Chapter Fourteen
High times and low lives.
Sully couldn’t provide the exact address for the imposter tattooist, but his basic directions were more than enough to locate the scene of the crime. In this case, the crime being inexcusably bad needlework.
The place was a low-rent head shop less than half a mile away, named ‘Green Nirvana.’ The sort of joint where hippies and drug addicts went to purchase their supplies. The name had delusions of grandeur, but I was far from enlightened as I stepped through a door fogged with condensation into the Islington store. Two of the walls were lined with shelves cluttered with glass smoking devices, elaborately carved boxes, scales, incense, and tapestries. The kaleidoscope of colors might have been enchanting in another setting, but I had no time fo
