Page 39 of Tito

Braxton reached inside his sport coat, fished around for a moment, and produced four tickets. He fanned them with his thumb. “Take three of your friends.”

Stanley reached for the tickets, and then hesitated. “Do you mind?”

Braxton handed him the tickets. “Not at all.”

Stanley inspected the tickets over thoroughly. He looked at Braxton. “This has got to be eight grand in tickets. Hell, playing the Celtics, maybe it’s ten or twelve. This is Jack Nicholson shit right here. How did you…”

“I know people,” Braxton replied.

“If I do this piece tonight, I get these tickets?”

“If you do that piece tonight, you’ll be paid for the tattoo,” Braxton replied. “Look at the tickets as a tip. A thank you for helping us out of a sticky situation.”

Stanley looked at each of the tickets. “Nobody’s gonna arrest me or any dumb shit like that, are they? When I show up and take these seats?”

Braxton took a step back and tugged at the front of his sport coat, which I guessed cost just north of a grand. On his left wrist he wore a Breitling Chronograph that cost more than a new Toyota.

“Do I look like a thief?” Braxton asked.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Stanley said.

“You won’t be arrested,” Braxton replied, smirking. “In fact, if you stick around after the game, The King might say something when he walks by. Suppose that’ll depend on whether they win or lose.”

Stanley’s eyes widened. “Lebron James?”

Braxton nodded toward Stanley’s hand, which still held the tickets. “He’s the one who gave those to me.”

“Damn,” Stanley said. “You do know people.”

“So, we’ve got a deal?” Braxton asked.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Stanley replied. “Let me get my station ready. Sign the form and come on back.”

Stanley disappeared to the rear of the shop. The man with the mustache placed a sheet of paper on a clipboard and handed it to me. “You know the drill. Can’t be pregnant, drunk, or under the influence of stupidity. Sign this.” He extended his hand. “I’m Kit, by the way.”

I shook his hand. After filling out the form, Braxton and I meandered to the rear of the small shop. A station with fitted with a leather chair and old-school operating table flanked Stanley’s work area, but the lack of supplies, ink, or tool chest left me to believe it had been abandoned.

I glanced at the various Japanese-style portraits on the walls. Watercolor paintings of snakes, koi fish, dragons, and colorful flowers were situated between the small displays of tattoo flash.

“Did you paint those?” I asked.

Preparing his tattoo machine, Stanley gave a nod. “That’s how I spend my spare time.”

I glanced at the empty work station. “Are you the only artist?”

“I’ve had a few people work here,” he replied. “I’m a perfectionist, and I expect other artists to be the same. So far, I haven’t found one.”

I took a seat in the chair beside Stanley, and Braxton pulled up a chair at my side. After cleaning and shaving my arm, Stanley sketched his version of my idea on my forearm with a pen.

“What do you think about that?” he asked. “Check it in the mirror.”

I looked it over. Far more detailed that I expected, the design was intricate and beautiful. “It’s perfect.”

Stanley stretched rubber gloves over his hands. “Let’s do this.”

The three of us sat silently during the application of the tattoo’s outline. When finished, Stanley wiped the area with a paper towel, and then peeled off his gloves. “Doing Japanese work beats the hell out of birds flying across some eighteen-year-old chick’s back with a Latin inscription across her shoulders.”

While he filled plastic cups with ink, I glanced at the outline. “Why do you like Japanese-themed work?”