“A reporter,” he said finally in a long suffering tone. “They wouldn’t respect a man’s privacy—or anything else for that matter, I reckon.”
“There is one thing I am sure all reporters respect, Mr. Saal,” responded Penny. “Art. From the samples of your work which I saw out front I am sure you are a great tattoo artist.”
Mr. Saal melted like a lump of butter on a hot stove. Penny had struck his weakest spot.
“You flatter me,” he said, a faint pattern of a smile etching his face. “I admit I’m good, although maybe not quite the best in the business. What do you want to know?”
“A story about the tattooing business in general and you in particular, Mr. Saal. How do you do it? How did you start? Who was the most famous person you ever tattooed? What is your favorite design? Do you think a tattoo looks better on the arm or the chest? What—?”
“Hold it, young lady, hold it. You seem to be a living question mark.”
Mr. Saal motioned for Penny to follow him to the front of the shop. As he offered her a chair she took a quick glance at a row of dirty, smeary bottles of chemicals on a shelf above her head.
“Now let’s take your first question,” said Mr. Saal, seating himself opposite the girl. “I can’t tell you how to tattoo—that’s a secret of the profession.”
“How much do you charge for one?”
“Depends upon how much a fellow is willing to pay. Take this town—it’s a cheap place. Nobody has any money. The King of England paid fifty dollars for his tattoo and what do I get? I’m lucky if it’s a dollar. And mostly hoodlums to work on. You can’t give a man much of a tattoo for a dollar.”