Geoff Nicholson - The City Under the Skin

“Why did you retire?” Marilyn asked.

Rose put her cigarette to her mouth and Marilyn could see that her long, thin, pale fingers were knotted tightly at the joints.

“Physical things partly,” Rose said. “Arthritis in the knuckles, carpal tunnel problems, and my hand just wasn’t as steady as I wanted it to be. And you know, the sad fact is, a lot of young people don’t want to be tattooed by some old lady. They want somebody their own age, from their own tribe. But the real deal, the real reason I quit: the area where I had my studio, it got gentrified .”

She spat out the word as if it implied a combination of moral degeneracy and self-inflicted disease.

“The rent kept going up,” she continued, “and the yuppie scum kept moving in. There was no room for any of the old trades. We all got driven out. Like rats.”

Marilyn Driscoll pictured a procession of knife grinders, rag-and-bone pickers, button molders, hounded from one part of the city to another, a contagion being driven to the borders, Rose reluctantly but defiantly bringing up the rear.

“Have you tattooed a lot of women, Rose?” Marilyn asked.

“Sure.”

“Is it very different from tattooing a man?”

“Well, it’s a lot more fun, if you like women. But I couldn’t afford to be picky. I didn’t discriminate.”

“How about maps? Did you ever put a map of a city or a country on somebody?”

“Sure. This is a service industry. If a customer asked for a map, I’d give ’em a map. People want to be reminded of where they come from, or where they did a tour of duty, or where they met their wife, or whatever. Doesn’t seem to me it’s the kind of thing you’d forget, but I was happy to do the work.”

“Did you ever tattoo a map of Utopia?”

Rose filled her lungs and looked skeptically at Marilyn.

“Nah. But I once did a map of the planet Mongo — y’know, Flash Gordon. You’d be too young to know what I’m talking about. But sure, the world’s a big place. So why not a map of Utopia, whatever the hell that looks like. The fact is, somebody somewhere is having the most idiotic thing you can imagine tattooed right across their chest at this very moment.”

“Or across their back,” said Marilyn.

“Well, the back’s always a strange choice, if you want my opinion. You never get to see it except in a mirror, and even then you see it left to right reversed. All those guys with gang names or American flags or Stations of the Cross on their back: they never see them as the world sees them, except maybe in photographs. What’s the point?”

“I can see that,” said Marilyn. “And all tattooists have their own style, right?”

“If they’re any good they do,” said Rose. “If they’re not any good, they just buy some flash and copy the designs, which is no more than tracing, if you ask me. You might as well buy a coloring book.”

“So if I showed you a picture of a certain tattoo, could you maybe tell me who did it?”

“Jeez, girl, you want a lot. I call myself a tattoo scholar, not a psychic. Sure, the ones who are really, really good do stand out, but given the number of people in the world who do tattooing, it’s a tiny percentage. The ones who aren’t any good, and that’s most of ’em, the work all looks pretty much the same as far as I’m concerned.”

“Want to try anyway? I’ll show you a photograph of some tattooing, and you tell me if you recognize who did it.”

“Do I get a gold star?” said Rose.

“You get my deepest gratitude.”

Rose’s face indicated that she didn’t consider that much of a prize, but she didn’t object as Marilyn got out her laptop and showed Rose the same image that she and Zak had pored over. Rose stared at it with concentration, then incomprehension, then growing distaste.

“What exactly is this?” she asked suspiciously.

“You tell me.”

“First thing, it’s fucking incompetent, is what it is. But you don’t need me to tell you that. The guy who did this wasn’t any kind of tattooist. He was an amateur. I’d say he was a butcher. In fact, I’d be inclined to say he was a fucking lunatic.”

“Do you know any amateurs-slash-incompetents-slash-butchers-slash-lunatics?” Marilyn asked.

“Who are also tattooists? Nah.”

Rose concentrated even harder on the image, and suddenly reacted as though she’d received a sharp sting somewhere in her lower back.

“Wait a damn minute,” she said. “What’s that?”

She jabbed her cigarette toward an area of the laptop’s screen and Marilyn zoomed in on a detail of the image.

“That’s not right,” said Rose. “That’s very fucking wrong. See there, that thing there?”

She peered hard at the screen, at the tattooed woman’s backside.

“It’s called a compass rose, isn’t it?” said Marilyn, pleased to have some useful knowledge.

“Yes. That’s what it is, all right. And it’s mine. The compass rose is Rose Scarlatti’s fucking trademark.”

Rose pulled up the right sleeve of her sweater, to reveal on her forearm a small circular tattoo of a compass rose. It was intricate, delicately done, and bore very little resemblance to the one in the photograph as far as Marilyn could see, which was why, she supposed, she hadn’t noticed it when she’d looked at Rose’s images online.

Rose tapped her forearm and said, “That’s the first tattoo I ever did on myself.”

“I don’t get it,” said Marilyn. “So whoever did this is copying you?”

“Copying, stealing. They’ve made a lousy job, whichever it is.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t know. But if I found him I’d slap his head till I found out.”

Rose was about to say more, perhaps much more, and then she stopped herself. It was abrupt and defensive, as if she’d realized, suddenly, out of nowhere, something crucial and secret, and maybe forbidden, and she wasn’t remotely convincing when she said, “Okay, leave it. You know, I’m probably being silly. I’m overreacting.”

“I don’t think so, Rose.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What’s up, Rose, what do you see? What have you realized?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“What is it? What’s going on, Rose? What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened.”

“You know who did this tattoo, don’t you?”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Why don’t I believe that?”

“I don’t care what you believe. And if you’re not going to believe me, you might as well get out of my apartment.”

Rose distracted herself briefly by lighting a fresh cigarette. She inhaled deeply, then released a swirling band of smoke. She didn’t quite blow it in Marilyn’s face, but she might as well have.

“Rose, I’m sorry,” said Marilyn. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“But you did.”

“And I’m sorry, I apologize. There’s lots more I want to ask you.”

“Yeah, well, I got nothing more to say.”

“Please.”

“Another time maybe. Or maybe not.”

“Rose, I really am sorry.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Is there nothing I can do?”

“Not unless you’re prepared to let me put some ink on you.”

Marilyn slowly stood up, gathered her belongings, made a move toward the door.

“I’m going to have to think very long and hard about that,” she said as she departed.

Zak Webster lolled at his desk. His head and eye and back all ached, his mind was full of things he might have said or done to avoid getting a beating yesterday, and also of the things he might have said or done to make Marilyn declare, “I have a meeting with a tattooist tomorrow, but what the hell, let’s make a night of it.” He had not come up with any of the right imaginary words or deeds before he saw Ray McKinley’s sleek, butter-colored convertible pull up outside the store. Ray was making one of his irregular and unscheduled visits. That would be a distraction, though not of the kind Zak wanted.