Read Online A Plunder by Pilgrims by Jack Nolte - Free Book Online Page B

Bluffs, but it was a place to begin.
    There was only one tattoo and piercing shop in Barnacle Bluffs, TP Piercings and Body Art, in the strip mall across from the casino.  It looked out of place squeezed between a Starbucks and an office supply store.  The windows were so covered with colorful designs—fairies, elves, unicorns, and every other fantastical creature imaginable—that he couldn't see inside.  At the far end of the strip mall, windsocks fluttered in the wind.  Across the road, beyond the blocky orange buildings of the casino, the ocean filled the horizon. 
    The glass door chimed when he walked inside.  The shop was clean, bright, and organized, and he started to think that maybe it wasn't  so out of place in the strip mall.  With the polished granite counter and green marble floor, it looked like what he would have expected inside the office supply store.   The front section of the store was cordoned off by portable dividers, the kind so common in corporate America; matted pictures of designs similar to the ones in the windows hung on the gray felt.  Thick white binders packed the metal bookshelves next to the door.
    A kid who might have been fourteen wandered around one of the dividers.  He was dressed in black jeans and a sleeveless black T-shirt that showed off the tattoos that covered his arms from wrist to shoulder. 
    "Hey, man," he said.  "Here for a tat?"
    "I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions."
    The kid frowned.  "Aw, man, I'm not buying nothing today, so if you're a salesman — "
    "It's nothing like that."  Gage held up the manila folder.  "I have a picture of a tattoo, and I was wondering if you might tell me if you did it."
    The kid hesitated.  "You somebody's dad?"
    "Excuse me?"
    "It's happened before," the kid said.  "Girl comes in and gets a tat, then Dad shows up wanting to punch the guy who did it.  But if they've got ID, how are we supposed to know it's fake?"
    "No," Gage said, "it's not like that at all."  He hesitated, wondering what to tell him, then decided that the truth was probably best.  Gage had found over the years that unless there was a good reason to lie, then the truth was always preferable.  He never knew when it would lead to unexpected discoveries.  "You know that girl they found on the beach?"
    The kid looked taken aback.  "Um, yeah."
    "She had a ring of dolphin tattooed around her left ankle."
    "Really?  So you a cop?"
    "Think of me as a concerned citizen."
    "Huh.  Like a good Samaritan or something?"
    "Sure.  I don't know about the good part, though."  He extended his hand.  "Name's Garrison."
    The kid shook it.  "Tim Paige," he said.
    "The owner?"
    "That's right."
    "You do a good business?"
    "Oh, yeah.  We get a lot of folks wander over from the casino.  We really try to make it nice and welcoming for all the women over with their girlfriends.  Peggy, my sister, she's real good at that sort of thing.  You know, putting them at ease and stuff."
    "Let me show you something."  Gage opened the folder and pulled out the one showing the tattoo.  The kid looked at it only a moment before shaking his head.
    "Nah, not mine."
    "You're that sure?"
    He nodded, and motioned for Gage to follow him.  "Come around back here where the light's better.  I'm the only one who does tats, so it's me or nobody."
    They rounded behind the office dividers, where there were two reclining, dentist-type chairs, three drawing easels, and loads of inks and needle equipment and under banks of fluorescent lighting.  Gage detected a hint of the tangy, sweet odor of marijuana.  So much for the whole Office Depot facade.  Tim took the photo from Gage and clipped it to one of the drawing easels, then flicked on the attached light.  He leaned in for a closer look, then wrinkled his nose.
    "Oh, yeah," he said, "this ain't mine.  I never forget a tattoo.  Faces, not so much.  This one, it was probably done by somebody not in business long."
    "What makes