The Con Man

Fifteen

The tattoo parlor was near the Navy yards, and so the specialties of the house were anchors, mermaids, and fish. There were also dagger designs, and ship designs, and mothers in hearts.

The man who ran the place was called “Popeye.” He was called Popeye because a drunken sailor had once jabbed out his left eye with his own tattooing needle. Judging from Popeye’s present condition, he may very well have been drunk himself when he’d lost his eye. He was certainly ossified now. Carella reflected upon the man’s profession and concluded that he wouldn’t trust him to remove a small splinter with a heated needle, no less decorate his flesh with a tattooing tool.

“Come and go, come and go,” Popeye said. “All th’ time. In an’ out, in an’ out. From all ov’ the worl’. I decorate ’em. Me. I color their fleshes.”

Carella was not interested in those who came and went from all over the world. He was interested in what Popeye had told him just a few minutes before.

“This couple,” he said, “tell me more about them.”

“Han’some guy,” Popeye said. “Ver’ han’some. Big, tall, blond feller. Walk like a king. Rish. You can tell when they rish. He had money, this feller.”

“You tattooed the girl?”

“Nancy. Tha’ was her name. Nancy.”

“How do you know?”

“He called her that. I heard him.”

“Tell me exactly what happened?”

“She in trouble? Nancy in trouble?”

“She’s in the biggest kind of trouble,” Carella said. “She’s dead.”

“Oh.” Popeye squinched up his face and looked at Carella with his good eye. “Tha’s a shame,” he said. “Li’l Nancy’s dead. Automobile accident?”

“No,” Carella said. “Arsenic.”

“Wha’s that?” Popeye asked.

“A deadly poison.”

“Too bad. Li’l girls should’n take poison. She cried, you know? When I was doin’ the job. Bawled like a baby. Big han’some bassard jus’ stood there an’ grinned. Like as if I was brandin’ her for him. Like as if I was puttin’ a trademark or somethin’ on her. Sick as a dog, poor li’l Nancy.”

“What do you mean, sick?”

“Sick, sick.”

“How?”

“Pukin’,” Popeye said.

“The girl vomited?” Carella asked.

“Right here in th’ shop,” Popeye said. “Got th’ can all slobbed up.”

“When was this?”

“They’d jus’ come from lunch,” Popeye said. “She was talkin’ about it when they come in th’ shop. Said they didn’t have no Chinese res’rants in her hometown.”

“Is there a Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood?”

“One aroun’ th’ corner. Looks like a dump, but has real good food. Cantonese. You dig Cantonese?”

“What else did she say?”

“Said th’ food was ver’ spicy. Tha’ figgers, don’t it?”

“Go on.”

“Han’some said he wanted a tattoo on the li’l girl’s hand. A heart an’ N-A-C.”

“He said that?”

“Yeah.”

“Why N-A-C?”

Popeye cocked his head so that his dead socket stared Carella directly in the face. “Why, tha’s their names,” he said.

“What do you mean, names?”

“‘Nitials, I mean. N is her initial. N for Nancy.”

Carella felt as if he’d been struck by lightning.

“The A is jus’ ‘and,’ you know. Nancy and Chris. Tha’ was his name. Chris. N. A. C.”

“Goddammit!” Carella said. “Then the Proschek girl’s tattoo meant Mary and Chris. I’ll be a son of a bitch!”

“Wha’?” Popeye said.

“How do you know his name was Chris?” Carella asked.

“She said so. When he said, ‘N-A-C,’ she said, ‘Why don’t we put th’ whole names, Nancy and Chris?’ Tha’s what she said.”

“What did he say?”

“Said there wasn’t enough space. Said it was just a tiny li’l heart. Hell, that li’l girl was goofy about him. He’da tole her to lay down an’ take off her bloomers, she’da done it ri’ here in the shop.”

“You said she cried while you were working on her?”

“Yeah. Bawled like a baby. Hurt like hell.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Me? Drunk? Hell, no. Wha’ makes you think I was drunk?”

“Nothing. What happened next?”

