Annoyance flickered across Pilar’s face, but if you didn’t know her, it just looked like she was squinting against the wind. She introduced herself to her client and their consult was all professionalism. No shampoo, not for the demos, just spray bottles. Pilar spritz-dampened the hair and started twisting up her sections. All the while, Ralph kept one eye on her while he worked the crowd, doling out promo postcards. He was not nearly as good at Pilar at schooling his expression. His sick glee was evident.
“So, do you have kids?” Pilar asked. Which earned her an earful about how the woman’s daughter was wasting all her time texting when she should’ve been doing her homework. Since Pilar could commiserate, they were able to form a tenuous bond. It cost her, though. Her son was the light of her life, and to bitch about his video gaming to some stranger just for the sake of seeming empathetic was as much of a downer as wearing a two-bit apron and cutting hair on the damn sidewalk.
Did I believe in karma? Not the way some folks do, with a giant cosmic scorecard keeping track of all our best and worst moments. But I have noticed it’s when you’re at your most vulnerable that life tends to bite you in the ass. Despite everything that was stacked against it, Pilar’s cut was going well until the wind picked up a strand of cut hair on the sidewalk and trailed it through the client’s direct line of sight. When the woman saw it, she completely lost her shit.
“How much hair are you taking off? I told you I wanted shoulder length. That’s at least three inches, you stupid cow!”
Pilar went still, eyes bulging. Then without a word, she yanked off her horrible black apron, threw it on the sidewalk and marched back into the salon. The crowd shifted uncomfortably and the folks around the perimeter started to bail. Me, I kept my eye on Ralph. He was the owner, and it was his call. Either he’d need to appease the odious bitch or tell her to go fuck herself. And I was curious how he’d handle the situation.
But the spineless weasel did neither. With a careless flick of the hand, he said, “One of you finish the cut,” then turned back to the potential customer he’d been wooing as if nothing had just happened, which left Matthew, Red and me to sort out the debacle ourselves.
One thing I knew—I’d be damned if I gave that woman a haircut. She didn’t deserve it. Matthew turned his most beseeching big-eyed gaze to me and mouthed the word please. He wasn’t exactly delivering it with a Vibe, but there was definitely the implicit promise that if I handled this ugly situation so he didn’t have to, he’d make it very worth my while. Red regarded me too, with nothing but a stony silence.
“I’m going after Pilar,” I said.
Matthew looked like he might burst into tears.
Red nodded once, almost a shrug. “Then I’ll finish the client.”
Oh, la-di-da. Not only was he the polar opposite of melodramatic, but he actually enjoyed rubbing his calm composure in my face. Well, I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of gawking at how smoothly he could handle a problem customer. I went off in search of my friend without a backward glance.
She’d blockaded herself in the storage room. It must’ve been an office in a previous life, given that it locked from the inside. We all knew Ralph had the key, but I understood that the gesture was symbolic, especially since Ralph showed no signs of running after her. I tapped on the door and said, “It’s me.”
“Go away.”
“Not gonna happen. So either you let me in or we yell this conversation through the door. You pick.”
The lock clicked open. I let myself in.
The narrow storeroom houses all the obsolete equipment Ralph couldn’t quite bring himself to part with. It’s crammed with shelves of old gear, half-used product and a styling chair with a defective hydraulic pump. Pilar perched on the seat and knuckled away angry tears while I tried to find somewhere to lean without getting a curling iron up my ass. “You’re the most talented, hard-working stylist I know,” I said.
I was attempting to make her feel better, but for some reason, that statement just turned up the waterworks. Her face scrunched as if she could will the tears to stop flowing.
“It’s true,” I said. “You cut circles around everybody else.”
“And you know what? It doesn’t fucking matter.”
“Yeah, it matters.”
“I hate it here, but where else can I go? Even if I dipped into Nick’s college fund, I wouldn’t have the kind of money it takes to open my own shop. I definitely don’t have the energy to run it. And Ralph will make sure I can’t go anywhere else.”
