44
It was about five thirty when we pulled the Gray Ghost into the parking lot of the Prowling Tiger tattoo studio on McDowell, one street south of Conor’s place.
“I wasn’t aware getting new ink was part of the escape plan.”
“We’re not getting any new ink,” he said with a grin.
“Then what?”
I followed him into the tattoo studio. In one of the chairs, a man with long hair, multiple piercings, and a full tableau of ink across his body was working on a female client.
“Weevil!” said Conor in greeting.
“Danny boy! How’s it going?” The two of them went through a series of handshakes, grips, and a fist bump.
“Good.”
“Who’s the pretty lady?” Weevil cast a smile in my direction, and I felt undressed.
“Weevil, this is my old lady, Jinx!”
“Nice to meet you, uh, Weevil.” I reached to shake
