Page 41 of Aftertaste

“He could’ve gotten out?”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

Kostya sat with that information a moment, feeling a gnaw in his chest. He knew Frankie was far from suicidal. There were plans he was making, big things in his future.

“I just don’t get it,” Rio continued. “I mean—anyone who knew Frank, guy had the world by the balls. Seems stupid to end it. And he was no fool.”

NO FOOL AT ALL,Kostya thought to himself as he watched the shape of the knife being seared onto his forearm, the letters etched onto its handle—WTFWFT. What The Fuck Would Frankie Try.

Please, he thought at it,talk to me.

But all Kostya tasted was that morning’s breakfast.

“And… done!” Cal exclaimed, lifting his headlamp off and turning the machine down. He plucked the latex gloves from his thick fingers and grinned at Kostya through gapped teeth. “How’s it feel, champ?”

“A little sore,” Kostya said, flexing his forearm and wincing at the tingling sensation that followed.

“Lots of lube,” Cal advised, handing him a tub of Vaseline. “Ice if you’re itchy. Don’t scratch.”

Konstantin stared down at his new ink, at the raw, red skin around it, the pin-sized blisters puckering up around the edge of the blade burnt onto him. In this moment, he liked the pain; it was something to focus on that wasn’t the dead end he’d hit—Frankie gone, his supper club gone, his life back in the toilet.

“Hey,” he said to Cal, “how long to turn this bad boy into a sleeve?”

Cal surveyed him. “You got a design in mind?”

THEY STARTED WITHa sketch Cal had done for Frankie and made modifications, adding a little more Death and a little less Wolfpup. The tattoos were gorgeous. Cal was an artist, truly gifted; Frankie had done his research. By the time they’d finalized the art—Cal adding skulls and bones and cookware and tons of intricate detail, more than would fit on one arm—Konstantin had agreed to not one sleeve, but two, planning to go all in once the burns on his right arm had healed. Cal assured him that the ink would help camouflage his scar tissue, and besides, he couldn’t just look badass from one side, after all.

For now, Cal detailed Kostya’s left arm with an undead cornucopia—flowering skulls surrounded by fruit and grains and veggies, their eye sockets and mouths and nose holes all blooming with herbs—rosemary and thyme, Thai basil and cilantro. The bones were nestled among other culinary delights—fruits de mer, oyster shells and curling pink shrimp, crab legs and lobster claws, cuts of meat, steaks and chops and poultry, dumplings and noodles, pastry and bread; and tools of the trade—knives and forks and spoons, spatulas, cleavers, balloon whisks, kitchen twine. The detail was otherworldly, each element real enough to touch, and, surrounding it all, the frothy flow of rich, dark wine—Cabernet, Petit Verdot—cascading down from an upended glass on his shoulder, dripping along the entire length of his arm.

It hurt like a mother—likehismother—having it done. But every momentof discomfort was one he spent thinking about Frankie, willing him to be okay, to be safe, swearing that he’d find out how he died, make it right however he could.

“Well, my friend,” Cal said as he put the finishing touches on the last layer of color, the red that made the wine shine, the tomatoes ripen, the apples glow, wiped the fresh ink smooth with his towel, “there… ya… go.”

Kostya turned his arm over and over in the mirror, feasting his eyes. Every inch had been illuminated, made new. The guys at Saveur Fare would have lost it if he strolled in with this ink. If he ever made it back into a kitchen, he’d be giving Cal’s number out left and right.

Sure, he’d still have to hide it from his mother. He could practically hear her now, shrill in judgment—What you thinking, getting tattoo? Is for rest of life! What if you drop cooking? You see, Kostya! If you only talk to me, I tell you all this before too late, but you say nothing and now is forever!Ever sincethe pechonka incident, his mother had always leapt to the worst possible conclusion. Which was exactly why she didn’t get a say in anything he did.

This wasn’t just some frivolous decoration. Heneededthis. A memory of Frankie. His friend, his best, one he’d never let himself lose. Frankie was part of him now. Indelible. Wherever Kostya was going, Frankie would come, too.

The front doorbell—reminiscent of the bowels of Hell—shrieked through the room.

“Ah, my eleven’s here.” Cal stood up. “I’ll go let her in. Meantime, you take a good look. Let me know if there’s anything you want touched up. I think it looks pretty sick, myself.”

Kostya’s eyes traced the River Wine, part vintage and part blood.Yeah, he silently agreed.Sick. So sick.

And then, amid the appraisal of his own illness, there came something actually infirm. Off. Not like it should be. The burgundy rapids foaming around his elbow—where an elaborate fish with iridescent scales dove into the flow—seemed to be growing, expanding, engulfing the fish’s head. Hiswhole arm now, in fact, seemed to be swimming in pink, tingling, and—his eyes began to water with pain—burning. His skin was swelling like a balloon.No.

No-no-no-no-no.

“Uh, Cal…?” Kostya asked, voice rising an octave.“Cal?!”

“Yeah, champ?” Cal bounced down the steps, someone trailing behind him, only her black boots visible on the stairs. “I miss a spot?”

“My fucking arm’s on fire.”

“Oh. Um… shit.”

Cal bent over Konstantin’s ink—which grew more painful by the moment—tsked, shook his head, started to mutter something that sounded likeYeah, that doesn’t look goodbut was drowned out by the woman who’d arrived downstairs just in time to witness the inflation of Kostya’s arm and the air being let out of his ego.

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