No customers in either side today. The proprietor was a huge black man wearing a red jersey tank top, green lederhosen, and knee-high riding boots. His own body art was done in an iridescent pale blue that created a head-to-toe brocade over dark skin. The effect was like viewing him through lace.

His earlobes were stretched to three times their normal size by studs and chains and a pair of rings pierced his septum—doing Bekka from Even Odd one better. Both eyebrows were paralleled overhead by seams of tiny diamonds embedded in his flesh. His welcoming smile flashed upper incisors filed to points.

Gesturing to the chair, he reached for the needle.

When I showed him Frankie DiMargio’s picture both movements froze. “You want low-level like this? Don’t do it, man.”

I said, “Not up to your standards?”

“This is mundane, brother.”

“Any idea who—”

“Don’t waste my time.” He turned away.

“This woman was murdered.”

He stopped. Metal clanked. “You a cop?”

Pondering truth versus falsehood took less than a second. I flashed my useless consultant badge. Most people aren’t attuned to details. He didn’t even bother to look.

“Well, I don’t know her, man.”

I stepped forward and held the photo closer to him. “You have any idea who inked her?”

One of the diamond trails above his brows arced. The effect was a burst of miniature fireworks in a starless sky.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe or definitely?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m talking my brother.”

“A colleague?”

“No, man, my brother, like he’s Cain to the Abel.”

“Your real brother?”

“Same mommy, different daddy. I taught him everything and he goes off on his own and does that?”

“He opened a competing business.”

“Competing? I don’t think so, man. That’s like finger-painting competing with Michelangelo.”

I glanced at the junk-pile portion of the store. “Does he also do antiques?”

“He does crap is what he does.” He took Frankie’s photo from me, studied, sneered. “Yeah, he did a lot of this crap. Like, that butt-ugly snake. Ever seen an asp looks like that? More like a toad with anorexia—this, too.”

He pointed to a row of dots diagonally sectioning Frankie’s chin. “And look at that bug, that qualify for Egyptian scarab? More like a cockroach. That over there is Khepri.” Pointing to a design on his wall. “Mofo tries for scarab, ends up with a diabetic cockroach. He’s got no visual perception, man, couldn’t draw a scarab if you held a gun to his head.”

“Where can I find your untalented brother?”

“Where else?” he said. “The Valley. He’s 818 consciousness from the get-go.”

“Could I have his name and address, please?”

“She really died? Huh. Well I don’t think he killed her.” Laughing. “He’s too chicken-liver for that, his work’s like …” jabbing the photo. “Look here, all wispy, no meat and potatoes. Too scared to dig in and get down.”