Chapter Thirty-Two
Mallory brings Alec to the West Village to meet Carmel the tattoo artist. He’s been curious about the place since she mentioned it the day of their pitch to the Baxters.
Yesterday, Martha gave them their answer: Yes, they’re in. She’ll make a competing offer on the Blue Angel. Alec now wants to get his first tattoo to celebrate.
“Isn’t it premature?” Mallory said.
“Maybe. But it feels right.”
But things don’t feel right to Mallory. She hasn’t been able to get in touch with Agnes since the Baxters’s good news.
All messages go undelivered, and her phone calls go straight to voicemail.
Bette tried to talk to her face-to-face, but the Blue Angel was closed, the door locked.
Neither knows where she lives; it’s almost impossible to imagine Agnes’s life outside of the Blue Angel.
“Welcome!” Carmel says to them, kissing her on the cheek like she’s a long-lost friend.
She can’t believe she actually remembers her.
Or maybe Carmel’s just pretending. She doesn’t really care either way.
Something about the woman is enchanting.
She has a certain glow, like celebrity yoga instructors.
The place feels a lot different than the first time Mallory’d seen it.
In the daylight, corners that seemed moody and mysterious in the dim glow of night now reveal clean bare space.
The gothic furniture appears more worn and welcoming.
Even the ink bottles seem to catch the sunlight and radiate like stained glass.
They join Carmel, holding her sketchbook, on one of the couches. While she and Alec confer over the image, Mallory is intrigued by the leather albums of Carmel’s work on a nearby brass coffee table. She pulls one onto her lap and begins flipping through it.
“So you wanted the hair a little longer,” Carmel says. “Is this more what you had in mind?”
“Let’s see what Mallory thinks.”
She looks up and he passes her a piece of onion paper with a full-color sketch: a Varga-style burlesque dancer in a blue corset and fishnet stockings.
The woman is in profile, her hands behind her back, in which Carmel has created a large blue ostrich feather fan that looks like wings.
Mallory knows she’s never seen this particular image before, but it’s still somehow familiar to her.
And then she realizes why.
“Is that … me?” she says.
“Yeah. What do you think?” Alec says.
“You’re getting a tattoo of me on your arm?”
“Yes. If it’s okay with you.”
“I mean, I’m flattered.” She looks more closely at the sketch. “But maybe her hair should be a little more—”
“Mal,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Remember? But I do want it to be meaningful. I want to be able to look at it forever.”
Alec never fails to surprise her with romantic gestures. But this is a big one. She kisses him, thinking maybe they can take a little detour to that seedy hotel on the way home. She doesn’t know if she can make it all the way uptown after this.
“I remember you from the other night with Bette,” Carmel says. “And she said you’re a performer, too?”
Is she a performer? No. She’d traded in her pasties for paperwork. Goodbye Moxie, hello Mallory the manager.
“Not anymore,” she says.
Alec looks at her sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know if I want to be running a place and also perform there. Wouldn’t that be weird?”
If they really do take control of the club, she’s prepared to be a strictly behind-the-scenes person.
Maybe that’s the way it was meant to be in the first place.
It’s the perfect blending of the art and the office.
It’s where she probably belongs. But it sure felt great to be “Moxie” for a while.
And now, her moxie will be immortalized on Alec’s shoulder.
Mallory sits on a rolling stool to watch Carmel work her magic.
The buzz of the instrument becomes ambient noise, and if Alec is in any pain he shows no sign of it.
Carmel’s brow furrows in concentration as she meticulously details the long plumes of feathers in the dancer’s fan.
She only lifts the needle occasionally to wipe away blood and see if Alec needs a break.
When the blue angel Varga girl is almost complete, Carmel turns to her and says, “Are you ready to finish her off for me?”
“What?”
Alec turns to her and smiles. “I asked Carmel if you could do the last mark of the tattoo.”
“You guys are crazy,” Mallory says with a nervous laugh.
“I really want you to do it—to know that you marked me outside as permanently as you marked me on the inside.”
Alec. He’ll never stop surprising her. At least, she hopes not.
“I don’t know if I can.” As soon as she says it, she realizes that’s always her first response. I don’t know if I can. But every time she tries, she does whatever she sets her mind to. Maybe it’s time to start recognizing that.
“Here, I’ll show you the part that has to be filled in,” Carmel says. Mallory leans down close to look over her shoulder. “Just this dot at the top of the plume. It’s a circle—you won’t mess it up.”
“It’s really okay for me to do this?”
“Technically, no,” Carmel says. “Rihanna’s tattoo artist lost his license for letting her tattoo someone. Paparazzi snapped a photo of it. But I think we’re safe.” She gives a little wink.
Mallory still hesitates.
“You know what?” Carmel says. “I love that this piece has so much meaning for you two. You’d be surprised how many people come in here and get tattoos with barely any thought. So I’m excited about this art and I’m happy to let you be a part of the process.”
“Just think, Mal: How many times have you wanted to inflict pain on me? Now’s your chance.”
“Very funny.” If Carmel is willing to let her do it, and Alec trusts her to take a needle to his arm, who’s she to say no?
Carmel hands her a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Mallory pulls them on solemnly, as if she were about to perform surgery. Carmel moves aside to give Mallory access to the spot she needs to work on. She hands her the tattoo machine, and it’s surprisingly heavy.
“Put your foot on this pedal—press it to start the needle.”
“Oh my god,” Mallory says. She looks at Alec one more time—Are you sure? He gives her a wink: Go for it.
