She peeked over the top of her fingertips. “Why do you want to see me? I don’t even know you.”
“I know your dad.”
She angrily forced my hand away from the door, then climbed in and slammed it shut.
“Is he why you’re so upset?” I asked.
Debbie rolled down the window and said sternly, “He didn’t come, alright? My own father can’t be bothered to see his own daughter graduate.” She started the engine. “And you’re a big, fat liar!”
“Wait!” I cried, as the car drove off. I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “You’re his little cherub!”
The break lights lit up as the car screeched to a halt. The engine was still running as I ran over to her. The distraught girl stared mournfully out the windshield and said softly, “I’m sorry I called you a liar.”
Poor Debbie Fink. Her no-show dad had hurt her deeply, and I was only making things worse.
“You know what?” I said. “All this running has left my throat a little parched. Think I’ll wet my whistle with some of that reception punch. Care to join me?”
Wiping away a tear, Debbie faced me. “I’d like that.”
The crowd that had filled the football field now jammed the school gymnasium. Everywhere you looked were smiles and handshakes of congratulations. Girls shared hugs with weepy mothers. Boys endured hardy backslaps from proud fathers. A long refreshment table was laid out, offering coffee, cookies, punch, and a humongous cake with Congratulations Grads! spelled out in candy letters.
Debbie slipped into the girl’s room to put her face back on, while I grabbed us each a Styrofoam cupful of punch.
We met up at a quiet table, far from the guitar-picking country band, playing selections from the Willie Nelson songbook. Sitting quietly, we sipped our punch. I wasn’t sure how to begin our conversation. Debbie appeared equally uncomfortable. She gazed out at her fellow graduates, avoiding eye-contact with me.
To break the ice, I raised my cup. “Congratulations!” I said. We thumped our cups together to toast her academic achievement. Debbie’s smile was far from genuine.
She circled her finger around the rim of her cup nervously, then said, “I don’t mind telling you, but I feel a little awkward.”
“Me, too,” I said.
She looked hard at me, as if sizing me up. “So, you know my father.”
It was a straightforward statement, but one I wasn’t prepared to respond to. The fact was, I really didn’t know her dad at all. I only knew why he missed her graduation: he drove himself over a cliff the night before.
I had to say something, but not that! Informing Debbie of her father’s suicide attempt would break her heart. Telling her that he was a wanted terrorist wasn’t going to brighten her day, either. I had sought her out to learn the identity of my mystery caller, not to be the bearer of bad news. I had to remember that.
“Your dad called me last night,” I said.
“Oh?” Debbie’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What did you say your name was?”
“Amy. Amy Dawson.”
“Funny, my dad never mentioned you.”
“We only met eight hours ago.”
I didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know what she was thinking. The contemptuous look on her face and her clenched fist said it all.
“It’s all perfectly innocent,” I assured her. “He dialed the wrong number and got me by mistake.”
She wasn’t convinced. “Really? What did you talk about?”
“You, for one thing.”
“What about me?”
“He said he wished you hadn’t hung up on him.”
Debbie’s face flushed as she fell back into her chair. It took her a moment to grasp that I knew the details of their private conversation. Then she took a deep breath and sat up. Reaching under her gown, she pulled out a whisky flask containing, I assumed, that intoxicating substance.
Looking warily around the room, she topped off her punch with it, and whispered, “I keep this for emergencies. Want some?”
“No thanks,” I said.
“Guess you’ve figured out by now, my dad and I don’t get along.”
“You may not believe this, but he wanted to be here today. He had an awesome graduation present for you.”
“You mean that ugly truck? I wouldn’t be caught dead in that thing. Just shows how well he knows me.”
“Why did you tell the police he had stolen it?”
“I was pissed! I know I shouldn’t have done it. Guess I can’t blame him for not showing up after what I did.” She took a long swig of her special punch. “I hardly know my dad. He’s always away on business.”
She handed me his business card. “This is him.”
