The neon sign flashed on and off. ‘The Hairy erub,’ it read one second. ‘ ,’ it read the next. Genny watched the colorful lights sizzle and fade. Quince eyed the group of new regulars with suspicion. She nudged Genny’s shoulder.
“Tell me again why they’re here?” Quince asked.
“They’re friends of mine,” Genny said as she continued to trim away the dark, brown locks which stuck out the bottom of the bowl.
“You know them?” Quince’s eyes darted back and forth between the shaggy head in the stylist’s chair and the crowd of Tortugas who jostled for seats in the waiting area. Four fights broke out before a game of musical chairs decided who would sit and who would stand.
“Of course,” Genny said, her smile as wide as the grin on a satisfied donkey. “They’re the Tortugas. The number one rated environmental club in all of Los Angeles County.”
Quince trimmed another curl. The girl in the chair cried softly for her mother. The mother stood in the corner with an expression somewhere between terror and more terror. Quince secretly wished she had accepted the job in Iowa trimming pig’s curls for the local 4H club.
“Um … I don’t think they’re an environmental club,” she said.
“Sure they are, silly,” Genny said, her fingers giving the bowl a quarter twist. “Just this morning, a bunch of them were walking along the highway picking up trash. They had on these beautiful, orange suits with some fashionable, black lettering. County Something Work Detail. I saw them myself. Collecting straws so the California buzzard can’t drink the milkshakes they crave but shouldn’t have. ‘Preventing death one brain freeze at a time.’ I love that motto. It must have been scary, though.”
“You think?” Quince said.
“Yeah. At the same time and same place they were out preventing buzzard deaths, there was apparently a jail break. Three guys about to be sentenced for assault and misgendering escaped from a jail work program and disappeared.”
“What’s misgendering?” Quince asked.
Genny shrugged. “I don’t know, but it’ll get you a minimum of ten years hard labor. Assault only gets you three, so it’s clearly much more egregious. Egregiouser? Is that a word? Hey, Arnulfo? Is egregiouser a word?”
“I doubt it, sir,” he said, the sunlight glinting off his brilliant, orange jacket.
“Anyway,” Genny continued, “the work they did made such an impression that we picked up three new members today!”
“Including Arnulfo?” Quince asked.
“How’d you know?” Genny said, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Lucky guess.”
Quince finished with her client and removed the cloak. A puddle of brown fuzz floated to the ground. The girl jumped off the chair and flung herself into her mother’s arms. They hugged and cried for a few moments before scurrying out of the salon, casting glances behind them as the door slowly shut.
“They really liked your haircut,” Genny said.
Quince’s lips scrunched as though they held back a string of words she would later regret saying out loud. They tasted bitter on her tongue, like the tears of a clown. Or brussels sprouts.
“Why in the world would Belgians, or anybody with taste buds, eat them?” Quince asked out loud.
“Huh?” Genny said.
“Nothing,” Quince said as she readied the chair for the next customer. “Look, Genny. I don’t think you know what you got yourself mixed up in.”
“What do you mean?”
Quince lowered her voice to a one on a scale of one to ten. “These people you associate with, the Tortugas, they’re not an environmental club.”
“They’re not?”
“No, Genny. They’re a gang. One of the most violent gangs in Los Angeles. They’ve made it onto the cover of Violent Gangs Monthly five months in a row. Rumor has it they’re the local muscle for a nationwide crime syndicate.”
“I can’t believe that,” Genny said. “I’ve never seen them engage in any undocumented activity whatsoever.”
“They’re wanted by the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and the IRS,” Quince said with emphasis.
“Why? Are they conservatives?”
Quince paused to consider the question. After a moment she shook her head. “You’re missing the point. They’re not good people.”
“You’re going to have to give me some examples,” Genny said, “because I just don’t see it.”
“They steal,” Quince said. “Regularly. Taking money from the hard-working people in the neighborhood and using it to buy cars, jewelry, houses, you name it.”
Genny laughed. “That’s not stealing. That’s wealth redistribution. You know nothing about politics.”
“How about extortion? You can’t deny they do it. Heck, last week, they threatened to break all of our legs if we didn’t give them twenty percent of our profits.”
“Taxes,” Genny said with confidence. “The government does that all the time.”
Quince couldn’t argue with her logic. “Hmm,” she said. “Drug dealing?”
“Jorge is a pharmaceutical rep.”
“Bookmaking?”
“So, Simon and Schuster are criminals?”
Pierre turned on the shop’s radio. Quince watched as the Tortugas begin an impromptu group dance. “How about that for evil, Genny? They’re doing the macarena.”
“That’s not a crime,” Genny said.
“Well, it should be.”
Genny shrugged and performed the finishing touches on her client. “You’re done,” she said to the little boy in her chair. She removed the bowl from his head. Half his hair was missing. The other half stood straight up. How’d that happen, she thought. The boy’s father grabbed his son’s hand, opened his wallet, and threw whatever cash he had onto the counter. The air made a sucking sound as they flew out the door.
