Land of Entrapment (18 page)

“Hi. I’m looking for an artist named Dragon.”

She pointed at one of the small rooms down the hall past the counter. “He’s busy. You wanna wait?”

“How long?”

She shrugged, a faint smile on her lips. “Not very.

Frat boy getting his first one. They can’t take too much pain.”

I smiled in return. “Gotcha. I’ll just hang out.” The place had lots of light, at least. Photos and artwork depicting all manner of tattoos in all manner of places covered the dingy paneling. Some were absolutely gorgeous. Others weren’t really my thing. I actually would like to get another tat. I had one already, on my left shoulder blade. I thought a big pirate ship across my back would be cool. Or something for Día de los Muertos. One of Posada’s calaveras, maybe. I didn’t see anything like that here, but if Dragon was as good as I thought, he’d be able to create something from scratch.

After about thirty minutes, I heard people emerging from the back. One, I guessed, was the frat boy. Polo shorts, flip-flops, and a tee proclaiming his affiliation with Sigma Alpha Epsilon. He seemed a little green around the gills. The man I assumed to be Dragon followed him up to the front, instructing him on the “proper care and feeding” of his new tattoo, which was probably one of those passé tribal things around his upper arm, since he had his right sleeve shoved up around his shoulder and a large gauze bandage wrapped all the way around the circumference of his bicep.

The goth clerk rang up Frat Boy’s tattoo. Dragon was going through some paperwork when he looked up at me and smiled. He was not at all what I was expecting. I had this image of him as some big scary biker dude with massive hairy arms and a goatee. He was supposed to have major piercings in his ears and chin (and probably nipples) and wear sleeveless leather Harley vests and chaps. And he was supposed to have big clunky biker boots and a massive beer gut.

Instead, Dragon stood about my height and if he was thirty, I’d be surprised. He looked Hispanic and he was thin and wiry and balding on top so he kept the rest of his hair shaved close to his skull. He wore silver wire-rimmed glasses, baggy jeans, a button-down plaid short-sleeved shirt, and Adidas sneakers.

The only thing about him that was even remotely close to what I had envisioned was his goatee.

“Hi there. Come on back.”

I followed him and turned left into his little studio. He had some nice tapestries hanging on the walls that depicted busty women and guys with massive musculature—stuff like Conan the Barbarian—and a couple of religious candles lit on his counter next to the tools of his trade. A small speaker system designed for an MP3 player sat on a chair in the corner. The soft sounds of African chill emanated from it. This was definitely blowing my stereotype.

“I’m Tom, but people call me Dragon.”

“So I’ve heard. Where’d you get the nickname?”

He grinned and lifted his shirt up, exposing his back. “I had that done in Japan by a guy who tats Yakuza.” A stunning Japanese-style dragon curved down his back, its tail looping over his left shoulder so that it probably started on his pectoral. The dragon’s front claws rested on his kidneys. Dragon’s entire back was the landscape in which the tattoo dragon stood.

“Wow,” I breathed appreciatively. “That is gorgeous work. Did you train in Japan?”

“I did.” He lowered his shirt, pleased at my reaction.

“Are you working on the bodysuit?”

“Not yet. My thighs are tatted, but I’m not quite ready to go that route yet. So what can I do for you?”

I pulled the print-out from my pocket and unrolled it. “Actually, I’m not here for myself.

Though I’ll tell you what, if I get another one, I’ll have you do it.” I handed him the picture of Cody’s back. “Is this your work?”

He looked at it, then nervously glanced at me.

“Are you FBI or something?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. And it’s not illegal to tat that kind of stuff, so don’t worry. I’m trying to find this guy.”

He studied it for a while. “Yeah, that’s mine. It’s not like I believe in this bullshit, you know.” He looked up at me, troubled.

“I know. How much does something like that cost?”

“I charged this guy four hundred. And that was a deal. Look at the detail on the feathers. I cut him some slack because he seemed like a nice guy when he came in.” Dragon shook his head, looking at the photo.

“One of those guys who could sell sand to an Arab.

Halfway through, I knew I hadn’t charged him enough. But it was too late. I’d already bargained with him and I don’t hedge on that.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Uh.” Dragon looked at the ceiling, thinking.

