Chapter Seven
Wood
“Man, a lot sure has changed down here. Wow, I see the haunted mansion is still there though.” Wood said as Bishop drove them up Atlantic Avenue at twenty miles per hour.
No one drove fast on the strip; they had to cruise slow to take in all it had to offer. Because it was winter, and the tourist off-season, it wasn’t swarming with people. Which was the perfect time for him to go. He didn’t prefer large crowds; they made him nervous. Something always happened when too many people were gathered in one place. He had the window of Bishop’s work truck rolled halfway down so he could smell the salty ocean and hear the waves washing up on the shore.
He remembered walking to the Dairy Queen they’d just passed and having a mint Oreo Blizzard on his break between customers. And the Beach Arcade where he embarrassed his friends in Skee-Ball on the weekend before they went to the bar. He was glad some things never changed. There was a new naval aviation monument along the boardwalk, and Wood figured he’d take the bus back alone later and check it out. So many memories flooded over him as Bishop eased up to the curb in front of the tattoo shop he’d put his blood, sweat, tears, and entire life savings into, only to see it now with someone else’s name on the front. He didn’t get out right away as he stared through the glass windows.
“You good, man?” Bishop asked quietly.
Wood nodded stiffly. If anyone could understand the inner turmoil he was feeling, it was the guy beside him. He wanted to barge through those doors and tell whoever was at his station to move the fuck out the way, and then he’d dig in the apprentice’s ass for not having the windows spotless.
“Go in and see what they say, Wood,” Bishop encouraged.
“I am… I just… I just wish I had my damn portfolios,” Wood ground out. He needed to somehow get them back, but that was going to be a hard-fought war, and he had to focus on one manageable task at a time.
“I’ll go park in the municipal lot and meet you back over here,” Bishop said, and Wood knew he couldn’t stall any longer.
He got out of the truck and went inside the familiar but strange tattoo shop. The location was perfect, and the foot traffic was nonstop during the peak season. He and Gary would make enough during the summer to carry them throughout the year, during the slow months. A man with long blond hair and jet-black roots looked up from the counter when he walked in. He gave Wood a quick nod and waved him to the counter.
“What’s up, brother. How can I help you?” The man looked to be no more than thirty, with his low beard and crooked smile.
“Yeah, um. I was wondering if you knew where I could find the previous owner to this place. His name was French, Gary French.” Wood desperately wanted to go nosing around, but he maintained eye contact.
“Yeah, I know Frenchy,” the guy said. “He sold this place to my uncle about ten years ago, and I bought it from him in 2018. How’d you know him?”
“I was his business partner when he first opened,” Wood said gravely, feeling the pain at remembering his long-lost friend.
“No shit.” The guy’s smile got wider. “I didn’t even know—”
“Wood?” a man said, coming from around the corner where Wood’s old business office used to be. He beamed at the recognizable man who was once Gary’s apprentice. He was older of course, and he had some gray at his temple and laugh lines in the corners of his eyes, but he looked the same. “Herschel Wood, is that you?”
Brad walked up and gripped Wood’s outstretched hand, then yanked him into his chest. He hugged him tightly, slapping him hard on his back. “Damn, it’s good to see you, Wood. What the hell you been doing, man?”
Wood scoffed. “You mean besides time?”
Brad knocked him in his shoulder. “Well, I know that. God you’re big now.”
“I’ve always been big.”
“Ahhh, you know what I mean.” Brad gestured over his shoulder at the young man still staring and grinning. “This is my nephew Elton—we call him El. He owns the place now. I just come by every other month or so and skim over his books for him. He’s a good kid, Wood. Talented just like you.”
“Wait a minute,” the nephew said. “Is this the Wood that did The Garden painting hanging in the gallery?”
Wood snapped his head around at the mention of his painting. Was it really still there?
“It is, El. That’s him. This is the Wood. Artist extraordinaire, graduated top of his class at the Virginia Beach Art Institute. He helped Gary build this place from the ground up. And let me tell ya, when they opened their doors the summer of 2000, this place stayed jamming. Everyone and their momma came to the oceanfront that year, and we were the only good tattoo shop on the strip. Wood’s designs had customers coming back so fast they could barely let their last one heal. And I was the best damn apprentice they’d ever seen.” Brad beamed, staring around the shop longingly. “Oh man. It just didn’t get any better than you guys. Too bad it didn’t last as long as we wanted.”