‘A minute, dude, I was saying.’ He studied the cop for a moment. ‘You know, for an older guy, a bigger guy – I don’t mean any offense – you’re a good candidate. Your skin isn’t going to sag.’ His voice faded. ‘Oh, hey. Look at that.’

Sellitto had grown tired of the ramble. He’d thrust his gold shield toward the hipster in a way that was both aggressive and lethargic.

‘Okay. Police. You’re police?’

The tat artist was sitting on a stool next to a comfortable-looking but well-worn reclining chair of black leather, occupied by the girl he’d been speaking with when Sellitto walked in. She wore excessively tight jeans and a gray tank top over what seemed to be three bras or spaghetti-strap camisoles, or whatever they were called. Pink, green and blue. Her strikingly golden hair was long on the left and crew cut on the right. Pretty face if you could get past the skewed hair and nervous eyes.

‘You want to talk to me?’ the tattoo artist asked.

‘I want to talk to TT Gordon?’

‘I’m TT.’

‘Then I want to talk to you.’

Nearby another artist, a chubby thirty-something in cargo pants and T, was working away on another client – a massive bodybuilder – who was lying face down on a leather bed, like a masseur would use. The man was getting an elaborate motorcycle inked on his back.

Both employee and customer looked at Sellitto, who stared back.

They returned to inking and being inked.

The detective shot a glance at Gordon and the girl with the unbalanced hair. She was upset, really bothered. Gordon, though, didn’t seem fazed by the cop’s presence. The owner of the Sonic Hum-Drum Tattoo Parlor had all his permits in a row and his tax bills paid, the detective knew. He’d checked.

‘Let me just finish up here.’

Sellitto said, ‘It’s important.’

‘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.’