His station was near the back of the tattoo parlor, out of sight from anyone passing by on the street. Not that there was much traffic at this hour. This late in the year, the sun went down a little after seven and by now it was almost ten, dark out beyond Tattoo 804’s windows. Here and there street lamps cast small cones of yellow light on the sidewalk, and the traffic stop in front of the parlor flickered from red to green and back again as if winking into the night. But anyone still out was downtown at the clubs, or just driving this stretch of road heading home. I wondered why Rist didn’t just throw me out with the rest of the garbage. He had to have someplace to go for the night, something better to do.
As I stared out the window at my car parked at the curb, I watched the reflection
