The Butterfly Forest

EIGHTEEN

By the time I crossed the Volusia County line into Marion County, I had made calls and eliminated three tattoo shops in Gainesville and four in Ocala. A receptionist, who worked part-time as a body-piercing artist at Den of Ink, answered the last call. She said one of the best artists, “A dude who could really capture fairies,” used to work at The Art House, but she couldn’t remember if he was still there. She told me his name was Ron something, and was called Inkman. I dialed The Art House. After the tenth ring, I was about to disconnect when a voice from the sixties came on the line, “Art House… picture it on you… peace.” The words sounded as if they crawled through vocal cords thick with nicotine and mucus.

“Is this Inkman?”

“It could be… who’s callin’?

“Name’s O’Brien. I heard Inkman is the go-to guy when it comes to body art.”

“Well, lemme see… depends on what kind of art you’re lookin’ for. We got three very talented dudes here. And Stacey, she’s a chick. Man, she can blow you away with color, got the feminine touch with a bold flair. Know what I mean, dude?” The man coughed and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. What I have in mind was something for my ol’ lady, you know… we go to so some of those medieval events, reenactments. They have lots of knights, ladies and a few smelly warlocks. Follow me?”

“Yeah, you pretty much described a lot of our customers. Inkman’s the artist for you, bro. He’s the best when it comes to drawin’ witches, bitches, warlocks and killer fairies. I’m Gary, I was just puttin’ on some coffee.” There was a long, rasping cough. “You wanna make an appointment, or just let the wind blow ya in here?”

“I can put the wind to my back and be there in an hour.”

“You got it, and it’s a good day ‘cause Ron — I mean, Inkman, don’t look too hung over. Just messin’ with you. In an hour, buddy.”

The Art House was a 1950’s bungalow-style home, squatting beneath two large banyan trees. The building had white side panels, big front windows, and in one window a neon sign flashed OPEN in blue letters with the O burned out. To the right of the sign were the words: TATTOO PIERCINGS. The second window read: SMOKE SHOP • JEWELRY • INCENSE. Four cars were in the small lot.

I stepped to an alleyway where a new Corvette was parked next to garbage cans. I picked up a crumpled cigarette package from the ground, lifted the lid off one can and looked inside before dropping in the trash. The top plastic bag was ripped open. I spotted two used syringes among a box of chicken bones spilling from a Popeye’s carton.

At the front door, the smell of burning incense met me as three people, all in their late teens, walked out. None seemed excited about new tattoos or piercing. Maybe they were shopping for incense. Doubtful.

The guy who I believed had answered the phone sat on a stool behind a glass counter filled with body piercing jewelry and Indian turquoise necklaces, bracelets and rings. A cigarette hung loosely from his mouth, the smoke making a near perfect trail by his nose and left eye as it rose toward the sagging ceiling. A Led Zeppelin song blared from hidden speakers. He wore a train engineer’s striped hat, flannel shirt with overalls. He looked up from a Rolling Stone magazine and grinned. A silver ring looped through his lower lip. A metallic dot, the size of a thumbtack, seemed to be screwed into his left nostril. He glanced at his watch and said, “One hour. You gotta be O’Brien, right?”

“Right. And you’re Gary.”

“Yep.” He looked over my shoulder, his eyes pushing through the screened door. “Where’s your old lady?”

“Lady Thunder?”

“Yeah, man, I guess.”

“She’s back at the shack.”

“So who’s gettin’ the tat, you know, the one with the fairy?” He took a deep drag off his cigarette.

“Me.”

“You?”

“Anything wrong with that?” I stepped closer to the counter.

He looked up, an edgy grin spreading. Black tar filled between each of his lower front teeth like pencil lead. He blurted, “Oh, no. Hell no. Matter of fact, we had an ol boy in here not long ago. He got one. Turned out great… sort of like an angel in stained glass. Some of Inkman’s best work.”