“How’s he gonna stop you?”
“A few months ago I put out some feelers about moving on, and get this: he said if he couldn’t have me, then no one could. That’s practically a guarantee that if I try to leave he’ll slag me off to anyone who’ll listen. You know how charming he can be, and people in the industry don’t look any farther than that. Ralph’s word is gold. If he spreads it around that I’m the problem, then forget it. My career is done.”
“That’s crazy. Your clients love you. Someone’ll give you a chance.”
“Oh yeah? Remember Gail? She used to book out three months in advance. She thought the same thing, but no one would hire her—no one would even rent her a station—and now she’s working at ClipLand.” I shuddered. I’d turn tricks under the viaduct before I donned an orange-checked ClipLand smock. “Anyone who crosses Ralph Maldonado might as well find a whole new line of work.”
“There’s no way his opinion carries that much weight. You know what? Fuck Ralph.”
“Easy for you to say.” She laughed bitterly. “That’s all you need to do to get him on your side.”
I stopped. I took a breath. And I counted to ten. Anyone else, I would’ve ripped ’em a new one, but not Pilar. Especially not after the humiliation she’d just endured. “Let’s not go there,” I said softly.
“I guess it’s not like you can turn him down. You’d end up sweeping hair all day.”
“I am perfectly fine. And since when is my private sex life the topic of this conversation?”
“Oh, come on. I know you fucked each other last night. You drove yourself to work, and he’s been prancing around with that disgusting just-got-laid swagger of his.”
“You don’t know shit. I slept in. And that’s just the way Ralph walks.”
“Gimme a break. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not stupid.” She heaved herself up and turned toward the door. “I’m outta here. If Ralph has any problem with it, he can keep my day’s tips.” Which wouldn’t even buy enough pizza to feed her and her kid, and both of us knew it.
Square Days was winding down anyhow. Over by the chairs, Matthew and Trevor were finishing up the final walk-ins, and the crowd out front had thinned as the spectators wandered off in search of dinner or music or copious German beer. On first glance, I thought Red had ended up with yet another demo cut, but then I realized he was putting the finishing touches on the baby-haired harpy. I hardly recognized her with her sassy, piecey crop. I eased up to Matthew and said, “All that fuss and she ends up going short-short?”
“It was off the hook,” he whispered dramatically. “Red put the whammy on her.”
“Really.”
“Big time. Before he started to cut, he crouched down in front of her, looked her in the eye and said something, and she went all still and quiet. I think she’s hypnotized.”
More likely the woman had a pathological aversion to heavy people.
I was more than ready for quitting time when Ralph ambled over. Was he post-fuck swaggering? Hard to say. He leaned in and murmured, “The fun never ends, does it? Why don’t you draw our big winner so we can pack it up and call it a day.”
The kitty was jammed with raffle tickets—if nothing else, Ralph’s email list would get a big boost. I shoved my hand down deep in the box and stirred it all around, grabbed a ticket, pulled, and handed it to Ralph. He squinted down at it. “I can’t read this, pull another.”
“Lemme see.” I had no idea w
hy I even cared. When Ralph hesitated, I whispered, “You can’t let it look like you’re tossing one aside. People are really invested in the illusion that the world is fair.”
He handed me the ticket. In stilted, old-fashioned printing, it read Olga Kylsey.
“Pick another one,” Ralph told me. “There’s no email. It’s disqualified.”
“What difference does it make?” I had no idea how to pronounce the surname, but I’d lay a wager on the fact that not many folks in the crowd could lay claim to that first name. “Olga?” I called out. “Is there an Olga in the house?”
“Fine. Text her and get it over with so we wrap this all up.”
A phone number was listed—one that I strongly suspected was a landline—but the text wasn’t necessary. My little old lady in her babushka was already picking her way through the thinning crowd, gray teeth bared in a triumphant smile.
Chapter 7
Ralph leaned in to whisper in my ear. To the sparse crowd, it would look like a convivial chat. But I knew him well enough to pick up on his seething resentment when he said, “Is this some kind of joke?”