“Next,” she called out.
“Bonjour, Genny,” Pierre said. “I have a new customair for you.”
“Oh, hi, Pierre,” Genny said.
“I want you to geeve heem zee same haircut as you gave to me.”
She watched as he removed his beret. Her fingers crawled up the inside of her throat and grabbed the inner part of her collar. Urrr, her mind went.
“I’ll do my best,” she said.
“I know you weel,” he said.
Genny wrapped the cloak around the man. It barely reached around his neck. She spun the chair and held on tight to the cloak. In the mirror, she caught a glimpse of Siobhan O’Haggis. The sunlight bounced off her eyes and laser-focused on Genny like beams of revenge might do. Genny quickly looked away and went to work on Pierre’s friend.
The doorbell tinkled.
“Welcome to the Hairy Cherub,” Genny said without looking up, “specializing in the shaggy toddler.”
A large Lebanese man stopped, looked around, and cleared his throat. “Uh … um … I must have misread the sign. I was … never mind,” and walked out the door.
Genny continued to trim the edges around the man’s ears. A piece of the lobe fell off. She bent over and put it in her pocket. “He might need that later,” she said to no one in particular.
The doorbell tinkled.
“Welcome to the Hairy Cherub,” Genny said, “specializing in the shaggy toddler. Have a seat, and we will get to you when it’s your turn.”
Genny felt the presence of someone walking up behind her.
“It’s my turn now,” the new arrival said.
Genny turned towards the sound of the sweet, childlike voice. A curly-headed blonde girl, no more than nine years old, stood by the side of the chair with one hand on her hip.
“I’m waiting,” she said, smacking her bubble gum with the impatience of an FBI agent setting a perjury trap.
The client in the chair sat with an expression closer to surprise than anger. The little girl held her arms out with her palms halfway up.
“Well?” she said. “I don’t have forever. I gotta be back on set by three.”
The large man pulled off the cloak and got out of the way.
The girl rolled her eyes. “It’s about time,” she said.
“Hi, Cherie,” Genny said.
“Yeah, yeah. I need you to make me look like this,” Cherie said, holding out a magazine. “And don’t make a mistake.”
Genny held the magazine up, then turned it sideways to get a better look. A woman’s mane, professionally styled by Sir Dudley Higgenbotham, the greatest cutter of all time, mocked Genny from the glossy centerfold. Feathery overlays curled to perfection. Split ends had reattached at the mere sight of Sir Higgenbotham and his, figuratively, golden scissors. An audible ffffff of admiration sprinkled with trepidation escaped Genny’s balloon-like lungs.
“You better let me take this one,” Quince whispered a little too loudly.
“No one’s touching my hair but her,” Cherie said.
Quince shrugged and gave Genny a look that said, Don’t mess this up.
Genny returned one which said, I didn’t hear you.
Quince arched her eyebrows even higher.
Oh. Got it. I won’t, said Genny’s dimples.
Whatever, said Quince’s eye roll.
“Hop up here in the chair, young lady,” Genny said, “and we’ll get you started. Now, where did I put my bowl and my clippers.”
“Why don’t you use the scissors without the bowl?” Cherie suggested. She didn’t sound quite so demanding.
“That’s a fine idea,” Genny said.
She placed the picture on the stand in front of the mirror. Keeping one eye on the magazine and the other on Cherie’s head, she started to hack away at the tangle of hair in front of her. Genny’s tongue hung out the side of her teeth in a sign of deep concentration.
“Pssst.”
Genny looked down at her chest. She thought her lungs were deflating again.
“Psssssst. Hey, Genny.”
“Oh, hey Pierre,” she said. “What can I do for you?” Both eyes turned towards Pierre. The scissors kept snipping away.
Pierre glanced to his left, then to his right. “I have a proposition for you.”
“What is it?” Genny asked.
“You’ve got to keep eet between us.”
“I will.”
“Cross your heart, hope to die. Steeck a sheev een your thigh?”
“Sure.”
“OK,” Pierre said. He glanced around the room once more. “I theenk we have a problem.”
It was Genny’s turn to nervously scan the room. “What eez eet? I mean, what is it?” she said. Clip, clop, snip, said the scissors.
“Just a few theengs,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Can I trust you?” Pierre said.
“I doubt it,” Genny said.
“Good,” Pierre said as though he hadn’t been paying attention. “First, I need you to make us some new threads. Can you do that?”
“New threads?”
“New colors,” Pierre clarified. “Our jackets are too old fashioned. We need to breeng them eento the nineties.”
Genny became excited. “Ohh! I can do that. My mother taught me to sew when I was a little girl. I remember she was spinning away at her spinning wheel when she pricked her finger. Next thing I know, some short guy with a weird name was demanding gold.” She paused and put the tip of the scissors to her chin. “No. That was my father who knew how to sew. My mother taught me to crochet. Anyway, I’d be happy to crochet you some new threads. You know what? I’ll make it a cardigan. With cute seashell buttons and little, pink bows on the hem. It’ll be fabulous.”
