Murder One (16 page)

“Even if it means breaking the law?”

“They are the law, Ben. And as long as they believe the end result is just, they don’t worry too much about the means.” She took a step closer, her expression solemn. “Please be careful, Ben. Very careful.”

K
IRK STUMBLED DOWN THE
Stroll, one foot after the other, no idea where he was going, or when, or for that matter, why. How many nights had he forced himself out like this? Prowling the worst parts of the city, late at night, looking for trouble, usually finding it. Brushing shoulders with hooligans and pushers and pimps and whores and—

He tried to erase the ugly word from his brain, without success. That was the word those bastards used to tarnish Keri, back in the courtroom. That was what they called her, just because she had to take her clothes off in that crummy club, just because she was dating that dirty cop. It wasn’t right. She never did anything wrong, not really. She was a good girl, clean and pure, deep down. She was his sister, for God’s sake. Those creeps didn’t know what was in her heart. But he did. He knew. They—

Standing before him, he saw a heavenly vision, a shapely female figure barely over five feet tall, with platinum blond hair.

Keri?
He couldn’t see the face, but even from this distance, he knew she was gorgeous. He felt his knees weakening; his heart went out to her.

Keri!
Had she come looking for him? Was she here to bring him back? Did she forgive him for what he’d done?

He rushed forward, hands outstretched. “Keri!” he shouted. “Keri, I—”

The young woman in the feather boa and fake-fur coat turned to face him. “Wanna date, sugah?”

“Keri?”

“You can call me Keri if you want, sugah. You can call me any li’l ol’ thing you like.”

It was not Keri. It was a prostitute. A whore. A real one.

“Sorry. I thought you were … somebody else.”

“I can be somebody else, sugah. I’ll be whatever—”

“Leave me alone!”

The young woman stepped back quickly, and her eyes darted upward to a third-story window in the building behind her. Where her pimp observed from a distance, no doubt. Or perhaps some big bruiser charged with protecting her. Either way, Kirk’d best disappear. Not that he’d mind a good fight. But he’d done that so much lately. His hand touched the scabrous slash across his forehead. He was ready for something new.

“Sorry,” he muttered, then quickly scurried across the street. He turned right and headed off The Stroll, toward Cherry Street. Putting distance between himself and any immediate retribution.

Eleventh Street, particularly the section known as The Stroll, had a well-deserved reputation for being the sleaziest section of Tulsa. It was the easiest place in town to find a prostitute, in almost any price range, at almost any time of day. It was the simplest place to score drugs. Most of the other top vices thrived there as well. It was definitely the place to come when you were looking for action. Or, as in Kirk’s case, when you were looking for punishment.

A neon sign with half the letters burned out illuminated the path before him.
RAINBOW BOUTIQUE
, it said, or used to, back when it was fully functional. And if me information he’d gotten from that old landlord back at the dump he now called home was correct, he’d be able to find another purveyor of illegal vice there.

A tattoo artist.

Kirk pushed open a creaking door and stepped inside. The door stuck, making him wonder just how much business this place got these days. He scanned the smallish store. It was dark and dingy. The dust in the air was so thick it was hard to breathe. Or
was
that dust? …

By all immediate appearances, this was just a head shop. All kinds of drug paraphernalia stocked the shelves—hookahs, bongs, you name it. Incense was burning, adding to the generally heavy putrid atmosphere. Two scrawny men in their early twenties hung by one of the windows. Addicts no doubt. To them, visiting this place must be like going to Sears.

And all of this was perfectly legal, Kirk mused, as he strolled down the aisles. Selling drug paraphernalia was legal in Oklahoma, so long as you could claim some legal non-drug-related use for the equipment. Just as cockfighting was legal in Oklahoma. Pari-mutuel horse-race betting was legal in Oklahoma. Carrying a concealed weapon was legal in Oklahoma. But not tattooing. Tattooing was illegal. After all, we don’t want to corrupt our youth.

Kirk spotted a doorway in the back with a curtain of cheap plastic multicolored beads obscuring the view. That might be just what he was looking for, he reasoned. He also noticed an extraordinarily fat man hunkering nearby, keeping an eye on the doorway. The bouncer, no doubt.

Kirk flashed the ogre a wave and a smile. “I’m not a cop.”

