The Omega Device (The Ha-Shan Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

Her feet propelled her across the cracked asphalt of 55
th
's crosswalk. It broke to the high-curb and lines of shops of the busy side-street. Always less hectic than 51
st
was 53
rd
street's crosswalk. Beyond it, the main road of 51
st
swelled the horizon with tall buildings.
 

Smog and exhaust fought their way into Maggie's nostrils at the last cross-walk as the wind shifted. It tainted them to the door of Get Inked mid-way up the block and along on the left side.

Oakton's bustling downtown area was anything but pleasant, but Maggie found comfort in the chaotic obscurity it allowed. She could blend into shadows or crowds, disappear if necessary. It was a comforting thought for an introvert.

She pulled open the shop's door, found Mandy at the counter, scribbling on a sheet of paper. Maggie made for the back-room with a single word, “Food.”

Mandy jumped up to follow, “Cool. Hey, I called about the ink. It's on back-order but we'll discounted for the wait.”

Maggie sighed, the distributor had been a problem in the past. She stepped into the back room, set the bag on a lone table in its center, and pulled Styrofoam boxes from it.

The mouth-watering scent of Mexican-food perforated the air as Maggie shuffled the boxes, “We'll have to call International.”

“Can you do it?” Mandy asked, distraught. “I hate dealing with them. The one chick never stops talking. I call to order stuff, not chat.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, “Fine, but you owe me.”

“Oh, thank god!”

Maggie poured the last of the bag's contents onto the table. A cascade of plastic forks and napkins spilled out.

“Where's Ash?”

“Across the street,” Mandy said with a watering mouth.

“You eat. I'll watch the door.”

Mandy swallowed wetly, “Don't have to tell me twice.”

Maggie chuckled and made for the counter. Ashley appeared with a chime. Cold air forced its way in. Street sounds accompanied the crackle of a large “John's Drugstore” bag.

She set it on the counter beside Maggie, growled from her throat, “You know, Sandy's getting on my damn nerves.”

“Here we go.”

Ashley exhaled toxins, “I swear, we probably keep that place in business, and the bitch is always going on about us running out in the middle of the day to get things.”

Maggie leaned on her elbows with sarcastic, sleepy eyes, “Uh-huh.”

“I just wanna' come right out and say, “bitch, we're keeping you paid.” Christ, Jack's the owner and he loves us to death—”

“It helps we discount his ink.”

“Yeah, but he
owns
the damn place. Fuck!” She pulled at her hair.

“Ash—”

“I know, I know—”

“Food,” Maggie said with an emphatic nod at the back room.

“Right, food. Okay. I'll be back in a few.”

Maggie stared into the distance with a fatigue she had to fight to warm herself. She huddled over the counter, half in a sleep-state.

An errant chime above the door jostled her awake. Reality honed to a well-dressed Asian man. Curiosity and intrigue overtook Maggie when an older, Asian man entered with a zen-like visage.

The younger man straightened a cuff-link beneath his suit jacket, stepped forward to introduce himself as Lu-Yen Chen-Lee, his companion as Mr. Ryusaki.

“Mr. Ryusaki does not speak English,” Chen-Lee said. “But would like some work done. The other establishments have asked him to schedule an appointment. Unfortunately, we do not have the time, and can only do it now. Is this possible?”

Maggie's tired mind took a moment to catch up, “Yeah—I mean, it depends. How large is the design?”

Chen-Lee spoke Japanese to Ryusaki and the white-haired old man stepped forward with a lively youthfulness. He unfolded a sheet of paper, set it on the counter top to explain in Japanese.

His wispy, white mustache and long hair bucked at the syllables that Chen-Lee translated over, “This on both forearms in black ink, to begin immediately. He is a wealthy man and will pay well.”

Maggie examined the design; a seemingly random arrangement of strange characters were sketched on the paper. The characters were basic, hardly describable as anything specific; the first, an incomplete oval, had lines through it and was followed by a trapezoid whose top was drawn up and into a square.

The latter figure repeated twice more through-out the design, but was immediately followed by a triangle connected to a small, mound-like half-circle with three vertical lines inside. The next symbol, that Maggie could only describe as an open, “little dipper” with a curved handle, had three diagonal lines in its spoon and preceded the repeating trapezoid.

