“Come on,” Jodi said, “the guy was so into you. I could tell.” Finished with setting out her instruments, Jodi was ready to gossip. And Ambrose was right there with her.
“Oh, yeah? You got a boyfriend? How come you never said nothin’?”
“Because like I just told you, it wasn’t anything.”
“Don’t let him kid you, Ambrose. This guy was totally into Keston. And he was freaking hot as hell, with the most gorgeous blue eyes…” She sighed.
“Enough,” I snapped.
The door opened, and my first client, a firefighter named Mike Flynn, walked in. He’d been coming since 9/11 and had tattoos covering his body.
“Hey, how’s it going, Mike?” I gave the two chattering fools a stone-faced grimace and went to take care of my client. “I’ve been working on what you told me when you made the appointment. Where do you want it? You’re running outta skin.”
Mike, a big, stocky guy with iron-gray hair and bright-blue eyes in his weathered, freckled face, looked like he’d been through hell and back. I couldn’t imagine what he’d lived through, seeing so many people die. I’d been a teenager dealing with my own shit when the towers were hit, and I didn’t remember much about it aside from feeling like the city was on fire. Mike had told me that no one he worked with had ever fully recovered. For him personally, life had gone south afterward. His wife left him, and he’d told me about the buddies he’d lost as they slowly sickened and died. His stories were a kind of therapy for me, and I didn’t say much as I worked on him, just listened—which was a hell of a lot more important anyway.
“It’s gotta be special. The cop who helped me and my buddies on the pile died of the same disease killing my buddies.” Hescanned his biceps and forearm. “Find me a good spot on here somewhere.”
“That’s cool, man. Take a look at this.”
I showed him the sketch I’d made—an eagle holding the NYPD crest, and underneath, the name and shield number, the date he died, andNever Forget.
His eyes widened. “That’s pretty fucking awesome. Exactly like what I thought about. Not too much, is it?”
“No. I think it’ll be cool. Give me some time to work it up, and I’ll be right back.”
I’d done plenty of work on the FDNY, NYPD, and Corrections officers. Through his work with city youth and art programs, Carlos had connections, and I’d kept them up. Ambrose, on the other hand, because of his ridiculous bias against the cops, had no desire to work on them, so I took all the uniforms.
It took me about forty minutes to make the stencil, and when I showed it to Mike, his eyes lit up.
“Yeah, that’s perfect.”
“Awesome.” I prepped the area, put my gloves on, and began to work. Mike had a spot on his forearm that was perfect for this. “How’s it going?” I asked him. “Busy?” I knew that would segue into a conversation where I could listen and not say much. Just the way I liked it.
“Not too bad. Coupla e-bike fires—these dumbasses still don’t realize they’re dangerous.”
“Uh-huh.” I placed the stencil on his skin and peeled it off, then began the inking process. “I see that on the news all the time.”
“Anyway, I’ve been thinking about getting this for a while. Bruce was a good guy—had it rough.”
“Yeah? How so?” I carefully outlined the eagle feathers.
“He was a beat cop. Coulda made detective, I’m sure, but he wanted regular shift ’cause he had a kid.”
“Uh-huh. Makes sense.”
“Yeah. Especially since his wife walked out on him and the boy. He told me she just up and left the kid. He was like four. What kinda mother does that?”
My fingers tightened over the handle of my needle. “I dunno.” Mike didn’t know how I grew up. “At least he had his father.”
“Yeah. Everything he did was for his kid—even though he’d make money from overtime, he felt guilty ’cause it was less time with his boy.”
Despite myself, I became interested in the story. “He never remarried?”
Mike shook his head. “Nah. Crazy thing is, he never got divorced. Of course the bitch shows up as he’s dyin’.”
“Damn, that’s cold.”
“Right? But Bruce was already too weak to do nothin’ about it.”