Apparently the bouncer saw no reason to doubt him. He made a grunting sound, then returned his eyes to the skin mag he was drooling over.

Kirk pushed apart the beads and entered the inner sanctum. The light was dim, but not so much so that he couldn’t make out a withered figure hunched over an art table. A single green-shaded lamp clipped to the top provided the only light in the tiny room.

And on the walls, just barely visible, were hundreds upon hundreds of tattoo designs, the full panoply, from anchors to butterflies to dear old
MOTHER.

He was in the right place.

The man at the art board looked to be about three hundred and two, but Kirk figured spending your nights in this crappy room could probably age you in a New York minute. His chin and upper lip were covered with stubble; his mouth and face were dirty. There was a distinctive odor wafting from his direction which suggested the gent had not bathed since he was a sprightly youth of two hundred and twelve.

Not being much of a host, the man wasn’t speaking to him. Kirk figured that left it to him to break the ice. “This the place to get a tattoo?”

“Body illustration.” The man’s jaw seemed to creak when he spoke. “Tattooing is illegal.”

“Of course. Body illustration. That’s what I want.”

The man shifted slightly. He was taking a defensive posture, still keeping the art board between him and the newcomer. “What’d’ya have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He waved his hand toward the walls. “Any of these. All of them. Whatever.”

The man frowned. “Usually the customer picks the design.”

“And isn’t that crazy?” Kirk asked. “After all, what do I know about tattoos? You’re the expert.”

“Where’d’ya want it?”

Kirk considered a moment. “Where does it hurt most?”

“I don’t do that kind of tattoo,” the old man said, turning crabby. “No nipples, no genitalia. I’m a professional.”

“How ’bout the back? Does that hurt?”

“Pretty much. Though the chest is worse.” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sayin’ you want it to hurt?”

“Never mind. I’ll go with the chest.”

“Look, son, I’m not here to inflict pain. If that’s how you get off and you’re lookin’ for a quickie, let me recommend a little lady on The Stroll—”

“I don’t sleep with whores!” Kirk shouted back at him. He looked away, embarrassed by his outburst. “I just want a tattoo.”

“Fine. Customer is always right.” The man reached for his needles, which were soaking in a muddy blue liquid. “Picture or letters?”

“Which of them …”

“Letters hurt the worst,” the man answered, clicking his tongue as he dried the tips of his needles. “You wouldn’t think so, but they do. ’Specially if you color in the letters.”

“Then that’s what I want, pal. On the chest.” He took a hundred bucks out of his pocket and threw it on the art board. With a speed that would have suited an anaconda, the old man snatched it up and shoved it in his pocket.

Kirk gestured toward the padded chair in the corner. “That where I sit?”

“Right.” The man came closer and, for the first time, took a good look at Kirk’s face. “What the hell happened to you?”

Kirk touched his face, swollen in places, one eye still black, and a not nearly healed slash across his forehead. “I was in a fight.”

“No joke. What’d you fight, a tractor?”

“No. Three punks trying to steal a TV”

The man pulled back. “Are you a cop?”

“Just a concerned citizen.”

“With a death wish.”

“Maybe,” Kirk said quietly. “May be.”

“Look, if you’ve got some kinda problem, I don’t want—”

“Just do the damn tattoo already, okay?”

The man frowned a moment, then readied his needles and uncovered a few vats of dye. “So what do you want spelled out?”

“I don’t know. Something long. With lots of big colored-in letters.”

“Some people like to have their name. Or their lover’s name.”

“Too short,” Kirk said. “Something else.”

“Someone else’s name? Your hero, maybe. A nickname?”

“No, no.”

“Superman? Long John? Sex Machine?”

“No dirty stuff, old man.”

He pushed himself to his feet. “What the hell is wrong with you, anyway? People come in here, they usually know what they want.”

“What’s it to you, you geezer? Just pick something.”

“I’m an artist, goddamn it.” He pounded his needles down on the table. “I take pride in my work!”

“An artist!” Kirk laughed. “You’re a criminal, is what you are, you old crow. You’re breaking the law, remember?”

“Get out of here,” the man growled.

“No way, you old asshole. You took my money, now you’ll give me what I want or I’ll create such a stink you’ll be shut down for a year.”

