David Jackson - Marked

But as for Doyle. .

He’s also a cop. A brother. A fellow Member of Service. And no matter what people say, LeBlanc has seen nothing to confirm that he’s bad.

Look at the way he handled the Hamlyns. That was impressive. He was in control, but he was sympathetic with it. He knew exactly what to say.

No doubt about it, thinks LeBlanc, he’s an interesting guy. Hidden depths. There are some people who don’t like such a closed book. They’d like him to be a little easier to read. Well, maybe he’ll open up to me. I think I could learn a lot from him if he’ll let me. The impression I get is that he’s a stand-up guy. He just wants to do things in his own way. Nothing wrong with that.

It’s a hard shell he wears, though. Gonna be difficult to break through that one.

But give me time. .

He feels a jolt as Doyle suddenly yanks the wheel and pulls the car into a parking space. LeBlanc looks through all the windows, trying to figure out what they’re doing here. They’re at the uptown end of Avenue B, parked outside a TV-repair place. Straight ahead, on the other side of Fourteenth Street, loom the drab brown boxes that are the Stuyvesant projects, while here on this block are just a variety of small stores fronting low-rise tenements criss-crossed by fire escapes.

‘We here?’

‘This is it,’ says Doyle.

‘This is what, exactly?’

Doyle doesn’t answer. He just opens his door and steps out of the car.

‘Just asking,’ LeBlanc mutters. He climbs out of the car and circles it to join Doyle, who is preparing to dodge through the dense traffic. As if deciding that anyone foolhardy enough to challenge its ferocity without so much as a hat is in need of a good dousing, the rain seems to choose at that moment to step up its intensity a notch or two. By the time the two cops have fought their way to the other side of the street, they are already drenched.

‘Damn this rain,’ says LeBlanc. It’s been his experience that the weather is often a good way to start a conversation. Doesn’t work with Doyle. The man just picks up the pace. When LeBlanc does the same to keep up, he ends up stepping in a puddle so deep it comes over the top of his shoes.

‘Shit!’

When Doyle stops suddenly, LeBlanc almost crashes into him. He turns to see what has attracted Doyle’s attention.

He sees dragons. He sees tigers. He sees naked women and snakes and movie stars and sharks and hearts and flowers and crosses. All here on display in the window. And above them all, in dark Gothic lettering, the name of the place: Skinterest.

Doyle doesn’t budge for what seems like ages. Doesn’t seem to notice that the rain isn’t willing to wait with him. We’re standing here like idiots, thinks LeBlanc, just getting wetter and wetter.

And then Doyle moves. He opens the door to the shop and steps inside. LeBlanc hurries in after him, even though his haste seems pointless now. He closes the door firmly behind him and savors the instant warmth. He’d like to get a good look at the interior, but his glasses have fogged up. He has to dig into his pocket for a tissue to dry them off. The tissue comes out somewhat moist, but it’s all he’s got.

The place is eerily quiet after the white noise of the rain outside. LeBlanc puts his glasses back on and looks around. He sees a small waiting area with a black sofa and a glass coffee table holding a stack of magazines. Farther ahead is an adjustable chair of the type one might find in a dentist’s, complete with an attached overhead spotlight. Next to that is a typist’s chair on casters. Black curtains on rails allow that area to be screened off for when the tattooist is working on more private areas of the body. On the walls are mirrors and framed close-up photographs of tattooed body parts. The air is thick with chemical smells. Disinfectant and ink.

Beyond a counter at the far end of the room, a door opens and a man steps out. ‘Hey, guys,’ he calls, then steps around the counter and comes closer. When he gets as far as the dentist’s chair he stops. His welcoming attitude suddenly withers and his smile droops. He lowers his hands to his sides and says no more.

The man is tall and scrawny. Late twenties, probably. His dark hair is shorn at the sides but long on top, and he has a small goatee. Large black studs in both ears. He wears a blood-red T-shirt that carries a picture of some kind of screaming demon with pointed teeth and vertical slits for eyes.

LeBlanc waits to take his cue from Doyle, since he doesn’t even know what they’re doing here. But Doyle just stands where he is and stays mute. All that can be heard is the steady dripping of water from the clothes of the detectives onto the tiled floor. It’s like the prelude to a gunfight in an old cowboy movie.

‘Hello, Stan,’ Doyle says finally.

‘Detective Doyle,’ says the man, and it is clear to LeBlanc that there is no joy in that recognition.

LeBlanc shuffles up next to Doyle. Just in case he’s forgotten he has company.

‘You two know each other?’

Doyle nods. ‘We know each other. This here is Stanley Proust, tattoo artist extraordinaire. Ain’t that right, Stan?’

Proust doesn’t answer. He just blinks, as if in fear.

Doyle takes a few steps toward Proust, and LeBlanc trails after him. His shoes squelch as he walks. Proust backs away, putting the chair between himself and Doyle.

‘How’s business, Stan? A lot of pain happening here lately?’

Proust’s mouth twitches, as if he is trying to smile but can’t quite manage it.

‘I do okay.’

Doyle inclines his head toward LeBlanc, but keeps his eyes fixed on Proust.

‘This guy’s good, ya know? A real artist. You ever feel the need to get a tat done, Stan here’s your guy. Stan the man. No hatchet jobs here. Huh, Stan? I’m saying you don’t do hatchet jobs. You don’t hack away at someone like they’re a piece of meat. You’re careful. You know how to do things right. Sure, there’s pain. But what’s a little pain? It’s the end result that counts, am I right?’

Proust gives a minimal shrug. ‘I guess.’ His voice is only just above a whisper.

‘Show him,’ says Doyle. ‘Go ahead, show him your work.’

Proust looks at the detectives with uncertainty. Doesn’t move.

‘Go on,’ urges Doyle. ‘Show him.’

Proust turns slightly and reaches a tentative hand out to the counter behind him. ‘Well, I got some books here. .’

‘No, no,’ says Doyle. ‘Not the books. Photos don’t do it justice. We need the real thing. In the flesh. Show him yours. You know. .’ Doyle taps himself on the chest.

Proust looks at Doyle, then to LeBlanc, then back to Doyle. He shakes his head, and again the movement is infinitesimal. Like he’s trying to conserve energy.

‘No, man, I don’t-’

‘Come on. Don’t be shy. Show him.’

Doyle starts to move around the chair. Proust puts his palms up in front of him.

‘Please. I. . I don’t want to. .’

Doyle’s voice hardens. ‘Show him, Stan. My partner would like to see how good you are at your job.’

‘No, I-’

‘Show him!’Doyle grabs hold of Proust by his shirt. He starts to pull at it. ‘Come on, Stan. You should be proud. Your work is great. It’s a masterpiece.’

‘Please,’ says Stan. A pathetic whimper.

LeBlanc has no idea what’s going down here. If this is scripted, then a heads-up before they entered the place would have been nice. But it doesn’t look like it’s being done for show. It looks like Doyle has lost his senses.

‘Cal,’ says LeBlanc. ‘It’s okay.’

‘No,’ Doyle snaps. ‘It’s not okay. He needs to show you.’

And then LeBlanc can’t believe what he sees. Because Doyle is ripping at the man’s T-shirt. Tearing it apart at the seams while Proust cowers and whines.