A Body to Dye For

by Grant Michaels

  “I’m not.” Calvin watched me for a moment. It was clear we didn’t trust each other. We had no reason to. But I figured that eventually he’d blurt out some atomic particle of truth, and I’d have something to go on. “Okay,” he said, “you’re right on one count. Someone did it. It wasn’t me, and I don’t know who it was, but maybe Aaron knows something. Maybe it even was him. But where you’ll find him depends on who he’s using.” Whom, I thought, with a nervous tic. Calvin continued, “He works at Neiman’s and sometimes he teaches jazz dance.”

  “Where does he teach?” My ex-lover was a ballerino, so that caught my ear.

  “Wherever they’ll hire him. He’s all over town. Just don’t tell the police.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s already in enough other trouble with them.”

  Those little bits went into the old Czech data cruncher. Then I said, “Calvin, is there anyone who might be trying to frame you?” Long pregnant pause. “No one. Why?”

  “No one at work?”

  Calvin scowled and spoke to me with slow staccato words, as though English were my second language. “This. Has. Nothing. To do. With. Work.”

  Point made.

  “Okay, then answer another question. Why did you try to get rid of the ties on Roger’s body?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I read it in the police reports.”

  “I thought you said the cops didn’t tell you anything.”

  “They didn’t. I read the reports myself.”

  “All of them?” he asked nervously.

  “Yup,” I said. Calvin squirmed in his chair. Now he knew I’d read the lies he wrote about me. “So, Calvin, why did you try to flush the ties with the drugs?”

  “Those were my fucking ties! If the police found them—”

  “But they did find them, Calvin. You only dug yourself in deeper.”

  “I didn’t do it! I don’t know who did, but when I find out—”

  “Nip it, Calvin. Why don’t you just tell me what really happened and put the whole matter to rest.”

  “You’re completely off the track.”

  “The guy is dead, Calvin! And I’m still wondering how and why you did it.”

  “I’m telling you, I didn’t kill Roger! I came home and he was dead on the bed.”

  “And to celebrate, you just so happened to slip it to him from behind. Was he already dead when you put it in?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The autopsy report says they found lube in Roger’s rectum. Someone had something up there.”

  “Maybe he used a dildo.”

  “Come off it. What happened? What else did you flush down the toilet? A used condom?”

  Calvin got up and called the guard. “Take me back to my cell!”

  “What goes around comes around, Calvin.” The guard came in and led him away. I yelled after them, “And I’m helping yours come around!” But they’d already disappeared into the bowels of the prison.

  When the guard returned to escort me back out, he said, “I thought you was his lawyer?”

  I feigned grave disappointment in my voice. “I was.”

  “Wha’ happened?”

  “He lied to me.” I shook my head judicially, like Perry Mason. “How can I help him if he betrays my trust?”

  I walked home from the jail. I needed the physical activity to relieve the tension of performance. All I could think was, What a wasted effort! And I’d missed the ballet because of it, too.

  It was cold and dark now, almost like the middle of winter, and it was only the end of October. As I crossed the last intersection before my block on Marlborough Street, a car revved its engine, the typical sound of a desperate Boston driver trying to get a motor going in the cold. That’s what I thought until I heard the squeal of rubber and saw the car coming toward me. I froze in the crosswalk, blinded by halogen headlights. My legs were heavy and immovable. Two tons of metal raged toward me, but it all seemed to happen in slow motion. I could almost make out the marque on the car hood when a voice inside me screamed “Jump!” I pushed with every erg of strength in my legs. I was midair when the car sped by, then I crashed down to the pavement. I watched from the cold, hard ground as it swerved onto Storrow Drive and out of sight. “Asshole!” I screamed. I didn’t even think to get the plate number. I was too relieved to be alive, and I thanked my springy Slavic limbs for saving me.

  8

  A GIRL FROM THE GOLDEN WEST

  NEXT MORNING, FRIDAY, I WORE A long-sleeved shirt and bow tie to the shop. The sleeves were to hide the ugly scrapes all the way up my left forearm where I’d fallen on it last night, trying to avoid the reckless driver. The bow tie was … well, I had my reasons for wearing that. Nicole asked, “Is that this year’s Halloween drag?”

