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“Catch me first.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Callan, Antoine, and Bull walked through the crowded areas around Jackson Square, searching for their rogue tattoo artist. He’d been pulling in young kids and tourists, convincing them of his skills with fake photographs, then tattooing them with gang symbols.
“One of the kids said he likes this area because of all of the tourists and drunk college kids,” said Callan.
“Drunk college kids are always getting into shit,” frowned Bull. “Drunk college kids and drunken soldiers.”
The three men laughed, shaking their heads. As they rounded the corner at St. Louis Cathedral, Callan held them back, nodding toward the man beneath the tree.
“That shit’s not even sanitary,” he frowned. He walked closer until he could hear the man’s voice.
“Listen, I know what I’m doing. Ten years of experience tatting some of the most famous people in the city.”
“Then why don’t you have a shop?” asked the kid.
“It flooded, so I’m making a living the best way I can. My shop will re-open soon.”
“Where was your shop?” asked Callan, staring down at the younger man. He only stared at him, unsure of what to say.
“Right on Bourbon,” he smiled.
“Bullshit. There’s never been a tattoo shop on Bourbon. I’ve seen your work, interesting gang symbols you’re putting on kids,” he growled.
“I’m out,” said the boy, turning and leaving with his friends.
“What the fuck is your problem, dude? I have a right to earn a living, and you just screwed me out of business.”
“You have a right to earn a living, but not as a tattoo artist. Where’s your license?” The guy stood up, gathering his tools in a huff. “You’re not leaving.”
“I’m fucking leaving,” he said, staring at Callan.
“No, you’re not,” said Bull from behind him. He stared at the three men now standing around him, realizing he wouldn’t get away. Not carrying all his gear. Instead, he shoved the box at Callan, then flipped the table, running toward the river.
When he reached the levee, he took off toward the bridge, disappearing in the warehouse district.
“Shit,” muttered Callan, breathing heavily. “He was fast.”
“Sorry, brother. We thought we could keep up with him. At least we know what he looks like now,” said Bull.
“Yeah. We’ll put out a description and make sure the cops know.” Callan frowned, nodding at his friends.
“Yeah, and I’ll keep fixing his shit.”
Zulu and Gabi drove toward Peaceful Endings near the Garden District. She’d pulled everything she could on Weston Islip’s medical records. He’d entered the hospital when Casey was just four years old for routine hernia surgery. Once inside, the surgeons discovered a bleeding ulcer and ordered additional blood for him.
All the fail-safes in place to ensure that people didn’t get contaminated blood, and yet this one pint of blood had slipped through their fingers. One pint, and now a man was dying. He’d been treated with many of the medications known to have tremendous impact on HIV patients over the years, but none seemed to have any profound effect for him.
“Do you think you can help him, babe?” asked Zulu, squeezing his wife’s hand across the console.
“I don’t think so, Zulu. He was diagnosed more than twenty years ago. All of the medicines he’s taking should have helped, but for some reason, his body is resistant to some of them. I just want to make him comfortable if I can. I just want to be sure that there isn’t something we can do for him.”
“And you don’t think the pond will help?”
“No. He’s too far gone,” she said, shaking her head.
Zulu could see that it was eating at his wife that she wouldn’t be able to help this man. Her usual direct, say-anything approach was gone, replaced with the serious doctor who was careful with her words.
