CHAPTER 1
CARMINE
—and I’m just wondering what your availability looks like, because I was thinking Thursday, but if Thursday doesn’t work, then Friday would probably be okay, and I also had a question about pricing because my friend got hers done somewhere else and she said—”
Sweet mercy, talking to this woman is wearing on my last nerve. I should not be the one talking to people who call in—especially college girls who go back and forth about what they want, before finally admitting they really want a tramp stamp or a butterfly.
“Thursday’s full,” I say from memory, grabbing the schedule book. The computer is a recent development, supposedly to make things easier, but the damn thing takes so long to get going that we’ve kept using the appointment ledger we’ve used since Waylon opened King Ink. “Friday, I think I’ve got a two o’clock open. Liam does color work, if that’s the direction you’re going.”
“Oh, it is, yes. I’m thinking something floral, like peonies maybe, or roses. I saw this piece online that was—”
“Okay. Just bring in a picture of what you want, and we’ll use that. To secure the appointment, we need an eighty-dollar deposit. You’re looking at two-hundred total.”
I wait as Stephanie gets her card and reads me the details. It’d be a lot easier to do this through the software on the computer… but the computer screen is still loading. Fuck if I know anything about computers, other than Waylon wants us to start using them.
I look back at Dale, the client I’m supposed to be working on right now. While the credit card is being processed, I cover the phone and call out, “Sorry, Dale. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Dale nods, but he shakes his head in a way that suggests he’s aggravated. I can’t blame him, because I’m aggravated, too.
“Okay. We’ve got your deposit. We’ll see you on Friday at two o’clock. Call us a day in advance if you need to reschedule, otherwise you forfeit the deposit.” I write her name in the Friday slot—Stephanie, floral, color, $80 deposit paid—in handwriting that probably no one else can read.
I hang up and see the computer is finally up, but I ignore it and put the appointment book in the cubby below the counter.
I head back to my station. Ford is deep in a black-and-grey portrait on a middle-aged man’s calf—a woman’s face, the kind of piece he can spend a full day on. Nobody talks to Ford mid-portrait. This is a shop rule and, more importantly, self-preservation.
Clancy is breaking down his station with the methodical precision he brings to everything: surfaces wiped in the same order, inks capped and sorted, equipment laid out exactly where it always is. He glances at me as I pass.
Knight is at his station, headphones in, working on a Japanese-style sleeve on a regular. You wouldn’t know he’s the artist behind the viral Purrfect Kittens art, because we were shocked as fuck to learn that. His back is to the room. He has not weighed in on the front desk situation, and it’s not likely that he will. His priorities are his wife, his art, tattoos, and then everything else is a very distant fourth.
I get back to Dale, pull on fresh gloves, find my place on the sleeve—dense American traditional, eagles and daggers and a banner we’ve been building over several sessions—and settle back into the hum. Everything else is a disaster, but working on a tattoo lets me exhale. This is what I love.
“Thanks for being patient, Dale.”
“Not much to do but wait. You gonna hire someone for the front desk?”
“Trying to,” I say, wiping excess ink before continuing. “We need to get some help in. I’m shit with computers and none of us like fielding calls all that much.”
“Sign’s been in the window a while now,” Clancy says from the chair next to mine, and the challenge in his voice makes me stop the tattoo gun and close my eyes.
The crew talks like I don’t know we need help. But what the fuck am I supposed to do if no one comes in?
“I know, Clancy,” I say, then turn to Dale. “I think we’ve got maybe one more session on this and you’ll be finished. What do you think?” I stand and stretch while he looks in the mirror and takes it all in. In my opinion, it looks damn good, but it’s Dale’s opinion that matters.
Dale nods and looks at me. “It’s worth the wait.”
I smile, satisfied, and grab the tattoo balm. “You know the drill,” I say, applying a thin layer of the balm and wrapping his arm in plastic wrap.
“Yeah. I’ve got ointment at home.”
We head to the desk and I run his card, knocking off ten percent as a discount because of the interruption.
“See you next Wednesday,” I call out, and Dale waves as he leaves.
A big man comes in once Dale is out. Full sleeves, throat work, the kind of accumulation that takes years and a serious commitment to ink.
“I need a new piece,” he says bluntly, staring me down like it’s a contest.
I hold his eye and grab the appointment book. “We’ve got Tuesday at two, or next Thursday.”
