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As we headed back to the main part of downtown, something caught Devin’s eye. To my horror, it was a tattoo parlor.
“Let’s go in here,” Devin said, pulling me by the arm toward the front door. The building was run-down, and only half of its neon sign worked.
“I don’t think we should. If the owner can’t bother to get his sign working, how good an artist can he be?”
“It’s just a sign. Come on,” he said, stepping inside.
I worried what he might do in there, so I followed him in. The walls were filled with drawings of tattoos, mostly the macabre variety. Skulls and bones, vampires, gargoyles, and other scary creatures. But the floors were clean, and I didn’t see a speck of dust anywhere. A few awards dotted the walls, interspersed with photos of tattoos. The lighting was good, even on the warm side. Okay, so it wasn’t a total dump.
A heavyset man ambled out of the back room and stared at us. He was clad in all black, and his long beard was meticulously well-kept. A Montreal Canadiens bandanna was tied around his head, and his long salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. He looked like a heavily tattooed Santa Claus.
“Can I help you?” he asked in accented English. The man assumed we were tourists.
“We would like tattoos,” Devin said proudly.
What?
“You would, would you?” The man smiled at us.
“Yes. Do you have any suggestions?” Devin asked, looking at the drawings.
“I have a few suggestions,” he said with a sly smile, “but I don’t think you would like any of them.”
Devin’s laughter was sarcastic, and the man’s eyes narrowed, his smile disappearing. We were going to die in this tattoo parlor. I had to jump into action.
“Sorry, sir,” I said, speaking up in French. “He’s been drinking.”
Devin shot me a curious look, then turned his attention back to the artist. “I want something that symbolizes my love for this woman.”
The man’s irritation melted away and he chuckled. “Where the hell are you from anyway?” he asked.
“England,” Devin said proudly. “And she’s kind of a nomad. We have some business in Montreal this weekend.”
“What kind of business?”
“Cars,” Devin said, playing games. Playing around with this guy didn’t seem like a great idea.
“You fix cars?” the man asked, suddenly interested in the smart-mouthed Englishman standing before him.
“I’ve been known to fix cars, but I’m better at racing them.”
I smiled to myself. Devin knew exactly how to get himself out of a sticky situation. The man who’d wanted to clobber him only minutes before was now mildly intrigued.
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. Devin Flynn,” he said, extending his hand to the man.
The man didn’t recognize the name. “You can call me Jean,” he said, not shaking Devin’s hand. “You racing this Sunday?”
“Yes. Ever heard of Team Russo?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of that team.”
“I’m one of their drivers.”
“Sure you are,” the man said.
“Don’t believe me? If you give me a decent tattoo, I’ll send you tickets to the race.”
