The Skin Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 11)

'This's important too,' Gordon said, 'dude.'

'No, dude,' Sellitto said. 'What you're going to do is sit down over there and answer my questions. Because my important is more important than your important. And, Miss Gaga, you're gonna have to leave.'

She was nodding. Breathless.

'But--' Gordon began.

Sellitto asked bluntly, 'You ever hear about section two sixty point twenty-one, New York State Penal Code?'

'I. Uhm. Sure.' Gordon nodded matter-of-factly.

'It's a crime to tattoo minors under the age of eighteen and the crime is defined as unlawfully dealing with a child in the second degree.' Turning to the client. 'How old're you really?' Sellitto barked.

She was crying. 'Seventeen. I'm sorry. I just, I didn't, I really, I mean ...'

'You want to finish that sentence sometime soon?'

'Please, I just, I mean ...'

'Lemme put it this way: Get outta here.'

She fled, leaving behind her vinyl leather jacket. As both Sellitto and Gordon watched, she stopped, debated then snuck back fast, grabbed the garment and vanished again, permanently this time.

Turning to the owner of the store, Sellitto was enjoying himself, though he was also noting that Gordon still wasn't cringing with guilt. Or fear. The detective pushed harder. 'That happens to be a class B misdemeanor. Punishable by three months in jail.'

Gordon said, 'Punishable by up to three months in jail but production of an apparently valid identification card is an affirmative defense. Her license? It was really, really good. Top-notch. I believed it was valid. The jury'd believe it was valid.'

Sellitto tried not to blink but wasn't very successful.

Gordon continued, 'Not that it mattered. I wasn't going to ink her. I was in my Sigmund mode.'

Sellitto cocked his head.

'Freud. The doctor is in, kind of thing. She wanted a work, real badly, but I was counseling her out of it. She's some kid from Queens or Brooklyn got dumped by a guy for a slut was inked with quinto death heads.'

'What?'

'Five. Quinto. Death heads, you know. She wanted seven. Septo.'

'And how was the therapy going, Doc?'

The man pulled a face. 'It was going great - I was talking her out of it. When you walked in. Discouragus interruptus. But I think she's scared off for the time being.'

'Talking her out of it?'

'Right. I was making some shit up about inking would ruin her skin. In a few months she'd look ten years older. Which is funny because women in the South Pacific used to get tattooed because it made them look younger. Lips and eyelids. Ouch, yeah. I figured she wouldn't know Samoan customs.'

'But you thought she was legal. Then why talk her out of it?'

'Dude. First, I had my doubts about the license. But that wasn't the point. She came in here for all the wrong reasons. You get inked to make a positive statement about yourself. Not for revenge, not to shove it in somebody's face. Not because you want to be that stupid girl with a dragon tattoo. Ink's about who you are, not being anybody else. Get it?'

Not really, Sellitto's expression said.

But Gordon continued, 'You saw her hair, the goth makeup? Well, despite all that, she was not a candidate for inking. She had a Hello Kitty purse, for Christ's sake. And a Saint Timothy's cross around her neck. In your day, you would've called her the girl next door, you know, going to the malt shop.'

My day? Malt? Still, Sellitto found himself leaning reluctantly toward the veracity of his story.

'Besides, I didn't have a big enough pussy ball for her,' the young man said, grinning. Pushing Sellitto some.