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Spilled Ink
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Spilled Ink
by Rob Knight
Torquere Press
Copyright ©2007 by Rob Knight
First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007
NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser
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Distributed by Fictionwise.com
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Spilled Ink
by Rob Knight
Mark Spencer checked the address, to make sure he had
the cross streets right. Honest to God, it didn't look like there
should be a tattoo studio on this street, but whatever.
Halfway down there was a neon chicken, right? So that had to
be the Cock's Crow.
His fucking therapist had recommended the shop, of all
people. He hoped to God the guy was as good as Andy said
he was, because he needed this tat. The place he'd gotten his
first one, when he joined the force, had closed down, and he
needed someone solid.
The little bell above the door made him jump when it went
off, but he supposed this late at night it was good to know
people were coming in. Smart even.
"Be right with you." He couldn't see who was talking, but a
well-inked hand waved from a black-glassed office.
"Goddamnit, Rita. Either fucking work or don't. I don't give a
fuck, but quit being a cunt and make up your mind. I got
people who want a chair."
Mark's eyebrows tried to crawl into his hairline. Shit.
Maybe this wasn't his kind of place.
"Sorry, man. I got this chick, she keeps not showing up for
her clients. If you ain't got your reputation, you ain't got
shit." A tall, lanky guy unfolded from a desk chair, long silver
and black hair in a braid over his shoulder. There was ink on
the man's neck, near his ears, even on his fingers—it was a
riot of color and pattern. Amazing. "What can I do you for?"
"I'm looking to get an armband. Kinda like this one in size
and shape..." Mark rolled up his sleeve to show off the sort of
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by Rob Knight
stylized, almost tribal, handcuff armband on his left arm. "But
it's a memorial."
"That's nice work, man." The guy grabbed Mark's arm,
looking closely. "You want it on the same arm?"
"No, on the other, I think. I'm not about angel wings and
shit. Pete was my partner. Like in cops, you know? So I want
something sort of cop-themed, but all him."
"Cop-themed." The man had the lightest colored eyes.
"Okay. Okay, I can work with that, probably. You have
anything specific you want? His badge, maybe?"
Mark nodded. "Maybe his badge number? If you can make
it kinda tribal." That would be less obvious, less likely to get
him more admin leave.
"I can see that." A piece of paper was pushed over to him.
"Write it down so I can sketch."
"You got it." Mark knew the fucking thing from memory,
but he pulled out his wallet and checked, just to be sure. He
had it written on an emergency contact card. It would suck to
get it inked on wrong.
"So, what happened to him?" The tall guy straddled a
stool, grabbed a pencil.
Mark's throat closed right up, and he had to clear it a few
times to get the words out. "We surprised a couple of guys in
the middle of a convenience store robbery. All he wanted was
a lousy cup of coffee, you know?"
"Jesus. That sucks." The paper was eased out of his
fingers, the long braid thumping to the counter as the guy
started drawing. "Did you get hurt?"
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by Rob Knight
"I took a shot to the leg. Nothing serious. Pete ... It was
messy, you know? Real messy." Every night when he closed
his eyes he could see Pete's staring eyes and the bloody pulp
that had been the side of his fucking head.
"A shot to the leg isn't a walk in the park." The words were
said like somebody who knew what he was talking about.
"Yeah. I lived." Swallowing the bile, Mark pulled his mental
socks up. He was here to give Pete the memorial he
deserved. Then he could move on.
He got a soft, wry chuckle. "Like that's the easy part."
The pencil started moving, Pete's numbers getting all
spiky, tough-looking.
Mark kinda stared at the man's eyelashes, almost lying on
those lean cheeks. It was like the guy understood, like he
really got it. Fucking got it. Hell, maybe he did. "Yeah. Oh, I
like that."
"Are you wanting color? We can do a blue, if you want.
Solid black."
"I want it to match the blackwork on the other arm." Not
that he was a balance freak or anything. Seriously. But it
would look nice.
"Sure, man." The guy added some shadows, some depth.
"Did you work together long?"
"Six years. Day in and day out. We were buds."
Sometimes more than buds, up until Pete got married, even if
he wouldn't tell a soul. "Longer than I was with my last lover,
for sure."
"Ouch. You want his name in here, too?"
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