AUTHOR'S NOTE: The last thing Randall said to Debbie at lunch that day was, "I'm going to see a man about a tattoo." This is what happened an hour later. Enjoy today's installment of LOU'S TATTOOS, A COMEDY OF ERRORS.
~o~~o~~o~
Scarcely an hour had passed since Debbie and Randall emerged from the Hard Rock Café darkness into the Bayfront Park sunshine and went their separate ways.
Pop O'Malley looked up from his desk to see a dove gray limousine squeeze itself into his tiny parking lot. A man in a black silk suit and white tie opened the rear door and stood. He looked handsome and very gangsterish.
When the gangster-man came through Pop's front door, Pop rose abruptly.
"I'm looking for Lou—"
"I know who you want!" Pop cut the man short. "And I know who you are, Buddy Petruccio. You can just take your fancy tattoo back to Vegas where it belongs and—"
"No! You look!" It was Randall's turn to interrupt. "I'm sick of this. There's only one way to prove to you people that I'm not this Buddy guy." He started unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly.
"What are you doing!"
"I'm giving Lou's protectors what they've all been asking for..."
He dropped his pants to the floor, shucked his coat and shirt to reveal:
"...my tattoo. My only tattoo. Satisfied?"
His black low-rise briefs did not hide black tribal markings circling Randall's body from waist to mid-thighs.
Whistling and applause erupted from the sidewalk outside the shop window, where three lady pedestrians were admiring Randall's physique through the tattoo parlor's window.
Randall posed for them, smiling.
The ladies laughed, blew kisses, and walked away giggling.
Pop slammed shut the Venetian blinds, cutting off further floorshows, and gaped at Randall.
Randall was accustomed to the questions that always resulted when people saw his ink for the first time. He simply answered them before Pop could ask. "New Guinea. Five years ago. Because it was the only way to get the pictures I wanted. The tribal shaman used a sharpened bone and pulverized plants mixed with saliva. It took four days and, yes, it hurt like hell. No, I don't think I'd do it again." That finished, he pulled up his slacks and reached for his shirt.
"I don't allow no cussin' in here," was all Pop said as he watched Randall finish dressing.
While buttoning his shirt, Randall said, "My name is Galen Randall, Mister O'Malley, and I'm in love with your daughter."
Silence prevailed until Randall, again resplendent in his black silk suit, deftly retied his tie. Pop still stared at him.
Randall broke the silence. "We both know she won't talk to me, and I don't blame her. I won't force myself on her. But I'd like to speak with you about it, if you're willing."
Pop stared at him a second longer, then moved past him to shut the shop door and prop a "Closed" sign in the window.
An hour later, the door opened, someone yanked the "Closed" sign from the window, and Randall stepped out into the sunlight.
Pop stood behind him in the doorway. "I can't promise anything, you understand." Then he held up the pistol he had retrieved from a desk drawer. "In fact, I think I'll keep this 'stead of leavin' it here, just so she don't shoot ya."
"I know there are no guarantees," Randall said. "But I need this chance."
"Okay. You're on the appointment book. Nine p.m. sharp. I'll make sure Lou's here—alone. The rest is up to you. And don't forget to explain about Helga being a rabbit!"
"Oh, right," said Randall. "Helga."
As Randall slid into the back seat of the gray limo, Pop called to him, "You tell her about Helga, maybe she'll tell you about Conan!"
Before the car had fully left the parking lot, Randall dialed a number on the car phone. When someone answered, he said, "Meriweather! Listen, I've got to find out about some guy named Conan."
Back at the office, ensconced at her exceptionally professionally elegant desk, Meriweather responded with her usual omniscience. "I believe Conan the Barbarian, also known as Conan the Destroyer, among other things, was the title character in a series of novels written around the time of the Great Depression by Robert Howard—who later killed himself."
"I understand the impulse," he growled in his frustration. "But that's not the Conan I'm after. Call Miss O'Malley's friend, Debbie, and get me a description, okay?"
"Is this 'research' to be given a high priority? I remind you we have a magazine to publish and deadlines to meet."
"The only deadline I care about is at nine o'clock tonight, and I need to be prepared to deal with this Conan issue by then. Please, Meriweather. I'm trying to do the right thing this time. Help me."
There was an uncharacteristic silence before Meriweather responded, "I'll get right on it, sir."
She had already hung up when Randall whispered to the empty air inside the limo, "Thank you."
It was nearly time to begin his drive to the tattoo parlor for his nine p.m. appointment. Randall stood at the window of his PhotoWorld high-rise office and looked out over the city lights.
When Meriweather entered the office carrying a notepad, Randall sighed and pointed out the window to a relatively dark neighborhood in the distance.
"I'm going to that spot out there, way out south of town. I need anything you can give me to help fight the darkness."
"Very well," the secretary said, and she began to read from her notes. "According to Miss Debbie, Conan is, quote, an animal, unquote. He is unfriendly, fears no one and, quote, can trash a room in record time, unquote. He is a ravenous, often sloppy, eater, and he is, quote, always in the mood, unquote. The mood for what was unspecified, but I believe a sexual reference may be inferred."
"Anyth— ahemm, excuse me—anything else?"
"Oh, yes," said Meriweather. "He's black."
Randall moved slowly away from the window and sat on the edge of his desk, staring into space. "Did Debbie say—I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not a racial thing at all, I just need to know—is Lou in love with this guy?"
Meriweather shrugged. "I only know that Miss Debbie has often urged Miss O'Malley to, quote, do something about him, unquote. But Miss O'Malley allows him to stay. Why? We do not know."
"Then we shall have to ask her," he said. He rose to leave but stopped at the door. "Will you say a little prayer for me tonight, please, Meriweather?"
"It is something I do every night, sir. Tonight shall be no exception," she said.
Randall looked at her in surprise. "Thank you." Then he smiled warmly and nodded a farewell.
~o~~o~~o~
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you'll vote and comment before moving on to the next chapter.
Iris