Harley Fink
Investment Consultant
At last, my caller now had a name!
I showed Debbie my barbershop card. “Is this one of his clients?”
Debbie squinted as she held the card close to her face. “Ravi. Never heard of anyone with that name, or this salon. Maybe he’s my dad’s hairdresser.”
“You think so?”
“Can’t say for sure. Seems like he’s always at the barbershop. I suppose you have to look good in his line of work.” She topped off her punch with more of her secret sauce and guzzled it down. “I shouldn’t complain, though. Our best times together are always after he’s seen his barber. He comes home a different person. Happy. Funny. He’ll take me out to a movie, or a concert, or wherever I want.”
Debbie’s comment added a curious piece to the puzzle. For sure, sporting a handsome head of hair would improve anyone’s self-esteem. For Harley Fink, however, it seemed to transform his personality. That burnt business card had more significance than I thought.
“Not to change the subject,” said Debbie, “but is he with you?” She nodded toward a tall man leaning against the wall, alone, eating a slice of graduation cake from a paper plate.
“I’ve never seen him before,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
“I noticed him at the ceremony, and again in the parking lot. Now he shows up here. I think he’s following me.”
The police were obviously on my tail, hoping that I would lead them to the felon who had slipped through their fingers.
“He’s not following you,” I said. “He’s after me. He thinks I’m a terrorist.”
We stared at each other stone-faced for a moment, then burst out laughing. I swung around to get a second look at the man shadowing me, but he was gone. At least now I knew I was under surveillance. I was afraid that being seen with Debbie might put her in danger. But, without a positive ID on her dad, there was no way to link her to the crime.
I heard the sound of giggling, as two gowned girls skipped over to us. “Hey, Debbie!” said one of them. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
Debbie hid her empty flask under her gown and wobbled to her feet. “Amy, I’d like you to meet the two best friends a girl ever had.” She stumbled over her chair attempting a group hug with them. “Can’t get through life without friends.”
The other girl rolled her eyes. “She’s not usually like this,” she told me. “Must be an emergency.”
“It’s been a trying day for her,” I said. “Let her enjoy the rest of it.”
Debbie reached out and shook my hand. “Have to leave you now, Amy. Me and my chums got some celebratin’ to do. We just graduated high school, you know.”
“Knock yourself out,” I laughed. “You’re halfway there anyway.”
“Oh, and do me a favor. If my dad calls again, tell him I’m sorry . . . for everything.”
“I’m sure he understands. No need to feel guilty.”
She leaned into my ear, and with whisky on her breath, whispered, “We’re all guilty of something, aren’t we?”
With Debbie gone, I finished my punch and left the table. A drum roll sounded from the stage, as all of the principal players in the day’s festivities took their final bows—teachers, adm
inistrators, honor students.
But one key person was missing from the lineup: Arthur Farthington, Jr. I found him outside, tossing his cap and gown into the back of a white van. Painted on the side was Boeing Aviation, Aerospace Division. Artie Farty had shown such great promise as an aircraft engineer that the company recruited him right out of high school.
Dumbo would have been proud. The elephant had flown.
Chapter 4
The Barber Zone
Snipper Jim’s was the newest and trendiest hair salon in Shankstonville. From Blowouts to Shags, it was the local one-stop shop for the latest in hair design. No more leaving town to get that Big City look.
Everyone knew its owner and hairstylist “Snipper” Jim from his zany TV commercials. In his signature pompadour and goatee, he was the quintessential late-night pitchman. He cut hair while slashing prices. “SAVE, SAVE, SAVE! on a SHAVE, SHAVE, SHAVE!” Every ad concluded with Jim spinning in a barber chair and promising, “No one leaves without looking fabulous!”
His storefront was impossible to miss, with its pink and purple color scheme and its owner’s dashing smile on a rooftop billboard. Most days you could find Jim standing out front with a burning cigarette between his fingers. That’s because his shop was usually empty. In spite of being an infomercial icon, he had mistakenly underestimated the demand for his services. Most of our rural townsfolk saw little value in parading around town in a sheik hairdo.
