“What an asshole!” she growled.
“Which one?”
“Me. The father. Take your pick.”
“The father?”
“The baby’s father. I told him that I was pregnant. That’s where I was, meeting him for a drink. He didn’t even ask me why I wasn’t drinking. When I explained it to him anyway, you know what he asked me?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “He asked if I was sure it was his. Like I’m out there soliciting sperm donations. What an idiot!”
“Him?”
“No, me. I sure as hell can pick’em, can’t I, Moe? What am I gonna do?”
“Just tell me who he is and I’ll show him the error of his-”
“No. I wouldn’t let him within fifty yards of this baby, the selfish, self-centered prick. Not now.”
“Isn’t there anybody you can talk to?”
“I’m talkin’ to him.”
“I mean a girlfriend, someone in your family.”
“Someone in my family! Are you nuts? You know what they would tell me? Go talk to the priest. Yeah, like a priest’s gonna help me make a decision about an abortion. After… you know, after what happened to me as a girl, my mother took me to a priest to have him bathe me in holy water, to wash away the stink and shame. You know what the priest said? He said that my mother should pray for God to forgive me. Forgive me, a little girl! What did I do wrong, Moe?”
“Nothing. Your mother was a foolish woman. And priests… What can I say? But I’m sure your brothers and sisters would-”
“No, they wouldn’t. I hate this fuckin’ baby,” she hissed, her face belying her words.
“Sure you do, that’s why you’re so torn up about it. That’s why you said you wouldn’t let the father get near it.”
“Who asked you?”
“You did.”
“I shouldn’t’ve.”
“Would you think about giving the baby up?”
That stunned Carmella, the air going out of her as if I had caught her solid in the solar plexus. I don’t think the notion of giving the baby up was a possibility she had ever wanted to consider. It was the hardest option for a reluctant mother. Though I believe the concept of closure is complete bullshit, I have to think that carrying a baby to term and delivering it only to hand it over to strangers has got to be a vicious form of living hell. I’m not sure I could handle the uncertainty of it or the second guessing.
“I couldn’t do that, Moe. How could I do that?”
Now the tears came. The fire was out. I took a step toward her.
“Leave me alone. Just leave me alone to think, okay?”
“Sure.”
In contrast to her name, Mira Mira was as exotic as whole wheat toast. Oh, she was pretty enough-Italian, early thirties, svelte and dark-but with a Brooklyn accent that made mine seem minted on the Thames. And if her loft in SoHo was indicative of how lucrative tattoo artistry was, I was going to tell Sarah-a gifted painter-to lose the brush and oils in favor of the ink and needle. You could have played full-court basketball in the place and have had room for bleachers and concession stands. The exposed brick walls were covered in enormous photographs of body art. Some were rather stunning and done in colors you were more apt to find in a Klimt than on a teenager’s bicep.
“So, you wanna to tawk about an original Mira Mira creation.”
“Not original, really,” I said, sliding my business card and the Polaroid across the table to her. “I believe you already spoke to my employee about it.”
“That Brian Doyle works for you, huh? A real freakin’ charma, that guy.”
“Charm is a funny thing. Depends on taste.”
“Yeah, well, just because some assholes who are drownin’ think they’re just slow swimmers, don’t make it so. You know what I mean?”
I didn’t, but I wasn’t here to argue with her. “Exactly. So what can you tell me about that tattoo?”
“Nothin’. I mean, nothin’ I didn’t already tell Prince Charmin’.”
“Amuse me, okay?”
“Sure. Whaddya wanna know?”
“Everything. Anything. How were you contacted? Who did you deal with? Did they leave a contact number or address? What was the kid like and the guy with him?”
“Nothin’ unusual in how he got in touch. Got a call from a guy sayin’ he’s seen my work and that he’s got a friend that he wants to get inked. I asked him if him or his friend wanna come in to tawk about what kinda design they’re lookin’ for, but he says they already got somethin’ specific in mind. I told him I didn’t do crap. No Christ heads or hearts or dragons, you know, that kinda crap and that I don’t negotiate price. He says that ain’t no problem and when can he come in.”
“So you spoke to the older man, the one with the eye patch.”
“Yeah, it was Cyclops I tawked to.”
“Do you have names, addresses, phone numbers?”
“Sure do, for what it’s worth. I mean, I don’t like check references or nothin’, but I make people sign all kinda fuckin’ releases before I put ink to skin. You have buyer’s remorse with a house, you can sell it. Body art, the way I do it, it’s kinda hard to give back.”
“Could I see the paperwork?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“My studio got busted into in May. All the files got trashed.”
“Any other damage?” I asked.
“Some. Nothin’ that couldn’t get fixed.”
“You remember any names?”
“Nah. I don’t remember what they wrote on the release forms and when they tawked to each other, I don’t even think they used names. Cyclops called the kid Kid. I don’t remember the kid callin’ Cyclops anything, but his expression called him Asshole. I don’t guess that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”
It wasn’t, but I didn’t want to lose the momentum. “So they make an appointment and…”
“Yeah, at first when I see ’em I’m thinkin’ it’s the man-boy love thing and that sugar daddy is buyin’ his boy toy a little art as a token of his appreciation. It wouldn’t be the first time. But as things went on, I changed my mind. It was more like boss and employee kinda situation. In fact, the kid didn’t seem very into the whole tattoo thing at all. Kept whinin’ about not likin’ needles and shit like that. Cyclops told him to shut up and take it like a man.”
“Nice guy, huh?”
“A typical cop.”
I nearly swallowed my tongue. “What?”
“I’m pretty sure he was a cop. My dad, my uncles, my little brothers are all on the job. Just like you and Prince Charmin’.”
“Well, Mira, you wouldn’t have to be Kreskin to figure out that Brian and I were once cops.”
“I guess not, but Cyclops was once a cop. I’m tellin’ ya. And then when he pulls out that picture and shows me what he wants me to put on the kid, I almost threw them both out on their freakin’ asses.”
“The rose and Chinese characters?”
“Yeah,” she said, tapping her finger on the Polaroid. “It was an enlargement of an old photo, all grainy and shit, but clear enough so’s I could copy it.”
“The person in the photo, was he a-”
“Tell you the truth, I just looked at the tat. It was a man’s arm. That much I could tell.”
“Why’d you want to throw them out?”
“’Cause it was a bullshit job. Any hack coulda done the work and I didn’t wanna waste my time.”
“If it was a bullshit job, why come to you?”
“You’re askin’ the wrong party here,” she said. “I don’t know. Some people they think like expense equals quality. So for what I charged ’em, they got lotsa quality.”
“You mind me asking how much quality they received?”
“Three large cash.”
“He paid you three grand for-”
“That’s where my prices start, not where they finish. And he tipped me an extra few c-notes on top.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
She pointed at an eight foot by ten foot photo on the wall behind me. It was a tattoo of a peacock, its tail feathers fanned across a woman’s upper thigh and right cheek. The colors were incredibly vivid, the iridescent blues and greens fairly jumped off the subject’s flesh, but it was the subtle shadings, the gold and beige, the darker browns and black that were the real trick of her art.