Chapter Thirteen
Memory is more indelible than ink.
The next morning, armed with slightly-blurry images of the substandard tattoos stored safely on my cell phone, I exited the apartment as a few more stitches wove themselves into the tapestry of my plan. The tattoo ink in the photos had dried long ago but it was still dripping in disappointment. I failed to quell the instinct to criticize the judgment of my only lead—a man willing to go out in public with such poor artwork emblazoned on this body. I thought of the sloppy skull on his arm. A preschooler could draw a better picture. And as for the neck tat, I wondered if anyone had bothered to tell him rebel was spelled with only one ‘l’.
Hustling along the sidewalk, I was surprised to spot a glass payphone out of the corner of my eye. Al