Another mound-like triangle came next, this time with an asterisk inside the triangle. A ladle-like cup without its handle was followed by another trapezoid. A sole asterisk was second to last. Then finally, a diamond with its top and bottom vertices extended to a height that matched the diamond's width.

Regardless of peculiarity, the design was simplistic; solid black, with clear-cut forms. Maggie couldn't understand why any artist worth their ink would turn down an admittedly wealthy client.

Whatever. Their loss, her rent-check.

Maggie's eyes darted between the men and the sheet, “I can do it, but it might take three or four hours.”

A short exchange between Chen-Lee and Ryusaki ended with the younger man speaking, “That will be satisfactory. And as to the fee?”

“Oh, uh,” Maggie said, thinking. “Normally this size runs three-to-three-fifty, but it's on both arms, so seven hundred. I can knock off a hundred since it's your first time here, and you're going to sit so long though. So, six hundred.”

Chen-Lee translated, Ryusaki listened. He bowed his head in satisfaction and Chen-Lee spoke, “It will be satisfactory.”

“Alright. Give me a few minutes to ready the stencil.”

Chen-Lee bowed his head. Ryusaki stood motionless. His brown, almond-shaped eyes half-closed in contentment. They followed Maggie back and forth as she readied the stencil and paperwork.

She refocused on the men while the stencil printed, “This is a standard release of liability.” She pointed to the sheet with a pen as Chen-Lee translated, “Most people don't read it, but if you have any issues just call and we'll work it out with you. If you could sign your name we'll be ready to get to work.”

Ryusaki nodded and took the pen to sign in character script. She thanked him and slid the paper across the counter, then retrieved the stencil.

Ashley appeared, more calm than before, “Need some help?”

“I got it,” Maggie said. She set the printed stencil down, “I just want to double check it's correct before I print a second.”

Chen-Lee translated and Ryusaki nodded with satisfaction.

“Ah, Japanese,” Ashley said. “I love the language.”

“Ash, this is Lu-Yen Chen-Lee, and Mr. Ryusaki,” Maggie said.

Ashley bowed respectfully to Mr. Ryusaki, who chuckled and bowed back. Chen-Lee extended his hand and Ashley shook it. Maggie awaited the last stencil with a curious compulsion to start work.

“Are you from Japan, Mr. Chen-Lee?” Ashley asked.

“No,” he answered shortly. “Los Angeles. Mr. Ryusaki is here on business—an associate of my father's. He requested I accompany Mr. Ryusaki. I must admit however, I never expected to be in such an—” He paused to gaze around with an air of superiority. “Interesting place.”

Ashley reared up, “What's that supposed to mean?”

“
Ash,
” Maggie warned.
 

“Did you—”

“
Not
w
orth it,” Maggie bit.

Ryusaki chuckled at the exchange. Ashley cooled at the old man's laughter. She breathed to shift gears and ease the tension. “I find your… remark, amusing. There's a famous tattooist from Los Angeles, named Chen-Lee.”

“My sister,” he grumbled.

Maggie's eyes widened. Ashley's jaw fell open, “She-La Chen-Lee's your
sister!?
”

He scowled, “The
black sheep.
A disappointing girl. She chose a deviant lifestyle over the family business.”

“Wait, what?” Ashley blankly. “Deviant? Dude, she's been in more magazines than I can count.”

“My sister's a childish girl.”

Maggie anticipated Ashley's rise and cringed.

“Yeah, and what's so great about you, huh? You're better 'cause she inks skin? That the same for us? Where's your talent? What good are—”

“Ash!” Maggie barked, her Bristolian in full-effect. “
Enough.
”

Ashley huffed. The angered lilt of Maggie's homeland forced her from the counter. “Fine, fuck it. I'm going out for a smoke.”

She moved for a jacket on the back counter, stormed out the front door. Maggie glared at her the whole way out. She apologized with a crumpled face, “I'm
really
sorry. Really. She's… hot-headed.”

Ryusaki began to laugh, spoke in Japanese. Chen-Lee translated with only the faintest trace of a scowl, “He says, do not mind Mr. Chen-Lee, he is… he is a… horse's ass.”

Maggie tried to hold back a laugh. Ryusaki spotted it, laughed, and triggered hers. She apologized profusely to Chen-Lee, “Sorry, really. I am. I'm ready whenever you are.”