“Who do you think—”

“I told you what to do!” Kirk bellowed. “Now
do it
!”

The old man’s eyes fairly bulged out of their sockets. His fists clenched together so tightly Kirk thought those feeble bones might snap.

“Fine,” the old man creaked, finally. He removed a bottle from a nearby shelf and poured something pungent onto a handkerchief. “I’ll have to put you out for this.”

“No!” Kirk shouted. “I want to feel this. I want to feel every—”

“Too damn bad.” An instant later, the chloroformed cloth was over Kirk’s mouth, and not ten seconds later, he was fast asleep.

Kirk awoke coughing. He was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the main section of the Rainbow Boutique. The fat man was sitting opposite him, smoking a cigarillo. His nose was buried in yet another slick magazine with glossy photos of naked women in degrading poses.

“Where’s the tattoo artist?” Kirk said, as soon as he could get his mouth to work.

“Tattoos are illegal,” the man replied, not looking up.

“Okay, the body illustrator then.”

“Gone. Won’t be back any time soon.”

“Son of a bitch.” Kirk was beginning to feel a distinct itching on his chest. “Did he do it?”

The man shrugged. “You tell me.”

The itching intensified. In fact, it was starting to ache. “My chest hurts.”

“Wimp.” A small smile played on his lips. “Mirror’s over there.” He nodded toward the nearest wall.

Kirk walked to the full-length mirror. He unbuttoned his shirt and opened it wide.
DICKLESS
, it said, in big bold multicolored letters. Permanently.

He heard a wheezy laughing behind him. The fat man was watching, howling his head off. The two addicts in the corner were having a pretty good time, too.

“You know what the best part is,” the immense man said, still chortling his heart out. “That little insult is going to hurt you for days.”

Kirk gave him a look. “You got a tattoo?”

“Tattoos are for wimps. You want to feel something intense, go to the Body Beautiful, down The Stroll by Lewis.”

Kirk glanced toward the beaded passageway. “Maybe after I have a word with your body illustrator.”

The man rose up, blocking his path. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“Let me through, big boy.”

The man placed his meaty fists firmly on his hips. “Aren’t you hurting enough already, asshole? “

Kirk considered. He was, actually. Hurting pretty damn bad. The old creep probably did whatever he could to make it agonizing. Maybe even infected needles, who knew? His chest was burning like it was on fire. He was in serious pain.

He turned back toward the mirror and gazed at his reflection. The agony was washing over him, overwhelming him. But it wasn’t enough.

Bad as it hurt, it still wasn’t enough. Not for what he’d done.

M
ATTHEWS LEFT HIS OFFICE
just after five and walked to his car in the underground parking garage behind police headquarters. He was meeting some of the boys at Scene of the Crime; they were going to plan out what to do next. So his mind was somewhat distracted when, all at once, a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound hurricane swept down out of nowhere and pinned him against his Toyota Celica.

“Wha—wha—” Matthews’s eyes peeled open, wide and frightened. “What the hell is going on? Hel—”

A thick strong hand clamped down over his mouth. “Try that again, you little pissant, and I’ll rip your tongue out. That’s a promise.”

Matthews’s eyes lighted on the face. The hand on his mouth eased up just enough for him to talk.

It was the investigator, Loving. And he was mad.

“What are you doing here?” Matthews sputtered.

“I’m on my way to a baseball game, you schmuck. What do you think I’m doing here? “

“I guess your boss went home crying that I was mean to him. So he sent his enforcer out to fight his battles.”

“As a matter of fact, I found out from someone else. Ben didn’t mention it, and probably never will. And let me give you another clue, schmuck. Fighting his battles is my job. And I’m very good at my job.” Loving lifted Matthews’s body up into the air, then slammed it back down against the car.

Matthews was hurting, but he wasn’t letting it show. “What is it you want, Loving?”

“I want you to back off, Matthews. Got it? What took place today on the fourth floor was totally unacceptable.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“There is no opinion. Except mine.” Loving lifted him up and slammed him down again. “Kincaid is the man, understand? And no one touches the man.”

“What’s going on?” The loud echo of footsteps in the parking garage told them both they were no longer alone. Soon three other officers were crowding behind them—Dodds, Callery, The Hulk—most of them men Loving had seen at the bar a few days before.