“You watched me draw the ticket. What are you saying, I cheated?” I’d be damned if I let Ralph touch that weird little old lady. “I sold her the ticket, I’ll stay and do the cut.”
There was no pleasing Ralph one way or the other. Maybe my offer to stay late had deprived him of something to bitch about, who knows? He should be grateful—he’d be able to go have an actual Saturday night—but I knew better than to expect gratitude from the likes of him. In a spirit of one-upmanship, I acted as if there was nothing I’d rather do than stay late for no pay on a weekend, and ushered Olga into the salon. “What did I tell you?” I said to her. “That’ll be the most interesting dollar you’ve ever spent.”
Call me contrary, but because everyone was so busy running around getting ready to fly, I took sadistic pleasure in taking my time. And my customer? It felt like she was in on the joke.
I showed her to my station, turned up all the lights that had been dimmed for the night, and offered her a glass of wine. She wouldn’t have been more shocked if I’d proffered a line of coke. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to get you wasted. But all the fancy ladies go for the wine. Sometimes before noon.”
“With a haircut, they give you wine?”
“Or infused water. Or tea. But hell, if it were me, I’d take the wine.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Then wine it is.”
Normally the receptionists handled the beverages, but Luscious was a ghost town now that Square Days had drawn to a close. When I turned toward the fridge where a passable chardonnay was chilling, a figure emerged from the shadows, startling me so bad I nearly dropped my comb. “I’ll handle the wine,” Red said. “You do the consult.”
“You don’t need to stay late,” I said.
“I don’t need to, I want to.”
“Why? Trying to prove something? I’m not the one you need to impress.”
“No. You’re not.” He said this as if it was the most obvious thing in the word, which made me feel like a complete ass for bringing it up.
Well, screw him. I turned back to Olga. “Let’s lose that babushka and talk about your cut.”
She slipped off the kerchief and unveiled a single gray braid slicked back with a scattering of hairpins. There was some thinning, but not too bad. Dissuading her from a perm was my main concern. If we had to do a perm, we’d be there all night. “You strike me as someone who appreciates a classic look.”
She was listening, but the flattery didn’t quite take.
“Something that’s not too much fuss, ready on a moment’s notice. Versatile.” That garnered a slight frown. Was she unfamiliar with the term? Sure, she had an accent, but her vocabulary seemed expansive enough. When in doubt, leave a woman the option of a ponytail. “Something with enough length to pull back.”
Red joined us and handed the wineglass to Olga with a nearly imperceptible flourish. They locked eyes, not with the leery apprehension I’d expect an immigrant to give a mohawked black man, but with one of those instantaneous clicks of understanding. I backed away a couple of paces, and he planted himself directly in front of her, crouched at her feet so she was looking down at him, stared up into her face and said, “Tell me a story.”
Her gaze immediately shifted and went distant.
Holy shit. Maybe Matthew was right and he really was some kind of hypnotist.
“Tell me about a happy time. Nothing too big, nothing formal. Something quiet. Easy. Whatever pops into your head.”
Olga blinked slowly. Once. Twice. Then haltingly began. “My daughter got a good job. She took me on a trip to the old country. We had coffee on the sidewalk, and it was so terrible, we laughed.” She sighed wistfully. “So long ago.”
“Now tell me,” Red murmured, “not how your hair looked, not how it actually was, but how it felt.”
“My hair.” They were both speaking in low, private tones now, as if this memory would be diluted if they shared it too freely. “The wind. It tickles my scalp. It feels…free.”
Without dropping her gaze, Red reached up and tugged the elastic from the end of her braid. “Free. I like that. Let’s get your shampoo started while you think about the wind in your hair.”
He took Olga by the hand, courtly, and led her to the sinks. Once he had her situated, I nudged him out of the way. Staying late with no compensation was my punishment, after all. Not his. “I got this.”