Mallory uses one foot to press the start pedal toward the floor, and it whirs to life.
Slowly, she lowers the needle to Alec’s skin.
She’s afraid to press too hard and hurt him, and ink sprays off the surface on contact, making it hard for her to see what’s happening.
She releases the pedal and pulls the needle back, examining her handiwork.
Sure enough, she’s created a small dot. With a deep breath, she restarts the tool, this time making a conscious effort to move the needle in a circular motion.
After a few seconds, she checks her work again.
Carmel wipes the area clean of excess ink to reveal the successful completion of the feather.
“Is it done?” she asks, amazed.
“It’s done,” Carmel says.
“Thanks. That’s something I’ll never forget.”
“Of course you won’t,” Alec says. “You’ll be looking at it for the rest of your life, too.”
“Oh, you think?” she says teasingly.
“I can only hope.”
“Is that so?” she says. Interesting.
Once the tattoo of Moxie is complete, Carmel cleans it and covers it with plastic wrap. Just as she’s giving Alec care instructions, the doorbell rings. Carmel excuses herself to go answer it.
“I can’t tell if this is the most romantic gesture or the craziest,” she says, sitting on the edge of his chair and kissing him lightly on the lips.
“Both?”
Then they perk up at the sound of Bette’s voice in the foyer.
“You expecting her?” Alec says.
“No. But I told her we were coming.”
Bette strides into the parlor, her high-heeled boots clacking on the hardwood floors.
“We need to talk,” she says.
Carmel is right behind her but then makes herself busy cleaning up her workstation.
“What’s wrong?” Mallory says. Clearly this isn’t good news.
“We were too late,” Bette says. “The deal is done: the Blue Angel is sold.”
Mallory looks at Alec, and he shakes his head in frustration.
“This is bullshit,” he says.
Then he grabs his coat and heads for the door.
Billy Barton is having a bad day.
In an attempt to cheer himself up, he’s behind closed doors in his office, looking through photos from the Emma Holland cover shoot. He already knows the one he likes best: Emma and Tyler draped all over each other like they’re five seconds away from fucking. It will be the cover of the next issue.
Looking at it now is painful. Aside from the unwanted erection the photo is giving him, it’s also a reminder of his last afternoon with Tyler, who no longer returns his messages.
Billy thought that little tryst at the Maritime was a pre-celebration: He was sure he’d figured out a way to shut Violet down.
Instead, he made things worse. And he has to accept that Tyler won’t forgive him for the mess.
But losing Tyler is the cost, as they say, of doing business.
As infuriated as he is by the blackmail, in an odd way, Violet has done him a favor.
A few of his key advertisers have cut their budgets in half.
Word from his friends on Wall Street and in tech are that magazines are dead.
Not dying off but already dead. So he needs a plan B.
Taking over the Blue Angel isn’t the worst fallback plan.
It’s nightlife, it’s glamour, it’s celebrity. It’s showbiz. It’s timeless.
He’s startled by a knock on the door.
“I’m busy,” he barks.
The door opens. It’s Alec Martin.
“Hey, now’s not a good time,” Billy says. “But your Emma Holland piece is good to go. Nice work.”
Alec closes the door behind him and walks closer to Billy’s desk.
“Why are you doing this?” Alec says.
“Doing what?”
“Going into business with Violet. If you wanted to get into the burlesque game, why not come to Mallory and me? I thought we were friends.”
How does he know? The sale of the Blue Angel isn’t public knowledge yet. In the end, the Post didn’t run the article. Luckily for him.
“We are friends,” Billy says carefully. “And I don’t know what this has to do with you.
Mallory quit the Blue Angel. But if she wants to come back, I have good news.
” Billy stands up and walks around to the front of his desk.
“Violet seems to be a big fan of Mallory’s.
She plans on inviting her back—and I know this because she insisted on a big budget for Mallory’s pay to make it worth her while.
” It was a strange clause in the deal, one he didn’t think would come into play.
But he was wrong. He wonders when he’ll finally stop feeling like Violet is always one step ahead of him.
It’s something he’s just going to have to figure out.
For some reason, this only seems to make Alec more agitated.
“Well, Mallory is not a fan of Violet’s, and neither am I. Do you really know who you’re getting into business with?”
“Alec, you’re a rising star. You have a big future. Why distract yourself with this?”
“I could ask you the same,” Alec says.
“I’m diversifying.”
Alec nods. “Fair enough. But that still doesn’t answer the question: Why Violet?”
“It’s complicated,” Billy says, avoiding eye contact.
“Well, here’s something uncomplicated: I quit.”
Alec drops his Gruff magazine ID card and passkey on the desk. Billy knows he’s been neglecting the magazine a little with everything that’s going on, but he had no idea Alec Martin was dissatisfied. This can’t just be about not liking Violet.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Billy says, scooping up the passkey and following him to the door of his office. “I just gave you the cover!”
Alec turns around.
“Billy, you don’t get it: You’re going into business with a dangerous person. The fact that you either don’t know that or don’t care makes it impossible for me to continue working for you.”
“Oh, spare me. Because you’re so principled and perfect?”
“No,” Alec says. “Because I’m going to devote my time and energy to making sure Violet Offender fails.”
“How? You going to write a hit piece on the club? The power of the pen?” Billy says.
And then his best writer walks out the door. Another nail in the coffin for Gruff. Billy Barton just hopes he isn’t buried along with it.