In The Cut

by Arlene Brathwaite

  “Your friend, Glenn speaks highly of you, Mr. Andrews.”

  “What are friends for, right?”

  “I offered to buy this beautiful masterpiece,” he said, gazing at the dress Grace was wearing, “as a present to take back to France for my wife, but he insists on you handling all of his business transactions. Name your price.”

  “We have all night, Mr. Claude. I’m sure we can find a time when we can talk with less people around,” Saint said.

  “This is the perfect place, we’re amongst friends, no?”

  Saint said something in French that brought a smile from Laurent Petrescu, a smile from Marion Claude, and a stunned look from Grace, who just found out that Saint, spoke French. He translated for Glenn, Grace and Olivia’s benefit. “Friends and Money is the recipe for disaster.”

  “I like this saying, its sooo true,” Marion said, clasping his hands together. “Tell me your price for the dress.”

  Saint looked into Glenn’s big brown eyes and could see that he was desperate enough to rip the dress off of Grace’s back and give it to Marion Claude for free. “Ten thousand.”

  “What?!! Claude and Petrescu both said at the same time. Glenn looked like he wanted to cry.

  “What?!!” Saint mimicked. “What as you didn’t hear me or what as in you can’t afford it?”

  “I assure you, Mr. Andrews, money isn’t an issue,” Marion Claude said, sticking his chest out slightly.

  “So, then it’s settled. Ten thousand dollars… cash.”

  “Mr. Andrews—” Marion started to say.

  “Mr. Andrews, what?” Saint said, now speaking in French. “You know as well as I do that Glenn Lemora is about to be the next big thing in fashion. In six months that dress is going to be worth triple the price we’re asking for tonight. And for the record, you said you want to purchase the dress for your wife, but the article in Fortune 500 said you were a bachelor. Was that a misprint?”

  Marion Claude busted out laughing, and like a chain reaction, Petrescu and the women clinging onto Marion Claude laughed like obedient lackeys.

  “I see why Mr. Lemora allows you to handle his affairs,” Marion said in French.

  “Game recognizes game,” Saint replied with a wink.

  Marion spoke in English. “Out of respect for Mr. Glenn Lemora, it will be my pleasure to buy one of his originals. Unfortunately, I can’t get my hands on ten thousand dollars cash, but if you’re willing to take six now, and—”

  Saint sat back and put his arm around Olivia. “Mr. Claude, did I mention that Miss Martin owns a men’s salon, and that she is a professional barber?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where is this salon located?”

  “Downtown, Manhattan, the center of attention.”

  Marion Claude arched an eyebrow.

  “I tell you what. Arrange to have the six thousand sent to Mr. Lemora’s room—”

  “And what of the four thousand?”

  “Four thousand should about cover your traveling expenses to New York, yes?”

  “So, let me get this straight. You will give me the dress, and write off the four thousand as traveling expenses if I agree to visit Miss Martin’s… salon?”

  “Exactly, and bring your entourage with you.”

  Olivia was smiling on the inside. What Saint said earlier began to make sense. Use their money to pay them to come.

  Marion Claude stared at Saint, contemplating his proposal.

  “Just imagine the publicity this would attract. News reporters from every newspaper, T.V. station, and radio station will be there.”

  “And how would they know that I would be coming?”

  “You know you can never keep the lid on something this big. Someone is bound to talk.”

  “And you’re sure about that?”

  “Bet my life on it.”

  Marion Claude nodded.

  “What day would be good for you?” Saint asked.

  “I must be back in France no later than Wednesday. Is Monday good?”

  Saint looked at Olivia.

  “Yes,” she said, slowly recovering from awe, “Monday is perfect. How many people should we be expecting?”

  Marion Claude opened his arms in a wide arching motion, causing Olivia to look around. “Everyone who is here will be there.”

  “You scare me,” Olivia said, as she and Saint stood out on the balcony savoring the night’s cool breeze.

  “Okay… I didn’t see that one coming,” Saint said, taking a swallow from his wine glass.

  “The way you hustled Marion Claude—”

  “I didn’t hustle him. I did him a favor.”

  “Oh really? And how’s that?”

  “He craves the spotlight. So, I shined a gigantic one right in his eyes.”

  “Blinded him with the light while you take off with his loot like a thief in the night.”

  “You’ve learned well, Grasshopper.”

  Olivia laughed. She locked eyes with him as he inched closer to her and ran his hand along her arm. “Clayton—”

  “Shh.” His fingertips sent tingles through the back of her hand. He wrapped his hand around her wine glass. “Two glasses of wine are more than enough. Anything more will have you holding your head in the morning.” He took the glass from her and turned to set it on the balcony’s table.

  Olivia exhaled, realizing that she’d stopped breathing. She folded her arms, embarrassed that she’d braced herself for him to kiss her.

  “You okay?” he asked, as he turned back to her.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you cold? We can go back inside.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “So, you like?” he said, pointing to his fresh hair cut. “I had my barber do that imaginary line thing-a-ma-jig, and he blended the taper.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “You didn’t even give it a good look over.”

  “I’m a barber, remember? I checked your do out the second you got on the plane.”

  “You said it was all right, meaning?”

