I was friends with a tattoo artist named Frank Borgone, AKA Fat Frank; that nickname fit him well! He had been threatened by a client who wasn't satisfied with work he did, and I helped capture and put away that person.
I went into his studio, one day.
"Jenny, this is a surprise! How can I help you, today?"
"I've decided to get a tattoo."
"Wonderful! Sit down, a moment." I sat. "OK, what kind of a tat would you like?"
"Well, I'm not quite sure. But something relating to my job as a private eye."
We exchanged ideas, and he showed me some samples. I finally decided on a badge symbol.
"I'm sorry, Jenny, but I won't be able to do this for free—too much overhead. But for you, I'll do a 50% discount. Is that satisfactory?"
"That'll be fine, Frank; I quite understand."
"Good. I'm free, at the moment, so would now be good?"
"Sure, that's fine."
First, he drew a picture of the badge, for my approval. I decided to have it done in gold ink. Then, he started his work.
I won't deny it—it hurt. It felt like. . . a cat was scratching me! He anesthetized the area, at first, and that did help.
The job took about an hour. Afterward, he covered the area with an antibiotic lotion, and gave me a prescription for antibiotic pills.
It looks good; he did a great job. And he ended up charging me just $50. The first person I showed it to was Lt. Carl Kirschenbaum, and he was very impressed.
Oh, where is it? On the sole of my right foot! Very appropriate, isn't that!