  I smirked. “No, doll. I’m just trying a different look.” She wasn’t convinced, and as I scanned the appointment book, she noticed the cuts on my hands.

  “Stanley! Are you dealing with rough trade?”

  “Nothing so interesting, Nikki. Just guerrilla warfare with a Boston driver.” I explained what had happened.

  She said, “Did you report it?”

  “No. I didn’t get a make on the car or the plate number.”

  “So what? I want you to call Lieutenant Branco right now. Stani, that was almost a hit-and-run. You could have been killed!”

  “Nikki, it’s a thin line between life and death.”

  “Is that today’s uplifting thought?”

  “How was the ballet?”

  “We left at intermission.”

  “With Rubinskaya dancing!”

  “It was her understudy, darling.”

  “That’s a consolation, at least. I guess even an assoluta gets tired of those white feathers.”

  I was booked solid all morning with difficult perms and complex multicolor work. When I’m that busy is usually when I get walk-in requests as well, and sure enough, within an hour a grayhaired woman walked in for a wash and set. I overheard her talking with Nicole at the reception desk. She was tall and full-figured, with just the slightest stoop in her shoulders. She looked in her late fifties, and her unwrinkled complexion and alert eyes indicated that her life, or her attitude at least, was not toilsome. Her voice warbled slightly as she spoke. “I want to have my hair done, and I’m to see Van …” She faltered and Nicole came to her rescue.

  “You must want Vannos.”

  But the woman ignored Nicole’s help and fumbled around in her purse. “Wait a minute, wait a minute! I know I have that card in here.”

  Nicole said, “It’s no problem, Madam. I know who you mean. Just tell me your name and I’ll check you off in the book.”

  The woman muttered random thoughts as she stirred about in her purse. “Now where did I put it? Oh, I don’t have an appointment. I know its in here.”

  Nicole looked concerned. “If you have no appointment, Madam, I’m afraid our walk-in business is Monday through Thursday only.”

  Finally the woman found the card. “Here it is! I knew I had it!” In victory, she waved the card in front of Nicole, then read it carefully. “I want to see Mr. Vannos. Is that right?”

  “The ‘mister’ is often dubious,” Nicole said, and looked to see if I’d overheard her.

  I scowled back as I loosely rolled a long strand of blond hair for a body wave I was working on.

  Nicole continued, “Madam, I’m sorry—”

  “Yes, well my husband gave me this card. So here I am, and I’d like to have my hair set by Mr. Vannos.”

  “Madam, I understand!” An impatient edge had crept into Nicole’s voice. “And Monday through Thursday that would be fine. But today is Friday. You need an appointment.”

  “Ohhhhhh.” The woman sighed, suddenly crestfallen. “You mean I have to come back another time?”

  I excused myself from my client, then swooped to the reception desk and faced the woman directly. “Are you Mrs. Brickley?”
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  “Oh!” she said, caught off-guard. “You surprised me!”

  “Forgive me. I overheard you talking just now. I’m Vannos.”

  For a moment her eyes were confused. Then she remarked, “So you’re the young man!” A moment later she smiled, almost like an afterthought. “Well, aren’t you nice!”

  From behind her, Nicole mouthed the words Aren’t you nice, smirking as she did it. The woman continued, “I’m Vivian Brickley, and this woman says I can’t have my hair done today.”

  Her eyes didn’t quite focus on mine. She seemed to be looking at my ears. Perhaps she had ocular problems, or perhaps she was timid, or perhaps she was hiding something.

  My voice slipped into its gentlest murmur. “Why don’t you have a seat, Mrs. Brickley, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Why, thank you. What a pleasant young man!”

  Again Nicole mimed the words with a saccharine smile behind the woman’s back. As Mrs. Brickley sat down, Nicole mumbled to me, “If she saw your act at Chez-Chez tonight, would she hold you in such high esteem?”

