No sooner had the words left his mouth than he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Yet the tattooist merely blinked his almond eyes, shrugged, and said calmly, “No, sir. Nobody but us chinks here.” He spoke with no more than a slight accent, and with an air that said he was used to the ill grace of soldiers.
“Sorry. Been drinking,” Troy mumbled. But drunk or not, it wasn’t like him to be that much of an asshole. For some reason he felt menaced. The man was such a weird-looking fucker. He appeared to be middle-aged, but in an odd, preserved sort of way. His shirt was highly starched and black, his skin dry as parchment, his fingertips so loaded with nicotine they had stained the exterior of his cigarette. He sure as hell wasn’t G.I. Bob