him because he was her son. It seemed too odd that Lucci worked with Bernie’s son-in-law. Yet another coincidence. Perhaps.

“So what about my tattoo?” he asked, pulling me back into the conversation. “Can you do it? Touch it up, I mean.”

“Not now. You need to make an appointment.”

“I can’t stay now anyway,” he admitted.

“You could’ve just called, then.”

“I had to be over here at the Venetian. I’ve got a job interview. When Lou told me about your shop and I was heading over here anyway, I figured it might be karma that we met this morning.” A smile crept back, and his eyes flashed with a distinct sexiness.

Karma. I liked the sound of that. And a job interview explained the outfit.

“Job doing what?” I asked, wondering in what capacity the Venetian would need a Dean Martin impersonator.

“They’re looking for some performers.”

“They’re starting a Rat Pack routine?” I asked. It would definitely fit the Italian theme.

He shook his head. “No, no. I don’t only do Dean. I’m a singer and a dancer. I can do pretty much anything.”

I had visions of those Renaissance dancers who swirled around St. Mark’s Square on a regular basis, and the idea of Will Parker putting that on his résumé bothered me for some reason.

Was I snooty enough to not date someone because he pranced around in tights and a big white wig?