“Maybe April last year? It was spring, I remember that. One of those windy days that’s not quite warm enough for shorts.”

“Did you do it in one sitting?”

“No. Four. So it took about two months. He paid me half up front and the other half later. Cash.”

“How about the tat on his left arm? You can just see it. The pissed-off rat?”

Dragon laughed. “That’s not mine. That’s Eddie’s.

He’s the other guy who works here. His specialty is cartoonie shit like that. He does a lot of gang-bangers, too, ’cause he’s really good at those gothic letters.

Learned it in prison.” Dragon shrugged and handed the photo back to me.

“Is he the only guy you tatted with this?”

“No. I’ve done five of those. And a few basic swastikas. One guy came in—big blond dude—quiet but a real prick. He wanted a big swastika on his chest but he was such an ass that I didn’t want to do it.

Eddie took him on. He doesn’t mind dealing with pricks as long as they pay.” Dragon started chuckling.

“But he actually managed to piss Eddie off so Eddie tatted it hard and slow.”

I laughed. “What’d he do?”

Dragon leaned against his counter and grinned.

“Oh, he whimpered a lot and had to take ‘cigarette breaks’ every few minutes.”

I chuckled at that. “So did you catch this guy’s name?” I gestured with the picture.

“Cody something or other. I remember it ’cause it’s one of those cowboy names and I thought it was kinda strange, tatting Nazi shit on a cowboy.”

“How about a guy named John Talbot?”

Dragon looked at me, suddenly suspicious. “I started to tat him. He paid me for the first part but didn’t show up for other sessions. And yeah, I read about it in the paper.”

“Look, I’m not with law enforcement and I don’t think you had anything to do with Talbot. I’m just trying to find Cody. Did Talbot hang out with this Cody guy?”

Dragon thought about it for a bit. “When Talbot came in for the first part, Cody was with him. But I only saw them together that once.”

“When was that?”

“Talbot started his this past March. I did two sessions with him then he quit coming around.”

“Has Cody been in recently?”

“Once since he came in with Talbot. I think that was in May. Oh, and he had a girl with him. Cute.

Looked kind of scared. I remember that because she seemed really nice and I wondered what she was doing with this loser guy. He did ask me if I’d seen that other guy. The one with the chest swastika.”

“Why’d he come here looking for him?”

Dragon shrugged. “We get a lot of regulars.

They’ll come in not necessarily for a new image, but to have touch-ups. And we’re like an ol’ school barber shop. People hang out here. It’s a peace zone. You can chill as long as you don’t diss anybody while you’re here. There’s like a truce thing going on, which is why we have gang-bangers and Nazis hanging out in the same place. They know they can and if they don’t screw around, they’re welcome to come back. It’s even funnier during gay pride, when all these chicks come in for rainbow whatevers or those paw prints on their chests and they’re hanging out in the lobby with Skins and cholos.” He grinned. “I should write a book.

Anyway, Cody asked about that guy. I can’t remember his name. Ron or something.”

“Roy. Is he a regular?”

“He’ll come in maybe two or three times in a month. Because we are the kind of shop we are, we’re sort of a hub for a lot of people. There’s an understanding among them—and this is true of the cholos and other gang-bangers—that they can’t come here to make trouble with rivals.”

“What happens if they do?”

“Nobody here will tat ’em and trust me, it’s hard to find people who do good work and are willing to put some of the shit on people that they want. You wanna be a bad-ass mother-fucker gangster with shitty tattoos? No way. They know not to press their luck here.”

I thought about that a moment. Tattoos as social currency. “So you don’t have any trouble?”

“Nope. I’ve been here three years and we’ve had no problems with shit like that.”

“So when was the last time this Roy guy was in?”

Dragon pursed his lips, thinking. “Maybe two weeks ago? He came in looking for that Cody dude.”

“Did he find him?”

“Not that day. I mean, it’s possible that Cody’s come in since May but I might not have known about it.” True. Dragon might’ve been working on someone or eating lunch or any number of things. I smiled.

“Thanks a bunch for your time. If Cody comes in again, would you call me and let me know? Like, within the next week or two?” I took a slip of paper out with my first name and cell phone number. I always had a couple of these on me when I was doing research. Business cards had way too much information on them and when you’re dealing with extremist movements, it’s generally not a good idea for people to know too much about you.

