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“What’s going on there?” mumbles one of those who have joined us, looking at me disparagingly and rolling his cursedly built shoulders.
“That shithead’s bitching,” Ferret Face states, again challenging the limits of my patience.
“Well, we could…” One of the guys shakes his antique-trimmed gasoline lighter.Fuck, he really does have a hammer and sickle tattooed on his temple!He shakes it one-handed, of course. Intent on maximum coolness. The cap opens and a good finger-length flame emerges, apparently meant to intimidate me. “…accelerate this.” His grin, probably meant to be diabolical, reveals unkempt tooth stumps. At least they match perfectly with the unprofessional tattoo that looks like school ink, highlighter, and compass point.
“Is this supposed to be a threat?” I look Ferret Face in the eye, nodding in the direction of the firebrand. “Because in that case…”
“Damn it, Ralf! You shouldn’t have come in here!” The leader jerks around and, with a motion of his head, directs two of his companions to take care of the Soviet man. “Get him out of here. And check him for combustive agents.”
“Do you mean I’d better beautify the storefront window?” Even though the two spindly figures have him in a headlock, he manages to whip a spray can out of his jacket pocket. The hammer-and-sickle guy lets the mixing ball clatter in the tin case, and I take a breath.
Don’t explode now!
“I mean for you to take a walk first,” the alpha male scolds the guy. “And whoever else thinks they have to negotiate here in my place: out, too.”
Grumbling spreads among the guys. Two of them want to start a discussion but are ushered out by Ferret Face and a gaunt man. Miraculously without damaging the furniture of the waiting area.
“So,” the leader turns to me when silence has finally returned. “What we’re here for…”
“Since there’s no longer a question of arson or property damage to my parlor…” I try to break the ice. “…I would try a shot in the dark for a tattoo appointment.”
The spokesman laughs in a pressed manner. “Hahaha. Yes. Very funny.”
“Mhm.” That’s all I’ll say for now. I’d rather pretend to be bored while I look at the watch which was handed to me by the gay village mayor at the parlor’s opening. “How about sending me a text message whenever you’re free? Then we can get this done without any problems.”
He looks at me and makes a hand gesture that reminds me of Marlon Brando’s acting performance inThe Godfather. “Come on,” he says, and the attempt to sound likeDon Corleonegoes down the drain. “Now we came all this way…”
Without taking my eyes off him, I watch the others out of the corner of my eye, trying to decide whether I can dare play the helpless and defensive one.
But even if I were here alone, and Bella with her client not still at work… Given this collection of shady guys, I shouldn’t jeopardize my inventory.
“All right.” I point to the chair in front of my desk. “Have a seat. Tea, coffee, water?”
Visibly irritated by my professional friendliness, he plops down on the seat. “Nah… Uhh. There… thanks for that. But…” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “I don’t want to hold you up unnecessarily. After all, it’s late.”
He’s just remembering that now?I scroll through the calendar entries which impressed Ms. Lechner this morning. Given the visibly urgent request, I search for any gap that may have miraculously opened up. But: nothing. February—full. March—overflowing. April—likewise.Why should it be any different? My store is doing well. Very well, in fact.“So… I could give you… at the earliest…” With the scroll wheel of the mouse, I approach July. “Ahh, here! October’s got a free window.”
He just stares at me stupidly.
I stifle a remark and instead turn the monitor so he can look at it too. “A window of two and a half hours. You’re really lucky there. Want me to block it for you?”
“Um.” He looks up at his sidekicks out of the corner of his eye. “Is that enough time, then?”
“Well, it depends on the technique.” I gesture with my hand. “If you just want black-and-white, it could be this big. For colors, correspondingly smaller, and for watercolor…” I circle my palm. “Such a nice little thing…”
“And… how often?” he asks.
“How often?What do you mean?” I play dumb, already suspecting what he’s up to.
“We… want uniform tattoos for the whole group, of course,” he explains to me. “Why else did you think we’d all arrive here together?”
Because you pathetic motherfuckers don’t dare go out on the street by yourself?is on my lips, given the fact that this place is dominated by the rather conservative-minded ethnic German repatriates from Russia.
They don’t exactly like people who want to revive the very communist-Stalinist-socialist dictatorship from which their parents and grandparents fled.
But I swallow this wisely.
“Hello?” he snaps because I haven’t answered him.
