Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Twenty-Eight
By mid-afternoon, I could take no more.
“If I have to read one more of Mrs.
Dunst’s horrific butcherings of the English language, I shall scream,” I told
Flo. “Whoever heard of trying to rhyme hanged
with forbad?”
“I thought you were working on the next
installment of ‘The Mystery of the Octopus Tattoo’.”
“I got bogged down on that too. I just
don’t know enough about the life of sailors to write an accurate depiction.”
“Since when did you favor accuracy over
dramatic potential?” Flo said.
“Since I determined to become a serious
novelist. I may be a legitimate woman of letters soon. I expect to get a reply
from Litchfield Press. Hopefully, it will be telling me that they wish to
advance me five hundred dollars against the publication of Perpetua’s Promise.”
Flo was too polite to piffle. A good
friend wishes one to succeed no matter how unrealistic the aspiration, and Flo
is nothing if she is not a good friend.
“Flo, I have an idea!” I said. “How
about we pay a call on Ellis Pruitt?”
“Who is Ellis Pruitt?”
“A tattoo artist who has a little shop
on Dorr Street. He takes passport pictures, too. I noticed the place weeks
ago.”
“Why do you want to talk to him?”
“Tattooing is a fascinating subject. It
would add atmosphere and verisimilitude to my story.”
“Tattooing may be a fascinating subject
to you,” said Flo, “but I doubt if the average reader of Carter’s All-story Weekly shares your enthusiasm.”
“The average reader will when they read
my story,” I insisted.
“I’m sorry I can’t go,” said Flo.
“Mother is reorganizing the liturgical linens down at the church, and my
expertise is indispensable.”
I usually believe Flo when she cries
off on one of my hair-brained schemes because she must do something for her
mother, but I know Mrs. Radcliff. She’s not a woman who needs assistance at
organizing anything. That woman would reorganize the seasons if only God would
allow it.
I said goodbye to Flo and set out to
Mr. Pruitt’s downtown shop.
Mr. Pruitt’s place of business was a
den-like crack in the wall, barely wide enough to accommodate a door. A sign at
the entrance proclaimed that for a nominal sum Mr. Pruitt would—according to
their preference—tattoo or photograph all comers. A glass frame displayed
samples of tattooing—bleeding hearts, clasped hands, sailing ships, birds in
flight and other artistic conceptions.
I toyed with the idea of inviting Mr.
Pruitt to work his magic on me. Perhaps a small red rose on my bicep. I soon
discarded the notion. I could hear Mrs. Timms’ voice inside my head telling me
that genteel young ladies—or any young ladies, save those who worked for the
traveling circus and similar establishments—do not disfigure their bodies with
tattoos.
I don’t mind giving Mrs. Timms the odd
shock. I believe being occasionally started out of one’s complacency is an
excellent tonic for the nervous system. However, I feared that a tattoo would
deliver a shock from which Mrs. Timms might not recover, and I had no desire to
lead our beloved housekeeper to an early grave.
I entered the shop. The front end of
the long, narrow room was unoccupied, but the sound of hammering attracted me
to the rear. A man of some sixty-odd years was engaged in making a new shelf.
As he saw me, the hammer dropped from his hand.
“Good morning,” I said in my
friendliest tone. “Are you Mr. Pruitt?”
“That’s me.”
“Excuse me for bothering you,” I said,
“but I’m a lady novelist. I’m writing a serial story about a tattoo artist, and
I should like to interview you.”
Mr. Pruitt’s intelligent eyes fixed me
with a steady stare.
“A lady novelist,” he said finally in a
long-suffering tone. “You writers wouldn’t respect a man’s privacy—or anything
else for that matter, I reckon.”
“There is one thing I am sure all
writers respect, Mr. Pruitt,” I said. “Art. From the samples of your work which
I saw out front I am sure you are a great tattoo artist.”
Mr. Pruitt melted like a lump of butter
on a hot stove. I had struck his weakest spot.
“You flatter me,” he said, a faint
pattern of a smile etching his face. “I admit I’m good, although maybe not
quite the best in the business. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know about the tattooing
business in general, and you in particular, Mr. Pruitt. How do you do it? How
did you start? Who was the most famous person you ever tattooed? What is your
favorite design? Do you think a tattoo looks better on the arm or the chest?
What—”
“Hold it, young lady, hold it. You seem
to be a living question mark.”
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