Jim’s other mistake was that he did everything on the cheap. To save on rent, he set up shop in the old part of town, where no one shops anymore. The opening of Happy Fun Mart, our town’s big-box superstore, had forced nearly every downtown retailer out of business. The streets were usually empty, as if a giant tsunami had sent the entire population scurrying for higher ground. Abandoned buildings stood like concrete ghosts in some apocalyptic movie. Faded signs left haunting reminders of the once thriving businesses: Jerry’s Jewelers, Happy Day Greeting Cards, Carlyle’s Cafeteria. Evidence of the merchant’s last-ditch attempt to stay alive still hangs over the street: a torn banner proclaiming, Downtown Has Everything!
A few places managed to stay afloat, however, like the 24-hour Jiffy-Q convenience store. People still needed somewhere to buy diapers in the middle of the night. Charlie’s Saloon also survived, providing folks a hideaway from such domestic chores. Then there was Snipper Jim’s competition directly across the street from him: Ravi’s 2-Bit Solution barbershop.
The shop’s aging storefront was in desperate need of a facelift. Its flaking wood siding showed signs of termite damage. The old spiraling barber pole had frozen in place decades earlier.
How the old shop managed to stay open was a favorite topic of local gossip. Some claimed that Ravi was selling services unrelated to hair care—illicit services, if you know what I mean. I’m not the kind to believe rumors, but the gossipmongers had pretty good evidence to support their suspicions. Finding a parked car out front was rare, but when you did, it was typically a stretch limo, a Rolls-Royce, or some other chauffeur-driven vehicle.
Such was the case as I pulled up behind a long, black Mercedes. I waited in my car to get a glimpse of who it belonged to. After a minute or two, the shop’s door flew open. Out rushed two big men in dark suits. A third man then came out and was immediately hustled into the luxury car. The engine raced as the limo sped off in a cloud of exhaust fumes and dust.
I stepped out of my own version of vehicular opulence: my 1968 Volkswagen bug.
As usual, the streets were deserted. Wind whistled through the bare branches of dead trees. Except for two stray dogs growling over a discarded hamburger wrapper, I was completely alone.
At least I wouldn’t have to worry about being spotted in the seedy neighborhood. That was before I noticed a puff of cigarette smoke rising across the street. Snipper Jim had been watching me from his salon. I smiled and gave him a wave. He raised his arm as if offering me a friendly welcome, but he was only taking another drag on his cigarette.
I crept cautiously toward the 2-Bit Solution, like I was in the shadow of a haunted house. Above the tarnished brass door handle was a hand-lettered sign that read,
BY APPOINTMENT ONLY
NO EXCEPTIONS!
I hadn’t called ahead, but why would I do that? If you want to catch a thief in the act, you don’t tell him you’re on your way.
Jingle-ding-ding!
A small bell hanging above the front door announced my arrival. There was a distinct mustiness in the air, masked by the scent of baby powder. As expected, the shop’s interior was as derelict as it was outside. Above me spun a squeaky, old ceiling fan. Under my feet was a scuffed checkered floor. The garish green walls had as much class as a gas station restroom. Though the shop looked destined for demolition, it also had an undeniable charm about it. It was like stepping into an Andy Griffith Show rerun. I could almost hear Floyd the barber snipping away at Barney’s thinning hair.
Closing the door, I was standing in the waiting area. A glass display case separated customers from the barber’s work space. Inside the case was a collection of novelty shaving mugs. Most were comical, like the one shaped like a toilet bowl. Others were printed with funny slogans, such as Take it all off and I like you better with a beard.
Beyond the showcase, a counter ran along one wall, filled with an assortment of scissors, combs, creams, lotions, and such. Then there was the barber chair—an antique if I ever saw one. The only thing missing from this setting was an old-time barber, with a handlebar mustache, in a striped shirt and bow tie.
