Page 38 of Tito

IF YOU’RE

DRUNK, RUDE, STUPID, BROKE,

SICK, ANNOYING, ON YOR PHONE,

OBNOXIOUS, SUNBURNED, BAREFOOT,

STINKY, LOUD, HOPING FOR ROMAN NUMERALS,

PREGNANT, OR SEARCHING FOR A BARGAIN

PLEASE

COME BACK WHEN YOU’RE NOT.

The man twisted the ends of his mustache between his thumbs and forefingers. “Evening, fellas. Welcome to Forever Inked.”

“My friend needs a tattoo,” Braxton said.

The man’s eyes shifted to me. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad, thank you.” I held out my left forearm, which had a few small tattoos on it, leaving plenty of room for more. “I’d like a cherry tree branch with three sets of blossoms. The left portion of the branch has eight blossoms, the center has eight more, and then, on the far right, there’s a cluster of nine.”

“One tree branch, twenty-five blossoms,” the man said, nodding his head. “Color, or black and grey?”

“Black and grey on the branch,” I replied. “Pink blossoms.”

The man hoisted a large bound ledger onto the countertop. It hit the surface with a dull thud. “When were you thinking?” He flipped through the pages. “Stanley’s got an opening—”

“Tonight,” Braxton said. “He needs it tonight.”

The man looked up, made eye contact with Braxton, and then looked at me. “Which one of you two is getting this piece?”

“I am,” I replied.

“When were you thinking?” he asked. “He’s got an opening three weeks from next Monday, at four o’clock. I’d guess that’ll take two hours.”

Braxton nodded toward the rear of the shop. “Looks like Stanley’s cleaning up. I’ll pay him to stay late.”

The man chuckled in a manner that left little to the imagination. “Stanley,” he shouted over his shoulder while eyeing Braxton. “Got time for a tattoo? Tonight?”

“Fresh out of time,” Stanley replied from the rear of the shop. “Explain what you want. Make an appointment. Leave a deposit.”

“I’ll make it worth his while,” Braxton said.

“He’ll make it worth your while,” the man with the mustache shouted into the shop’s abyss.

“Life ain’t about money, man,” Stanley replied. “Explain what you want. Make an appointment. Leave a deposit.”

“Are you a basketball fan?” Braxton shouted.

“Sports fan in general,” Stanley replied. “I like ‘em all.”

“How about courtside tickets to the Lakers game next Sunday?”

Stanley came to the counter. His dark hair was combed with a definitive sharp part, held in place by styling gel. A long—but well-trimmed—beard hung nearly to his chest. Every exposed inch of his skin—short of his face—was covered in colorful ink.

“Lakers-Celtics?” he asked. “Courtside? As in, courtside?”