There is Dutch when
he was a boy, when he was a sailor, when he grew up and became a world
famous tattooer. There is Dutch surrounded by queens of the Midway, Dutch
with his arms debonairly thrown round the shoulders of snake charmers and
other bizarre and vanished contemporaries. The photographs are yellowed.
They make a curious collection. They make the soulless piano sound a bit
softer. A "where are the snows of yesteryear" motif played on a can-can
fife.
Finally a modern photo in a folder, unyellowed. A smiling, wholesome faced
girl. Here Dutch pauses in his game of solitaire and looks in silence.
"My daughter," he says finally. "I sent her through college. Yeh, she's
graduated now and has a fine job. I help her all I can. What? Is she
tattooed?"
The world's greatest tattoo artist bristles and glowers at the designs on
the walls, frowns at the cupids, nymphs, anchors, dragons and butterflies.
"I should say not," he mutters. "She don't belong in this street, not
here. She's got a different life, and I help her all I can and she likes
me. No, sir, in this street belongs only those who have a long memory. The
new ones should start somewhere else. Not, mind you, that tattooing ain't
good enough for anybody.
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