“Sure. What’s this about?” He took the slip of paper.

“That girl who came in with him in April is my stepsister and I haven’t heard from her in a while. I’m a little worried because of the crowd Cody runs with and I was hoping to talk to her.”

He raised his eyebrows, suddenly looking sympathetic. “Oh, wow. That’s heavy. So she’s not taking your calls, huh?”

“No. And her family thinks that Cody might be a bit...”

“Abusive. Yeah. I could see that.” He shook his head empathetically. “Man. That’s tough. ’Cause she’s an adult and you can’t force her to get out of a bad situation. Good luck.”

“Thanks. And thanks again for your time.”

“No problem. And seriously, if you want another tat, stop by.”

“Definitely.” I shook his hand and left. A skinny guy wearing the low-slung jeans, long sleeveless tee, and hairnet of a cholo sat in the lobby, nervously tapping his foot. His skin appeared unmarred. A virgin. I waved at the clerk as I exited into the heat.

An informative day thus far. Still no Cody, but at least I got the sense that he was in the Albuquerque area.Now would probably be a good time to try the number on his business card. I got in my car and drove to a nearby gas station, where I pulled up to the pay phones, relegated to the back near the air hose. I took two quarters out of the little tray in my dashboard and pulled Cody’s card out of my wallet. I got out and inserted the quarters into the slot, waited, then dialed the number. One ring. Two. Three. Four.

Bump to voice-mail.

“Hey, this is Cody. Leave a message. Eighty-eight!”

I hung up before the beep. So the number was still good. I’d try again later. If he answered, I was going to pretend to be interested in the movement and see if he’d meet me, hopefully at Eight Ball. I’d ask Chris if she could go, though it was probably an unnecessary precaution. If he started trouble, he’d lose his Eight Ball privileges. I got back in my car and headed for Megan’s, needing some time to consolidate my thoughts and prepare for dinner with Melissa, which I wasn’t really looking forward to. Yes, Melissa moved me on some levels still, but the thought of patching things up with her and trying again was too weird.

There was just too much of the past to unravel. I therefore decided to think about it as if it was a dinner with in-laws. I just had to get through it.

Chapter Eleven

I WAS IN the process of getting my stuff out of my car in front of Jeff and Sage’s when I heard the front door of the main house slam open. I looked up. Sage was standing on the porch. “Hey! Get in here,” she ordered. From anybody else, that tone would have irritated me. On Sage, it was endearing.

“Hold on—let me get my stuff.”

She watched me, obviously impatient. I grabbed my bag, made sure I had everything, locked up, then climbed the steps to the main house. “What’s up?”

“Inside.” She pulled me into the living room, agitated. “Cody was here.”

I stared at her. “What? How do you know?”

“He was poking around Megan’s about an hour ago.”

“Shit. Why didn’t you—”

“Call you? I don’t have your number. Hello!”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Let me fix that right now.” I pulled my wallet out of my pocket and removed a business card. I got a pen out of my bag and wrote my cell phone number on the back. Sage took the card and looked at it. She slid it into the front pocket of her shorts.

“Okay. What was he doing?”

“Looking in the damn windows. He probably tried to get in through the front and he couldn’t because you had the locks changed. I wish I was here to see that.” She smiled grimly.

“All right. From the beginning.”

She rolled her eyes and sat down on the couch. I sat next to her, setting my bag on the floor.

“I got home around two and went in through the front. I went into the kitchen and checked out that back window that looks through the laundry room and then through that other window—it’s a habit. I always look to see if Megan’s home. Lately, I look to see if you’re home.”

I ignored that, though it gave me a little buzz.

“And I saw this guy looking in the side windows.

I could not believe it. I went to the window and holy shit, it was that assmuncher Cody.”

“Assmuncher?”

“Prick. Is that better?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Listen to me!”

I shut up.

“I decided to watch him for a while. You know, play detective and shit. Like you do.”

I shot her a look that she ignored.

“It looked like he was pushing on the windows, like he was trying to figure out if he could break in without making a big scene. Then he went back to the front door and he stood looking at it. I wanted to yell