“Hello?” I called out.
No reply. Perhaps the door bell hadn’t rung loud enough, or Ravi was napping in a back room.
Then I heard the sound of rustling paper. I was so taken with the little shop that I hadn’t noticed the gentleman seated in the corner. His face was hidden behind a newspaper. Only his salt-and-pepper hair was visible over the top. I quietly took a seat across the room.
There I waited.
It wasn’t long before I started fidgeting from the boredom. The squeak of each turn of the ceiling fan wore on my nerves. A wall clock’s tick-tock became a ping-pong match between my ears.
I impatiently drummed my fingers on the chair’s armrest.
“Ahem!” uttered the other customer.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The bronze-skinned man turned the page of his newspaper with no further comment.
“Come here often?” I asked him. A pair of dark eyes glared at me over the headline. I had hoped to pass the time with a little light conversation, but I guess some people don’t take kindly to small talk.
He resumed his reading, when I heard a low voice speak from behind the front page: “You make me . . .”
“Beg your pardon?” I said.
He turned another page. “You make me . . .”
I glanced around the room. “You’re not talking to someone else, are you?”
Annoyed, the man flung his newspaper aside and stood up. His irritation was apparent as he marched toward me. I must have disturbed him more than I thought.
Looming over me, I noticed a comb tucked into the breast pocket of his white coat.
“Oh! You must be the barber,” I said.
He wiped his thick mustache with the back of his hand. Then, surprisingly, his eyebrows went up. A broad grin crossed his lips. “You make me . . . smile!”
He grabbed hold of my hands, lifted me out of my chair, and began whirling me around like we were ballroom dancing.
“You make me smile!”
It all happened so fast that I didn’t know how to react, but I followed his dance steps anyway. Oddly, I didn’t feel threatened by him. I sensed more playfulness in his behavior than danger. And as I watched his grinning face, I smiled, too.
He sang:
“Yoooou maaaake meeee smiiiile!”
“Yoooou maaaake meeee smiiiile!”
Tripping over his feet, I said, “I’m afraid
I’m not very good at this.”
“Neither am I!” he blurted out in laughter.
Out of breath, the high-spirited barber waltzed me into the barber chair.
“What was all that about?” I asked him. “You take a happy pill this morning or something?”
“No need for that,” he said, with a charming Middle-Eastern accent. “I’ll take your delightful company over Prozac any day.”
“You’re Ravi, I take it.”
He bowed. “Ravi Hakeem: here to fulfill your hairstyling wishes. And what, my sweet bird of youth, might your name be?”
“My name’s—”
“No, don’t! Let me guess. It’s Aurora: the goddess of dawn, who sweeps across the morning sky to announce the new day.”
“Nope.”
“Iris: the rainbow goddess.”
“Wrong again. It’s Amy.”
“Amy!” He clasped his hands together and gazed up toward the heavens, then paused. “I don’t think there’s a Greek goddess for you.”
For sure, the barber showed all the craziness of someone who had escaped the loony bin, but I didn’t care. I liked him.
Ravi pumped the barber chair pedal, bouncing me to the optimum haircutting height.
“I guess I should have made an appointment, huh?” I said.
Ravi waved his finger. “Tut-tut. Not another word. Now, what’ll it be? Color, cut, and blow dry, or a full makeover?”
“Just a trim, please.”
A quarter-turn of the barber chair and I was facing a large, round wall mirror.
“Ooh!” said Ravi. “I love this blue highlight in the back of your hair. How about a new color—say, green, or purple?”
“Don’t even!” I warned him. “You want to ruin my image? That’s my symbol of defiance.”
Ravi rolled his eyes and sighed. “Just what we need: another rebellious teenager.”
Of course, I hadn’t come there for a haircut at all. Ravi was somehow connected to Harley Fink’s disappearance, and this was the perfect setup for gathering information.
The Age of Amy: Mad Dogs and Makeovers Page 3