  I retorted sotto voce, “Fishnet hose and pumps once a year do not a drag queen make. Nikki, she’s married to Calvin’s boss, and she may know something. I’ve got to squeeze her in.”

  “Stani, you are already overbooked with three people in the next hour.”

  “I can handle it, Nikki. It’s only a shampoo-set.”

  “With that hair? That’s a job for pin curls if I ever saw one.”

  “Watch today, doll, as Vivian Brickley discovers the wonder of the soft set.”

  “I’ll have Ramon shampoo her.”

  “No! I’ll wash her. Just tell him to get her into a robe.” I wanted every moment of the woman’s time to myself. Besides, I didn’t appreciate Ramon’s help lately. When he’d started as a shampoo boy, he knew his place with the customers. But once he’d gained Nicole’s confidence and had a few clients of his own, I caught him occasionally courting my regular patrons.

  Ramon escorted Mrs. Brickley to a dressing room. Meanwhile I finished rolling the body wave I was working on. I put her under a dryer, then went to Mrs. Brickley, who was waiting in the shampoo area. As I approached her, she said, “Who is that woman at the desk? She almost kept me from having my hair done.”

  “She’s the manicurist, but sometimes she forgets and thinks she owns the place.” Nicole overheard me and looked up from her work.

  I winked back to assure her that her secret was still preserved.

  I was guiding Mrs. Brickley to the shampoo sink when she suddenly balked. She seemed afraid of it. “I don’t much like those things. They always give me a crick in the neck.” I assured her that she’d be comfortable in this one. I padded the notch in the sink with a thick folded towel, so when I laid her head onto it, she said, “Oh, this is comfortable. You have a special touch, young man.”

  “I know,” I said honestly, and proceeded to wet her hair. Its texture seemed a little dry, so I chose a moisturizing shampoo from the rack. As I massaged her scalp under the creamy lather, she giggled and remarked, “It smells like a strawberry patch, reminds me of growing up in California.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  She giggled. “I guess you could say that I’m from all over the world. I traveled a lot in my years.”

  “Vacations are nice,” I said, trying to recall my last one.

  The giggle continued. “They weren’t vacations. They were assignments. I was a teacher in the foreign service.”

  “That’s impressive!”

  Mrs. Brickley laughed. “Oh, it was just a job. I wasn’t one of the bigwigs. There was always that barrier between the diplomats’ lives and mine.”

  I rinsed her hair and applied an almond-scented conditioner. She remarked, “I’m going to smell like a regular fruit salad by the time you’re done with me.” I told her the scent would barely linger. Then I rinsed her once more and wrapped a towel around her wet hair. I supported her head as I helped her up from the sink, and the simple courtesy seemed to surprise her. She giggled again and said, “Thank you! Usually they just leave me to grapple my own way out of the sink.” Her word choice amused me.

  I led her to my station. When she saw herself in the mirror, she chuckled. “I look like Mata Hari with a turban.”

  “When I’m finished, you’ll look like a duchess.”

  But her words reminded me of my espionage agreement with Branco. For an instant I wondered if someone as mirthful as Vivian Brickley could be playing the same part for someone else.

  I asked her if she wanted something to read while I briefly tended to my other client. Instead of answering, she pulled a copy of The New Yorker from her bag. “I always carry it with me,” she said with a titter. I left her alone while I neutralized and rinsed the body wave, perhaps a little too quickly, but I was eager to get back to Mrs. Brickley.

  When I returned to her, I began my work by combing and separating her hair into sections that would complement her features and the shape of her head. As I grabbed the first roller, she said, “Oh! Aren’t you going to use pins?”

  Damn Nikki! She’d pegged the woman right off.

  “I’d like to try something different,” I answered boldly, and oblivious to her concern, I rolled a lock of her hair around an anodized aluminum tube.

  “But my other hairdresser always used pins.”

  I’m not your other hairdresser, I thought, and I don’t have the time or the desire to do pin curls today. But I spoke secretively near her ear, “For you, Mrs. Brickley, I see something more daring, like an understated adventure.”