He did back off. But he shifted his focus to me. I never really got the saying Watch out for the quiet ones, not deep down in my gut, until I found myself under Red Turner’s knowing scrutiny.
I ignored him. “How’s that water temperature?” I asked Olga. “Too hot? Too cold?”
“Warmer.”
“You got it.”
I’m not the type of guy you can rush by staring at me. In fact, if anything, it makes me more deliberate about taking my time. Not only did my newest client get a shampoo, but she got one hell of a scalp massage—the longest one I’d done all week. Red just kept right on staring, like there was nowhere he’d rather be on a Saturday night.
Olga was practically in dreamland by the time I got her all scrubbed up and situated in the chair. “So, what are we thinking?” I asked. “Shoulder length?”
“Wind in the hair,” Red murmured.
Wind in the hair. Layers. On the client who wears a single braid and clearly trims the ends herself with kitchen shears. The free client.
Fine.
I met his eyes in the mirror. At the rate we were going, this standoff would last half the night. And I was totally up for it. I combed through and sectioned with elaborate care while Red simply watched with his fathomless gaze. When was the last time Olga had layers—if ever? She was getting them now. And I fussed over every damn one.
By the time we were done, the oompah music by Schnitzelhaus was quiet and Olga’s hair looked like the model’s on the Patently Platinum bottle. I spun her toward the mirror, aimed a short blast of the blow drier in her general direction, and said, “Wind in your hair.”
She gasped. “Is that…it doesn’t even look like me.”
“It’s you, all right.” It totally was.
It also was the best cut I’d done all day. Hell, probably all week.
Take that and stare at it, Red Turner.
But of course he couldn’t leave it at that. He had to make sure he outdid me. We led her to the door, and as he unlocked it, he asked, “How’d you get here? Drive?”
“I walked.”
“It’s late. I’ll walk you home.”
Like I’d let that happen—give the cut of my life, then let him steal my thunder. “I drove. I’ll take everyone home. How’s that?”
“That’s great,” he said. “I’ll get my things.”
The walk to my car turned out to be just as long as the walk to Olga’s apartment in a butchered Colonial deep down a tree-lined side street, but it gave
me the chance to be courtly and open the car door for her. Apparently the haircut had shaken loose some memories. She prattled on about her trip. The sights, the sounds…the food. Once we said our goodbyes and got Red re-settled in the front of the car, she pointed at the greasy box of potato pancakes in his lap and said, “Don’t heat those up in the microwave. Use the oven. It takes longer, but you’ll thank me later.”
Since I was in courtly mode, I didn’t just wait in the car to make sure Olga got inside safely. I walked her to her door to emphasize what a gentleman I was. Plus, it gave me some distance from Red—who was one of the most maddening guys I’d ever met. And I’ve met plenty of guys.
What the hell was his game, an attempt to prove he was better than me? Or an elaborate ruse to kill my Saturday night?
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Olga said.
I nearly jumped. I’d fallen so deep inside my own head I practically forgot she was even there. “Just making sure it was the best dollar you’ve ever spent.”
She glanced back at the car—not that we could really see anything from the porch—and said, “You’re a cute couple.”
“Him? And me? Oh, hell to the no.”
She flashed her little gray teeth in a smile. “Ah.”
“Totally not my type.”
She didn’t even bother to argue. With a placating nod, she slipped inside. “Good night.”
I stood there for a moment to collect myself. Or maybe to glare at her closed door while I considered dumping Red at the closest El station. But of course I wouldn’t. I needed to prove how fucking gracious I could be.
There was no chitchat when I got back in the car. Red gave me his address and we drove there in silence. Normally I’d crank up the tunes and enjoy the custom speakers, but I didn’t want to give the guy an engraved invitation to impugn my musical taste. Which was totally unimpugnable.
I steeled myself for a zinger when I pulled up in front of his building, and I got one, all right. But not the one I’d expected. “You must be hungry.” He dipped the potato pancake box at me. “Do you want to come up?”
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8 Page 5
