attention today, anyway?”
“Just looking for information, M.,” Lestrade told him. “What can you tell us about tattoo stamps?”
“Tattoo stamps? As much as any other tattoo artist, probably more than some.”
“Not above making the things, then?” she pursued.
“Sure, I make stamps. There’s a lot of tridols to be made out of ’em and I’m not above making tridols. Someday I plan on making enough of ’em to move out somewhere as posh as the Dupont-O’Toole establishment.”
“Ever seen this one?” Lestrade nodded at Clayton to show him the tracing.
He studied it a long time, glancing back up at the detectives every so often. Finally he handed the paper back and shook his head.
“Not mine, no. Maybe one of O’Toole’s. Not Fleur Dupont’s, I don’t think. Doesn’t quite look like her style. Maybe Naismith —”
“Who just told us he never debases his art with stamps,” Clayton remarked before Lestrade could cut him off. He was overdue for another dose of Why We Play Our Cards Close to the Chest. Did he have his whole mind on the job this morning? Or was part of it still on that nurse who gave the smoothest flu shots any floater ever enjoyed?
“Naismith told you that?” Hammer was saying. “Don’t believe him. He likes to eat. Or that —” He waved at the paper in Clayton’s hand—“could be one of those mail-order things. I can’t tell you who designed it…if you can call it a design, looks more like a frou-frou for cocktail napkins—but I can give you a guess who’d be likely to use it.”
“For cocktail napkins?” Clayton asked, with another look at the tracing.
“Cocktail waitresses?” Lestrade pushed Hammer. “Who?”
“Even a town this size has its population of perverts and smasters, Sergeant. They’re the ones you want to be looking hard at when you’re looking for murderers. These so-called ‘inferno clubbers,’ these violent rolegamers—they’re the ones you want to be looking at. Hard. Really hard.”
Lestrade didn’t even cock an eyebrow. “And they’d be likely to buy tattoo stamps, would they?”
“Without even blinking. They like to identify themselves. A different design for every subgroup—subhuman group, I’d call ’em. I’ve seen a few marked with three or four different stamped tattoos—that’s the expression, Detectives: a tattoo stamp makes stamped tattoos—showing themselves off as members of three or four smaster dens, sometimes all at once.”
“Hmm,” said Lestrade. “Thank you for the tip, M. Hammer. And you’ve seen these people how?”
“Some of the…some of them come in here to get an old stamp removed or covered up with real tattoo work. And I’ve also seen them around, Sergeant Lestrade. You wouldn’t believe the respectable places—the respectable covers—some of them use to pass themselves off as normal. But once you get an idea where to look, what to look for…” He let his voice trail away.
Lestrade repeated, “Hmm.”
Clayton pointed out, “Respectable people get tattoos, too.” Lestrade happened to know he himself had Yosemite Pete tattooed on one of his upper arms and Gargoyle Gertie on the other.
“Oh, yeah,” Hammer agreed. “Very respectable people. Doctors, bank presidents, school teachers, sweet little debutantes wanting flowerchain necklaces and bracelets in time for the Big Prom. Not many murderers there. The respectable people tend to want real, stencil tattoos.”
Lestrade decided to remark, “I hear you saying, Scratch a stamped tattoo and you’ll uncover a murderer. So why do you make any of these stamps at all?”
“Hey, Sergeant, I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I’ve made ’em for high-school honor societies and graduating classes, service groups, bowling teams, once even a Presbyterian confirmation class, for Pete sakes! No, the stamped tattoos you want to check for murderers are the ones on these young floaters with sick, sick hobbies. I try never to make any for unwholesome types like that, but —” Hammer shrugged—“you never know. One or two might get past me. They can dress up like respectable people, when they want to.”
“That’s twice you’ve mentioned murderers,” Lestrade observed.
“And I’ll go on mentioning ’em until you start finding ’em. If you pollies aren’t out looking for whoever murdered that poor kid—what’s his name, Jackson?—who’s been all over the news today, what the hell are we paying you for?”
“Okay, fair enough.” Lestrade gave Clayton a nod to ask his prepared question.
“These stamps, M. Hammer. All the tattoos each one makes are identical as gingerbread bears, but what about the stamps themselves? Are any of them mass-produced?”
“They’d darn well better not be. Not if there’s any ethics left in the profession. Even the mail-order houses have got to live up to their promise of ‘every stamp unique’ if they want to keep their legal standing with IABA.”
Lestrade tapped her chin. “Two artists ever come up with the same design by serendipity?”
“Yeah, that’d be possible. Like it’d be possible to find two snowflakes identical. The Association keeps all the legit stamp designs registered to keep accidental duplication from happening, but there could always be a slip-up. Or an illegal copycat rip-off. And the more popular these things get, the more of them get on the market, the more likely you’re going to find two exactly alike.” Hammer paused. “Of course, sometimes you find two stamps similar enough, you’ve got to look real close to spot the difference. See here—let’s see that one you brought in, again.”
Clayton handed the tracing back over. Hammer squinted at it with a deep frown. “Yeah. Yeah, look here. These little lines petaling out. Each one of ’em’s got a couple of jags. Like little lightning bolts. Take a swirl with smooth curving lines, or just a single jag per line, and at first glance your average eyeball probably wouldn’t pick up on the difference. So round up all the smasters and perverts you can find, but check their symbols real close once you get ’em down to the station house. Not that the whole lot of ’em shouldn’t be put away, anyway. Anything else you’d like to ask me?”
Fielding her partner’s glance, Lestrade pretended to think for a few seconds. “Yes. Oh, yes. Missing person. We’re checking with everybody. Routine. Detective Clayton, show him the photos.”
Hammer took them, looked at them. Looked at them very closely. Very closely. Gave Lestrade a sharpish glance. Took another long look at the photos. “Still missing, you say?”
“That’s right. Ever see him around?”
“Maybe…like you always see people around…but never close enough to say hello. Sorry, Officers, can’t help you with this one. But I’ll tell you this—he looks like the type perverts and smasters go for. Even in a ‘safe’ little city like Forest Green. Anything else?”
Lestrade shook her head. “Not at this time. Well, good-bye, M. Hammer. Thank you for your time. We’ll remember everything you told us.”
* * * *
“Sheboygan!”
