vid purple bruises. Spyder remembered the scene in the alley. It wasnt a dream. He had been mugged.
Blood from the gash had dried on his skin, gluing part of his white wife-beater to his chest. Spyder stood under the hot shower until the blood softened and the water soothed his knotted muscles.
When he stepped out of the shower, he left the wet shirt draped across the towel rack beneath the framed Lady from Shanghai poster that Jenny hated. The gash on his shoulder burned and his headache was com- ing on strong behind his eyes. Spyder slapped on some gauze squares and taped them down with white medical tape.
Christ, he thought, I was supposed to call Jenny last night and tell I was going to be late. She must be pissed. Then it hit him, as it had hit him almost every morning for weeks: Jenny was gone. Shed packed up and moved the last of her stuff to LA. Thats why hed gotten so drunk with Lulu. It was the one month anniversary of her desertion.
"No fucking way I can put ink on anyone today," he thought. It was already after one in the afternoon. Spyder didnt want to go the studio, but he needed to call his clients and reschedule. He dressed quickly into battered black jeans, steel-toed Docs and the largest, loosest gray Dickies shirt he could find in his closet. A pile of Jennys abandoned textbooks were stacked at the back, The Gnostic Gospels, Heaven and Hell in the Western Tradition, An Encyclopedia of Fallen Angels. Spyder slammed the closet door.
The warehouse Spyder rented was across town from the tattoo studio. He usually rode the Dead Mans Ducati-the bike hed bought cheap from a meth dealer he knew down in Tijuana; the previous owner had gone missing and did Spyder want first dibs?-but he felt too shaky for two wheels today.
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