  She tittered again. “I must say my husband was right in recommending you to me. I don’t remember when I had this much fun at the hairdresser.”

  I continued rolling her hair up. “Did you meet your husband on one of your trips?”

  “Goodness, no! Not at all. He’s spent just about all his life in New England. Doesn’t like to travel.”

  “That must be awkward, since you seem to like it so much.”

  “It hasn’t come up yet, actually. We’ve only been married, well, it’s not quite a year yet. I guess you’d call it an autumn romance. We’re still working out the kinks.” She laughed.

  “I can’t imagine anyone having difficulty getting along with you. You’re so cheery and optimistic.”

  “Well, I had doubts about marrying so late in my life, especially the first time, and to a younger man.” She chortled now. “It’s almost scandalous!”

  I pretended to join in her laughter while Nikki mimed me with a mocking grin on her face.

  Mrs. Brickley continued more quietly. “Of course, I’m jesting. Roy is not a young man by any means.”

  “He certainly appears youthful.”

  “Oh, heavens, yes! He loves to exercise. His physique is excellent. I’m sure he could have married a woman half his age, instead of one eight years older… .” Her voice trailed off with a doubtful, bewildered sound. “Of course, we are very happy … except that Roy has this idea to retire out West in a few years. I’d just as soon stay here in New England. We have a barn of a house in Cambridge and it’s a perfect base for my wanderlust.”

  “If you can travel six or eight months of the year, Boston is a great place to live.”

  I continued wrapping her hair in rollers, and she read quietly for a few minutes. Then I asked her, “How long have you known Calvin Redding?”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed as though I’d startled her. Then she answered calmly, “I met Calvin shortly after I married my husband last year, but I gather they’d known each other long before that. And you?” she asked.

  “Calvin’s been a client for about a year.”

  She put her magazine down. “And my husband?”

  “Your husband what, Mrs. Brickley?” I didn’t understand what she meant, and when I checked her reflection in the mirror, she looked displeased about something.

  “When did you meet him?” she asked with a tinge of crossness.<
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  “I just met him yesterday.”

  “And that was through Calvin?”

  I paused, wondering what she was fishing for. Then I said, “Yes … indirectly.”

  “I see,” she said, sounding unsatisfied. “Where did you meet him?”

  “Calvin?”

  “No, my husband!”

  “At his office.” Then, anticipating her next question, I said, “And Calvin was referred by a fashion model who is a longtime customer.”

  “I see.” She seemed relieved to hear that, and everything else was sugar cake from then on. “Well, young man, I think its admirable that you want to help Calvin Redding. Its absurd that the police suspect him of anything.”

  I lowered my voice to imply we were trading inside information. “I’m going to do whatever is necessary to find who killed Roger Fayerbrock and why.”

  Vivian Brickley adopted my hushed tone. “If there’s any way I can help …”

  “I’ll remember that,” I whispered back. Then I raised my voice back to a normal level and asked, “What part of California are you from?”

  “My family is from Sacramento, but we have land in other parts of the state, too. Have you ever been out West?”

  “No, but I want to go sometime.”

  “You really must. Its beautiful. Just being out there seems to expand the mind.”

  I didn’t realize then that a subliminal suggestion had been planted. I wrapped the last roller. “There! You’re ready for the dryer.”

  “Already? That’s so much faster than pins.”

  “And even more effective, as you’ll soon see.” I called Ramon to put her under a dryer as I began working on my next customer, a color and cut. Mrs. Brickley would be ready for combing out in twenty minutes, which gave me just enough time to finish client A and apply the color to client B. Fortunately for me, client C was late, as usual, and hadn’t arrived yet.

  When Mrs. Brickley was dry, I quickly combed her out while she read quips from The New Yorker about improper English usage. I finished with a “sprunch” of soft-hold hair spray and said, “Voilà!”

  She looked up from her magazine into the mirror. Her jaw dropped, and for a moment I was afraid I’d gone too far with her hair. But then she smiled and said, “Why, its the way I’ve always wanted my hair done, but nobody’s ever succeeded. Aren’t you clever! You deserve an accolade for your work.”