“It is you.”
I jumped as though I’d been caught mid-robbery and dropped the trash bag I was carrying. A couple of crumpled coffee cups rolled out, dribbling onto the black cement floor. “I didn’t know anyone was still here.”
He was standing in the shadows, but even so he was kind of hard to miss. Tall, lean, weathered. Leathered, in fact. Dark hair, dark eyes, skin deeply tanned. Like one of those Victorian teething dolls. Right down to the ugly seam creasing the left side of his rugged face.
“I saw you through the window,” he said.
“Oh. Yeah. That.” The picture window was Rikki’s idea. And actually, it did generate a lot of business—barring those times that the showcase client turned out to be someone who couldn’t take pain. Then…not so much.
The man in the shadows didn’t move, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. What was that about? Like he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Which was…a man about his own age—forty-ish—medium height, slender, black ponytail, sleeves of tattoo tombstones wound with green and blue ivy. Dotted Line being a tattoo shop. The only tattoo shop on the island.
“We’re closed now,” I said. “You could come back tomorrow.”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t want another tat.”
Good thing. He didn’t have room for any more ink on those muscular arms. Not under the revised military regulations—and he was definitely military. Or maybe ex-military, because he was out of uniform. Sort of. Olive drab T-shirts, faded blue jeans, and huarache sandals are their own uniform.
“Okay. Well…” I picked up the bag of trash again and nodded for G.I. Joe to head on out the door. It was late. I was tired. My back hurt. I hoped this wasn’t going to turn into something weird. Off season was usually pretty calm, but I’ve been robbed twice off season—and the second time the dude had wanted to stay for a carving.
This guy? He was still staring at me like he was seeing a ghost.
Which actually he was. That’s my name. Ghost. Okay, Gordon if you want to get legal about it. Gordon Plymouth, but no one has called me Gordon in over twenty years.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked.
I looked at the ink on his arms again. Nice work, but not mine. Not from anywhere around here. That looked Asian. The real thing. Irezumi. Not your KYF-00049 or a pick from 2011 Ten Best Japanese Tattoos.
“No.”
He reached for the hem of his T-shirt and yanked it up, revealing a brown and brawny chest. Smooth, hairless, and adorned with one of the worst pieces of body art a scratcher had ever carved into a piece of meat.
“What the hell is that?” I stepped closer to get a better look at what appeared to be a stapler adorned with a skull and crossbones.
The guy laughed. “You should know.”
I gaped at him.
He nodded, grinning, and I got a glimpse of a gold incisor.
“Me?”
I took another step forward, peering at his chest—he smelled pleasantly, reassuringly of Ivory soap—and dropped the trash bag again. This time just missing his huaraches. I gazed at him in horror. “I did that?”
