Free That Touch of Ink by Diane Vallere

at him. He looked at me, then back at her, and barked again.
    It was evident Rocky misunderstood our standoff, and Joanie misunderstood my interest in the man who had sold her the box. I scooped Rocky up and rubbed his belly.
    “Fine, be a businesswoman. Do you know if this guy is planning to bring in anything else?”
    “He didn’t say. Why?”
    “If he had one box for me, then maybe he has something else I’d like. Do me a favor? If he brings in anything else, I want you to give me first right of refusal.” While I was talking, I reached into my wallet and counted out five twenties. Her eyes dropped from my face to my hands.
    “What’s that for?”
    “I’m buying this.” I held up the framed currency. Rocky wriggled around in my arms, and I set him on top of the glass case of vintage jewelry. He sniffed a bowl of marbles.
    “What do you want with that piece of crap? You could download the image from the Internet, print it, and buy a better frame at a craft store, all for a quarter of the price.”
    “Consider it a good faith investment in future purchases.”
    She peeled off her rubber gloves and squirted hand sanitizer into her palms. She pulled a box of surgical gloves from under the counter and held it out to me. “If you’re taking that box, you might want to wear these.”
    “This is an odd business for a germophobe,” I said.
    “Since when do you know me to be a germophobe? This is precautionary. The guy who dropped that stuff off was covered with poison ivy. He warned me I might catch it from the cardboard and gave me the box of gloves. I don’t know if he’s full of BS or not, but I don’t plan on taking any chances.”
    I wasn’t sure if poison ivy was transferrable by cardboard but didn’t want to insult Joanie, so I pulled on a pair of gloves.
    “Poison ivy? He told you that?”
    “He saw me looking at the rash on his hands. Small red spots popped up on his face, too, right by his hairline. The poor guy was trying his hardest not to scratch, I could tell, but he wasn’t succeeding. I gave him a bottle of Calamine lotion before he left and I saw him dot it on in his car before he drove away.” She laughed. “I sure hope he was heading home, because he didn’t make a very nice picture, all spotted up like that.”
    She punched a couple of keys on the register and placed my twenties under the cash tray. She wrapped the frame in newsprint. I set it on top of the box, led Rocky back to the car, and drove home.

    After parking the car and letting Rocky pee on the weeds behind my parking space, I unlocked the back door and climbed the stairs to my unit. There was a note from Hudson taped to my front door.
    Once I had determined Hudson’s vision and skills far surpassed other contractors I’d hired, he became my go-to contractor. He outdid himself on most projects, understanding the simplicity of mid-century design, often taking the extra step of fabricating a necessary element from scratch instead of relying on prefab parts available at home renovation stores.
    It hadn’t taken long for me to confide in him that I’d bought an apartment building. He was up to the task of taking on minor fixes—mostly electrical and paint jobs—but what really won me over was his agreement to spend a weekend with me, stripping all of the bathroom fixtures of the bland white paint the former owner had used to mask the original pink ceramic. When I started taking tenant applications, I knew only the right kind of people would appreciate the work we’d put in.
    Because I preferred to keep my identity as landlord a secret, Hudson occasionally stepped in as the liaison to the Night Company. My neighbors didn’t know me as Madison Night, they knew me as Madison and Rocky. New tenants received Hudson’s contact information in their welcome packets and were encouraged to call him directly if they needed work done.
    I often found invoices taped to the doorknob in the same manner I had him notify tenants of