Chapter 4: The Second Floor

"I'll have an address for you by Friday," I told the caseworker.

I had no idea where I would get one.

That night, after Tilly was asleep with her hair finally loose, I took the business card out of my jacket and called the number on the back.

He answered on the first ring.

"Frankie."

"How did you know it was me?"

"Nobody else has that number." I heard a kettle start. "Did he take her?"

"For two days. I got her back in front of forty women in good coats."

He was quiet for a second.

"Good," he said, and it sounded like he meant something bigger than good.

I told him about the lease and the thirty days and the caseworker's question.

"There's an apartment over my shop," he said. "Second floor. Two bedrooms. Nobody's lived there since my tenant moved to Florida."

"No."

"You haven't seen it."

"You're his uncle, Bram. I can't move my foster kid in over Ellis's uncle's tattoo shop in the middle of a custody fight."

"Why not?"

"Because of how it looks."

"How does it look to live in your truck?"

I hung up on him.

Then I spent four days looking at apartments.

The ones I could afford didn't take kids.

The ones that took kids wanted three months up front, and Ellis had moved our savings into an account with only his name on it.

The bank was very sorry.

On Thursday I picked Tilly up from school and drove to Fells Point.

"Are we getting a tattoo?" she asked.

"Absolutely not."

"Can I watch someone get one?"

"Maybe."

The bell rang over the red door.

The shop was busy.

A woman in her twenties with a shaved head was working on a man's calf in the first chair.

A man with a beard down to his chest was drawing at the counter.

Bram came out of the back wiping his hands.

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