She gestured outward with a hand and Ryusaki bowed. Maggie led them to her work space. Ashley weaseled back in and out with a pair of chimes. Maggie offered Ryusaki a seat and excused herself to retrieve her supplies. She returned with full hands, laid the supplies out on the mobile steel table and scooted beside Ryusaki to position his arm and snap on gloves.

She swabbed his arms with soap, swiped them with a razor, then pressed the first stencil down. She repeated the process, then with Chen-Lee's aid, led Ryusaki to a full-length mirror on the wall past the work spaces.

Satisfied with the stencils' placement, they returned to begin. She adjusted her machine's needles, spoke through Chen-Lee to Ryusaki, “First tattoo?”

Chen-Lee translated over the punctual Japanese, “No, a depiction of Samurai's life from birth to rise as warrior across the back.”

“Sounds like a lot of work. How long did it take?” Maggie asked, becoming more accustomed to speaking through the proxy.

“Six months. Twelve-sittings. Six hours a piece.”

“Oh. Our healing period only allows eight sessions in six months. Sounds like they were going over healing skin.”

“The method used allowed certain areas to heal as others were finished.”

Maggie fired up her machine. The low buzz shifted higher with the twist of a voltage dial, “A lot of planning before hand?”

“Yes. Much planning as well as time and money.”

“I'm surprised to see something so simple on both arms then,” Maggie replied astutely.

“They are the beginnings of a much larger piece on ancient symbology.”

Maggie looked up at Mr. Ryusaki, as prepared as she could be, “Ready then?”

Chen-Lee repeated the question. Ryusaki smiled, beckoned her forward with a nod.

Over the course of an hour and a half, Maggie outlined and filled the simple design on one arm, then began on the next. All the while Ryusaki told of his life in Tokyo.

He had formed a business that eventually led him into the company of Chen-Lee. Investing in video-game technology in the late 70s—citing entertainment as a motivating factor—had made him a vast fortune. Afterward, his investments turned to personal computers in the 80s and 90s. By 2000 he was one of the ten richest men in Tokyo, a technological mecca.

As he told of his life, Maggie listened intently. His vast wealth didn't faze her. His stories of his infinite opportunities however, enthralled her. Ryusaki had taken advantage of his wealth as a youth. He'd done everything from climbing Nepalese Mountain-ranges to diving Pacific depths, and visiting meditative retreats in Tibet.

All this to say nothing of numerous activities across Europe and the Americas. This was of course, in addition to the usual recreations of wealth; cruises, long vacations, copious amounts of consumerism and the like. Contrary to most of his wealthy peers though, Ryusaki made extensive donations to cancer research, emergent medical technologies, and important political movements.

Maggie found herself captivated by the man's tales—or as much as she could be over the buzzing machine and motions of her work. There was no denying that certain traits in him mirrored those she wished to have. In turn, he admired her commitment and decisions to open her business. He sympathized with her as only a man whom knew her trials might.

“The most helpful thing I have learned,” Chen-Lee translated in regards. “Is to provide what others want, and do so with a smile. Find happiness in what you earn, and return it to those who have little or none.”

Maggie respected the mindset. A pseudo-bond formed beneath her mustered, professional veneer. As the session waned, sadness panged her gut that she might never see the man again.

When she finally led him out to take payment, Ryusaki lifted a business card from the counter, “Perhaps I will return for the rest of my work if time permits.”

Ryusaki deposited the card in his jacket. Maggie smiled and filled in a form, “I'd like that.”

“For now, I hope you will accept this with my wish that you rise as I have.”

Ryusaki removed a wad of cash from his coat. Maggie looked up expecting a usual, small tip. Instead Ryusaki handed over a roll of hundreds as thick as her fist.

Her eyes went wide, “Mr. Ryusaki, I couldn't possibly—”

He raised his hand, and for the first time, spoke English, “Please… take.” His wily, old tone softened with a gesture to his heart, “My thanks.”

He continued once more in Japanese. “Others would have wanted more money, offered less companionship. I am an old man. More money than years. You run your business well, deliver what is sorely needed in this age.” Maggie thanked him with what little Japanese she'd learned from movies. “You are welcome.”

Maggie and Ryusaki exchanged a bow. He and Chen-Lee turned for the door and disappeared into the street. Ashley and Mandy returned at the bell, found Maggie frozen behind the counter.