  “Meaning, you need to go to a barber who knows what they’re doing.”

  “A barber like you.”

  “You’ll never find a barber like me.”

  “Oh, do I sense a little grandiosity in that statement?”

  “I call it like it is.”

  “So, be brutally honest. What’s wrong with my do?”

  Olivia slowly began walking around him. “Don’t move,” she said when he started to turn his head. She walked a full circle and then stopped directly in front of him. She slowly ran her fingers through his hair. She then tilted his head down. “Hmm”

  “Hmm, what?”

  “You got some Indian or Spanish in you.”

  “My mother’s Spanish.”

  “That explains the curly hair and your olive brown complexion. Your haircut looks good… to the untrained eye, but I would’ve done two things differently.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Parts of your hair are uneven. That’s because your barber doesn’t use scissors to even you out. With soft, curly hair like yours, you’ll never get it even with just clippers.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “I wouldn’t take too much off the top, you’re thinning up there.”

  “What?” Saint jumped back and patted the top of his head. Olivia started laughing.

  “You’re fucking with me, right?”

  “No, I’m not messing with you.”

  “You don’t curse, do you?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “On the plane when Grace used the N word, you immediately checked her on that. Just now, I asked you if you were fucking with me and the natural response would be ‘no, I’m not fucking with you’, but you said ‘no, I’m not messing with you’”.

  “No, Saint, I don’t curse.”

  “But you used to, right?”

  “What’s up with the Date Line
, Barbara Walters interview?”

  “Just trying to get to know you.”

  “I should be the one asking the questions Mr. Saint, the French hustler. So do you speak any other languages?”

  “Umm, let’s see… I speak a little Italian, Spanish, Swahili, and German—”

  “Swahili?”

  “Just a little.”

  “And German?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Is any story with you ever short?”

  He raised his wine glass to his lips. Olivia stopped him, and took it from him. “Don’t want you waking up in the morning holding your head.”

  “So, tell me. How does a beautiful woman like you become a barber?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “That’s my line.”

  “I didn’t know you owned exclusive rights to it.”

  “So, how did this career come to be?”

  “Well, as Grace told you at the fashion show, I have four brothers. Three older than me, one three years younger than me. Jon-Jon, my younger brother received a pair of clippers as a present for his thirteenth birthday. The next morning, he had me in the bathroom trying to cut his hair. We were in there for hours. I would be doing good, and then, I would slip or blink and—”

  “You’d zeek him.”

  “Basically. A couple months later, I was lacing him up so good that my other brothers let me do their heads. Then Jon-Jon, being the visionary that he is, started bringing his friends over to get their heads done. Pretty soon, our basement became the unofficial neighborhood barbershop.”

  “So, you were getting paid.”

  “Yeah, right. Jon-Jon was charging those dudes fifteen dollars a piece. I was lucky if he gave me five dollars out of the fifteen.”

  “That sucks.”

  “That’s why I told him to go f—himself and I went to Ol’ man Brady who owned the official neighborhood barbershop. He’d already heard of my skills so he immediately put me to work, and sent me to barber school to make me legit. I was nineteen at the time.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “In his eyes, I was the daughter he never had. Five years later, he died. That’s when I knew how deep his love was for me. He left me everything.”

  “Serious?”

  “The barbershop and the apartments above the barbershop that I didn’t even know he owned.”

  “So, you owned a barbershop and apartments at the age of twenty-five?”

  “Yep. So, you can imagine the drama. Local businessmen trying to buy me out, the wannabee thugs trying to use my establishment to do their dirt, getting proposed to at least once a week. Luckily, my brothers had my back. The Hood respected them and my competition feared them. Back then, Butta Cutz was just a fantasy I had. It took me six years to save up the money, but I did it. I gave Brady’s barbershop a facelift and made it more than just a barbershop. And here I am three years later, the proud owner of Butta Cutz.” Olivia walked to one of the cushioned chairs, sat down, and took off one of her shoes. “I hate highheels.”

  Saint pulled a chair in front of her and patted his lap. “C’mon put it up here.”

  Olivia looked around and then put her foot on his lap. Saint’s fingers immediately went to work, dissolving the soreness in the arch of her foot. Olivia melted back into the chair and a sigh escaped her lips. Saint then used both his thumbs to massage the pressure points in the pad of her foot.

  “Oh God! That feels so good.”

  Saint looked down at her other foot and smiled when he saw how quickly she came out of her other shoe. He worked his thumbs in between her toes, causing Olivia to close her eyes. She put her other foot on his lap.

  “You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” he asked, as he began massaging her other foot.

  “No, I’m just enjoying the moment. How much do you charge? I’m about to give you a job.” They both laughed. “So, Clayton, being that I told you my whole life story, what about you?”

  “Well—”

  “Let me guess, it’s a long story?”

  “Actually, it’s not.”

  “Whoa, you are full of surprises.”

  “Let’s see. Both my parents died when I was two. I was adopted by a friend of the family. Every summer, I would be shipped away to a different country, which is how I learned how to speak so many different languages.”

  “Schooling?”

  “Private tutor.”

  “Any kids?”

  “No.”

  “Significant other?”

