William Bernhardt - Murder One

Keri? He couldn’t see the face, but even from this distance, he knew she was gorgeous. He felt his knees weakening; his heart went out to her.

Keri! Had she come looking for him? Was she here to bring him back? Did she forgive him for what he’d done?

He rushed forward, hands outstretched. “Keri!” he shouted. “Keri, I—”

The young woman in the feather boa and fake-fur coat turned to face him. “Wanna date, sugah?”

“Keri?”

“You can call me Keri if you want, sugah. You can call me any li’l ol’ thing you like.”

It was not Keri. It was a prostitute. A whore. A real one.

“Sorry. I thought you were … somebody else.”

“I can be somebody else, sugah. I’ll be whatever—”

“Leave me alone!”

The young woman stepped back quickly, and her eyes darted upward to a third-story window in the building behind her. Where her pimp observed from a distance, no doubt. Or perhaps some big bruiser charged with protecting her. Either way, Kirk’d best disappear. Not that he’d mind a good fight. But he’d done that so much lately. His hand touched the scabrous slash across his forehead. He was ready for something new.

“Sorry,” he muttered, then quickly scurried across the street. He turned right and headed off The Stroll, toward Cherry Street. Putting distance between himself and any immediate retribution.

Eleventh Street, particularly the section known as The Stroll, had a well-deserved reputation for being the sleaziest section of Tulsa. It was the easiest place in town to find a prostitute, in almost any price range, at almost any time of day. It was the simplest place to score drugs. Most of the other top vices thrived there as well. It was definitely the place to come when you were looking for action. Or, as in Kirk’s case, when you were looking for punishment.

A neon sign with half the letters burned out illuminated the path before him. RAINBOW BOUTIQUE, it said, or used to, back when it was fully functional. And if me information he’d gotten from that old landlord back at the dump he now called home was correct, he’d be able to find another purveyor of illegal vice there.

A tattoo artist.

Kirk pushed open a creaking door and stepped inside. The door stuck, making him wonder just how much business this place got these days. He scanned the smallish store. It was dark and dingy. The dust in the air was so thick it was hard to breathe. Or was that dust? …

By all immediate appearances, this was just a head shop. All kinds of drug paraphernalia stocked the shelves—hookahs, bongs, you name it. Incense was burning, adding to the generally heavy putrid atmosphere. Two scrawny men in their early twenties hung by one of the windows. Addicts no doubt. To them, visiting this place must be like going to Sears.

And all of this was perfectly legal, Kirk mused, as he strolled down the aisles. Selling drug paraphernalia was legal in Oklahoma, so long as you could claim some legal non-drug-related use for the equipment. Just as cockfighting was legal in Oklahoma. Pari-mutuel horse-race betting was legal in Oklahoma. Carrying a concealed weapon was legal in Oklahoma. But not tattooing. Tattooing was illegal. After all, we don’t want to corrupt our youth.

Kirk spotted a doorway in the back with a curtain of cheap plastic multicolored beads obscuring the view. That might be just what he was looking for, he reasoned. He also noticed an extraordinarily fat man hunkering nearby, keeping an eye on the doorway. The bouncer, no doubt.

Kirk flashed the ogre a wave and a smile. “I’m not a cop.”

Apparently the bouncer saw no reason to doubt him. He made a grunting sound, then returned his eyes to the skin mag he was drooling over.

Kirk pushed apart the beads and entered the inner sanctum. The light was dim, but not so much so that he couldn’t make out a withered figure hunched over an art table. A single green-shaded lamp clipped to the top provided the only light in the tiny room.

And on the walls, just barely visible, were hundreds upon hundreds of tattoo designs, the full panoply, from anchors to butterflies to dear old MOTHER.

He was in the right place.

The man at the art board looked to be about three hundred and two, but Kirk figured spending your nights in this crappy room could probably age you in a New York minute. His chin and upper lip were covered with stubble; his mouth and face were dirty. There was a distinctive odor wafting from his direction which suggested the gent had not bathed since he was a sprightly youth of two hundred and twelve.

Not being much of a host, the man wasn’t speaking to him. Kirk figured that left it to him to break the ice. “This the place to get a tattoo?”

“Body illustration.” The man’s jaw seemed to creak when he spoke. “Tattooing is illegal.”

“Of course. Body illustration. That’s what I want.”

The man shifted slightly. He was taking a defensive posture, still keeping the art board between him and the newcomer. “What’d’ya have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He waved his hand toward the walls. “Any of these. All of them. Whatever.”

The man frowned. “Usually the customer picks the design.”

“And isn’t that crazy?” Kirk asked. “After all, what do I know about tattoos? You’re the expert.”

“Where’d’ya want it?”

Kirk considered a moment. “Where does it hurt most?”

“I don’t do that kind of tattoo,” the old man said, turning crabby. “No nipples, no genitalia. I’m a professional.”

“How ’bout the back? Does that hurt?”

“Pretty much. Though the chest is worse.” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sayin’ you want it to hurt?”

“Never mind. I’ll go with the chest.”

“Look, son, I’m not here to inflict pain. If that’s how you get off and you’re lookin’ for a quickie, let me recommend a little lady on The Stroll—”

“I don’t sleep with whores!” Kirk shouted back at him. He looked away, embarrassed by his outburst. “I just want a tattoo.”

“Fine. Customer is always right.” The man reached for his needles, which were soaking in a muddy blue liquid. “Picture or letters?”

“Which of them …”

“Letters hurt the worst,” the man answered, clicking his tongue as he dried the tips of his needles. “You wouldn’t think so, but they do. ’Specially if you color in the letters.”

“Then that’s what I want, pal. On the chest.” He took a hundred bucks out of his pocket and threw it on the art board. With a speed that would have suited an anaconda, the old man snatched it up and shoved it in his pocket.

Kirk gestured toward the padded chair in the corner. “That where I sit?”

“Right.” The man came closer and, for the first time, took a good look at Kirk’s face. “What the hell happened to you?”

Kirk touched his face, swollen in places, one eye still black, and a not nearly healed slash across his forehead. “I was in a fight.”

“No joke. What’d you fight, a tractor?”

“No. Three punks trying to steal a TV”

The man pulled back. “Are you a cop?”

“Just a concerned citizen.”

“With a death wish.”

“Maybe,” Kirk said quietly. “May be.”

“Look, if you’ve got some kinda problem, I don’t want—”

“Just do the damn tattoo already, okay?”

The man frowned a moment, then readied his needles and uncovered a few vats of dye. “So what do you want spelled out?”

“I don’t know. Something long. With lots of big colored-in letters.”

“Some people like to have their name. Or their lover’s name.”

“Too short,” Kirk said. “Something else.”

“Someone else’s name? Your hero, maybe. A nickname?”