“She was cryin’, and I was working, and then all of a sudden, she fells sick. Han’some looked kind of worried. He kep’ tryin’ to rush her out of the shop, but the poor girl had to puke, you know? So I took her in back. Slobbed up the whole damn can.”

“Then what?”

“He wanted to take her away. Kep’ sayin’, ‘Come on, Nancy, we’ll go to my place. Come on.’ She wouldn’ go withim. Said she wanted me to finish th’ tattoo. Game kid, huh?”

“Did you finish it?”

“Yeah. She was sick as hell all the way through. You could see she was tryin’ to keep from pukin’ again.” Popeye paused. “But I finished it. Nice job, too. Han’some paid me, an’ away they went.”

“Into a car?”

“Yeah.”

“What make?”

“I dinn notice,” Popeye said.

“God damn,” Carella said.

“I’m sorry,” Popeye said. “I dinn notice.”

“Did she mention the man’s last name? This Chris fellow.”

Popeye thought for a moment. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “She did. She said something about the future Mrs. Somebody.”

“Mrs. Who?” Carella asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“God damn,” Carella said again. He snorted heavily. He bit his lower lip. “Can you give me a full description of the man?” he asked finally.

“Much’s I can remember,” Popeye said.

“Blond hair,” Carella said, “right?”

“Yeah.”

“Long or short?”

“Average.”

“He wasn’t wearing a crew cut or anything like that?”

“No.”

“All right, what about his eyes? What color?”

“Blue, I think. Or gray. One or th’ other.”

“What kind of a nose?”

“Good nose. Not long, not short. Good nose. He was a han’some guy.”

“Mouth?”

“Good mouth.”

“Was he smoking?”

“No.”

“Any scars or birthmarks on his face?”

“No.”

“Anywhere on his body?”

“I dinn undress him,” Popeye said.

“I meant visible. On his hands perhaps? Tattoos? Any tattoos on his hands?”

“Nope.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Topcoat. This was back in February, you know. A black topcoat. Had a kind of a red lining. Red silk, I think, and those straps you slip your hands through.”

“What straps?”

“Inside the coat. You know, so you can slip it over your shoulders while you’re at the track. That’s what I mean.”

“What kind of a suit?”

“A tweed. Gray.”

“Shirt?”

“White.”

“Tie?”

“Black tie. I remember asking him if he was in mourning. He jus’ grinned.”

“He would, the bastard. Are you sure you can’t remember the make of the car he was driving? That would be very helpful.”

“I ain’t good on cars,” Popeye said.

“Did you happen to notice the license plate?”

“Nope.”

“But I’ll bet you can tell me what kind of a tie-clasp he was wearing,” Carella said, sighing.

“Yeah. Silver bar with a horse’s head on it. Nice. I figured him for a horseplayer.”

“What else do you remember?”

“Tha’s about it.”

“Did they mention where they were going?”

“Yeah. To his place. He said she could lay down there an’ he’d get her something cool to put on her forehead.”

“Where? Did he say where?”

“No. He only said his place. That could be anyplace in the city.”

“You’re telling me?” Carella asked.

“I’m sorry,” Popeye said. “Guy wants to take care of a girl with a stomach ache, that’s his business. Wants to get her something for her head, ain’t none of my affair.”

“He got her something for her feet,” Carella said.

“Huh?”

“A hundred pound weight to carry her to the bottom of the river.”

“He drowned her?” Popeye asked. “You mean he drowned that nice li’l girl?”

“No, he—”

“Bravest li’l thing ever come in here. Even the sailors I get whimper. She bawled, an’ she got sick, but she come right back for more. That takes guts. To come back for more when you’re so scared you’re sick.”

“You don’t know just how much guts it took,” Carella said.

“An’ he drowned her, huh? How do you like that?”

“I didn’t say he—”

“What a way to die,” Popeye said, shaking his head. His nose was red and bulging with aggravated veins. His one good eye was watery and bloodshot. His breath stank of cheap wine. “What a way to die,” he repeated. “Drownin’.”

“You’re well on the way,” Carella said.

Then he thanked him and left the shop.