  “Never.”

  “Someone you used to like?”

  Saint’s mind flashed to HER. “I wouldn’t say liked. I would say I was pussy whipped.”

  Olivia’s eyes popped open.

  “I call it like it is.”

  “Okay… I just wasn’t prepared. Most men don’t admit to being… whipped.”

  “I said pussy whipped.”

  “I know what you said.”

  “So, you’ve ever been… whipped?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Please.”

  “No, but I was infatuated with this guy, once.”

  “What happened?”

  “We had an argument one night. Things got hairy. He hit me, told me I was his bitch, and I better stay in my place. He even dared me to tell my brothers.”

  “And you told them.”

  “Heck no. I fucked him to sleep. Then I bashed his head in with a cast-iron frying pan.”

  “You cursed.”

  “You’re a bad influence on me.”

  “So, you bashed him in the head with a frying pan.”

  Olivia started laughing. “Oh God, it was so funny. I hit him and he sat straight up, scared the crap out of me. The second hit put him out, and put a knot on his head the size of a bowling ball.” They both started laughing.

  “There you are!” Glenn said, as he walked out onto the balcony with Grace right behind him. “We were looking all over for you.”

  “Y’all weren’t doing anything freaky, right?” Grace asked.

  Olivia jerked her feet off of Saint’s lap and slipped them into her shoes. “I got two words for you, Grace,” Olivia said, holding up two fingers, “Tae Bo.”

  “I got the Chauffeur bringing the Maybach around so we can go for a ride and celebrate,” Glenn said.

  Saint folded his hands together. “Celebrate what?”

  “Six thousand dollars… in cash. You are the man.”

  “That was smooth, Clayton,” Grace said. “Shoot, for six thousand cash, I would’ve given him the dress and a little freak peek, you know what I mean?”

  “Grace!!” Olivia said, getting out of the chair.

  “Shoot, for six thousand cash, I would’ve given him a freak peek, too,” Glenn said, giving Grace a high five.

  “You two are sick,” Olivia said.

  “Mr. Andrews?” A waiter walked out onto the balcony with a cell phone on a platter. “You have a call, sir.”

  “A call for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Saint picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “My beloved, Saint. Oh how I missed hearing your voice.”

  Saint almost swallowed his tongue.

  Chapter 4

  “Are you okay?” Olivia asked Clayton.

  Saint cleared his throat. “Yes. I really have to take this call. Why don’t y’all go ahead without me?”

  “We’ll wait for you,” Grace said.

  “No, really. Y’all should go.” Saint gave Glenn the look.

  Glenn almost swallowed his tongue. “C’mon, y’all,” he said, grabbing Grace and Olivia by their hands. “He’s going to be awhile with that call.”

  Olivia didn’t move.

  “Please, Olivia,” Saint said. “It’s business. I got to go to the suite, boot up my laptop—

  “Okay. I guess we’ll see you in the morning,” Olivia said, allowing Glenn to usher her off the balcony.

  “Yes, tomorrow,” Saint said
with a smile. When they were out of hearing distance, he took a deep breath and then spoke into the phone. “How did you know I was here?”

  “My love, I know where you are, twenty-four hours of the day, seven days of the week. What I don’t know is why you are in Las Vegas.”

  “Josephine, it’s a get-together for a bunch of clothing designers.”

  “I know what it is. What are you doing there?”

  “I’m having a few drinks with friends.”

  “And you have no idea what’s happening at that get-together?”

  “When I saw Petrescu, I knew it was serving a dual purpose. And I don’t want to know what the other purpose is.”

  “I miss you, Saint,” Josephine purred in French. “Wish I could say the same.”

  “Ouch, I forgot how wicked your tongue can be.”

  “I really can’t talk, right now.”

  “Don’t want to keep Miss Olivia Martin waiting?”

  “Josephine—”

  “Shh, my love. Just remember who you belong to. And remember our agreement.”

  “My name is Clayton Andrews, I’m a math teacher, and that’s it.”

  “And if I hear any different…”

  “Good-bye, Josephine.”

  “Good-bye, my beautiful Saint.”

  Saint folded the phone up and threw it over the balcony.

  Petrescu had to be held up by two blondes as they made their way to his suite.

  “You had too much to drink, Laurent,” one of the women said.

  “Nonsense,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “I always walk this way.” They all started laughing. “Would one of you lovely ladies be so kind as to reach into my pocket and retrieve the key to my suite?”

  The blonde on his right dug into his pocket and pulled out the key. She swiped it through the slot.

  “Let me warn you,” Petrescu said to the blondes as they stumbled through the door. “Coursing through these veins is pure Rumanian blood and pure Viagra.” Instead of chuckling at his wisecrack, the blondes stared at the sofa. Petrescu followed their gaze and sobered up quick.

  “Saint, my friend. You come for the after party?”

  “Ladies, this is a private party. So, if you don’t mind letting yourselves out.” Petrescu started to back out of the suite. “Don’t make me shoot you,” Saint said, tapping the object concealed under a newspaper resting on his lap.

  “No, Saint. Of course not. I was just seeing the lovely ladies out. “Go!” He ushered them out and closed the door.