“Great, great.” Apparently, Pierre’s attention span had not improved in the last twenty seconds. “But zat’s not zee real problem.” Worry dug trenches into his forehead. “You see, someone has been ratting us out to zee police.”
“What do you mean?”
Pierre’s face grew dim. “Sneetches. I’m talking about sneetches. Someone from our environmental club has been eenforming on me to zee police, and I don’t know who eet eez.”
What a thoughtful guy, Genny thought.
He took hold of Genny’s arm to get her full attention, which he already had for the last two minutes. “I need you to find out who eet eez.”
“Why? Do you want to give him a reward?” Genny asked.
Pierre chuckled maniacally. “Oh, yes. I want to geeve heem a reward. As they say, sneetches get steeches.”
“I guess I can help you out,” Genny said. “I’m not sure what you want me to do, though.”
“Just ask a few questions. See eef you can get someone to talk. Eet shouldn’t be too hard. Everybody here likes you.” He hesitated and pointed to O’Haggis. “Except for her. She’d love to use your tongue as a bookmark.”
A deep chill ran through Genny. She never pictured O’Haggis as a reader. She smiled at the large Irish woman. O’Haggis replied with a hand slicing across her throat.
“Sure thing, Monsieur Bacon.”
Pierre bristled. “Señor Bacón. Please, Genny. We have been over zees many times.” He rubbed his head in despair. After letting out the deepest of sighs, he went on. “Eef you do zees for me, you weel be handsomely rewarded. Eef you don’t … nah, you don’t wanna know.”
“I do,” Genny said.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“No. You don’t.”
“But, I d….”
Pierre grabbed Genny’s lips between his fingers and squished them softly. He shook his head twice. “No, you don’t.” He turned as if to leave but stopped. “Oh. There eez one theeng more. I saw you have a friend. A chocolatey brown friend with a strong jawline. He eez not one of us.”
“You mean Country?”
“I do not know heez name, nor do I want to know eet seence he eez not a Tortuga.” He grabbed Genny’s arm with more force than she would have liked. “You might want to find a new friend,” he said and let Genny’s arm fall to her side. “Come on, Tortugas. Eet’s time to go.”
The Tortugas let out their yell, which perfectly imitated any number of species of dryland turtle, and headed out the door. Siobhan O’Haggis waited for the rest to leave before sidling up to Genny’s good ear.
“I’m going to find you, Genny. Sometime, when you’re alone. I’m going to take that pretty little body of yours and use it to improve my carving skills. And when I get through with you, there won’t be a person in the state of California that’ll be able to identify your remains.”
Genny’s hands trembled as her scissors continued to cut. She followed O’Haggis with her eyes until the last tinkle of the closing door chimed. A cold sweat flowed down her arms and onto the palms of her hands. For a while, Genny could think of nothing but the sharp blade penetrating flesh, tearing at the muscle, bringing back memories of all she had tried so hard to forget. All that she had almost convinced herself had never happened.
The clock on the wall struck three and brought her back to reality. Cherie’s ears perked up, and she jumped out of the chair.
“I’m late,” she said as she threw off the cloak. “So, what do you think?”
Genny was afraid to look. I really should’ve been paying attention to what I was doing, she thought.
“It’s fantastic,” Quince said.
Genny raised her head so she could see Cherie in the mirror.
“Absolutely fantastic,” Quince said. “Exactly like in the picture.”
“Hmmf,” Cherie said. “I suppose.” She lowered her nine-year-old frame to the ground and patted her shoulder. “Oh, darn it. I left my purse back at the studio. I’ll have to send my chauffeur back with your payment. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No worries,” Genny said. “Just pay me when you can.”
Cherie stared into space. “You know, you remind me of your mother,” she said and left the shop.
The words froze Genny in place. Thoughts of her mother came flooding back. Snapshots, glimpses of their life together before the cancer destroyed her mother’s body and Genny’s security. She placed her hand over her mouth and tried to stifle the sobs that rose from her lungs like the final breaths of a jilted lover who swam into the ocean until her legs could kick no more.
“You OK, Genny?” Quince asked.
Genny shook her head. “She … she knew my mother. And ….”
Quince interrupted her. “She wasn’t talking about your mother,” she said. “She said I remind her of my mother. We were talking the whole time about her while you were clipping. I’m not sure how they know each other, though. She never mentioned that. My mom used to work as a stylist for Harbinger Studios. Maybe they met there. I’ll have to ask her next time she comes in. By the way, great job with the haircut. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Thank you,” Genny said out of reflex but not really hearing what Quince said. She bit her lip. “Say, do you mind if I take off? I got a thing to do.”
“No problem,” Quince said. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow,” Genny said.
She headed outside. A fiery breeze stung her face as she headed down the street. The whistle of a locomotive warning of its approach blew in the distance. An omen, perhaps, if she had been paying attention. But she didn’t notice. Her mind was elsewhere, thinking about her mother. And Quince. And a nine-year-old girl who all of a sudden seemed more familiar than she should.