1967
G.I. BOB'S QUALITY TATTOOS the neon sign declared, luring customers through the Bay Area summer fog with a tropistic intensity. Tucked between a laundromat and an appliance repair shop in lower Oakland, the studio was the only place of business on the block open at that hour. Troy Chesley scanned right and left as if he were on patrol, dropping into a firefight stance behind a parked car as a thin, dark-skinned man strode up to the nearest intersection.
"Easy, man." Roger, Troy's companion, grabbed him by the collar and yanked him toward the door. "We ain't back in 'Nam yet."
Troy's cheeks flushed. He had been doing things like that all night. No more booze. It wasn't every grunt that got a furlough back to the mainland in mid-tour, even if it happened for the worst of reasons. The least he could do was stay sober enough to acknowledge he was out of the war zone.
Troy was no longer sure why he had let Roger talk him into this. Nabbing some skin art was one thing; doing it in such a seedy locale was another. He jumped as the little bell above the lintel rang, announcing their entrance.
A man appeared through the curtains at the back. "May I help you?" he asked.
The hair on the nape of Troy's neck stood on end. Or would have, except that his father had insisted on a haircut so that he would look like a proper military man for his mother's funeral. ("Your lieutenant lets you look like that on the battlefield?") "Shit," he blurted, "It's a gook."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Yet the tattooist merely blinked his almond eyes, shrugged, and said calmly, "No, sir. Nobody but us chinks here." He spoke with no more than a slight accent, and with an air that said he was used to the ill grace of soldiers.
"Sorry. Been drinking," Troy mumbled. But drunk or not, it wasn't like him to be that much of an asshole. For some reason he felt menaced. The man was such a weird-looking fucker. He appeared to be middle-aged, but in an odd, preserved sort of way. His shirt was highly starched and black, his skin dry as parchment, his fingertips so loaded with nicotine they had stained the exterior of his cigarette. He sure as hell wasn't G.I. Bob.
He had no tattoos on his own arms. What kind of stitcher never applied the ink to himself?
"Come on," Troy said, tugging Roger's sleeve. "Let's get out of here."
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