Fingernails shot through the air like branches through a woodchipper. A pile the size of a small termite mound collected at her feet. Teeth sank into skin and Genny let out a yelp. She looked at pointy. The nail was down to the nubbin. Picking up the tray of false fingernails, she removed the last one.
“Better save that for later,” she told herself.
The clock tick, tick, ticked as the second hand made its slow journey around the face. 9:16 and thirty-four seconds. Precisely. The exact moment Stalin breathed his last. 9:16:35. The exact moment Stalin realized he might have made a few wrong choices.
Genny inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth, a technique she learned in yoga class to calm herself and alleviate the pain of dislocated hips.
“That’s the last time I fold myself inside a mailbox,” she mentioned to no one in particular. “Although, the look on Country’s face when he opened it was priceless.”
She remembered the precise moment his heart stopped beating. Tears of delight streamed down her face. Three minutes later, the last peal of laughter escaped her quivering lips.
“Ahh. Good times,” she said and wiped away the liquid, salty joy.
The clock struck 9:20. Genny jumped out of her seat. Her heart beat a mile a minute. A host of empty chairs, a shampoo display, scattered clumps of hair, and four mirrors stared back. She returned her tush to the seat and rubbed her face.
“Get a hold of yourself, Genny. They don’t know you’re here. Only Quince knew you were coming in. And Cherie, of course. Where is she, by the way? It’s not like her to be late. I bet she got caught up in traffic. Or filming went late. Or maybe a herd of water buffalo migrating from Atlantis caused a stampede and trampled her to death.”
Images of cows with fish-like tails stomping through downtown L.A. flashed in her mind. A blonde mop of hair lay at the end of a trail of blood and entrails.
“Oh, Cherie. I’m so sorry. You had so much life ahead of you.”
This time, she dabbed away the pain of loss. Then, something reached up and slapped her. She looked down just in time to see her feet slinking away.
“Thanks. I needed that.”
“You’re welcome,” her toes may or may not have replied.
“Ten more minutes,” Genny continued with herself. “That’s all I’m giving her. If she doesn’t show up by then, I’m out of here.”
The broom came out of the corner. Piles of hair and equal-sized clouds of dust scooted out of the way of the bristles. The fingernail mound collapsed into the dustpan and took its last sip of freedom before being shipped off to the tofu factory.
Genny refocused her effort on the displays. Shampoo bottles rotated to the front. Conditioner snapped to attention. Careful strokes wiped careless prints off the glass shelves until they sparkled like crystal. A few more sprays of the cleaning solution left a lingering odor of ammonia. Her sneeze muted the tinkle of the chimes as the door opened. The last jingle sounded as the sneeze faded into the background. Genny felt the person’s presence before she turned.
“I’ll be right with you, Cherie,” she said. “Let me tidy up this last display, and we’ll get started.”
“I’m not Cherie.”
The harshness and timbre of the voice caught Genny off guard. She wheeled around to face the unexpected intruder, her heart pounding from the burst of adrenaline. Pierre. Jorge. One of the usual goons come to take her out. All these thoughts flooded her mind in the fraction of a second it took to spin towards the sound.
Almost immediately, her heart and breath returned to normal. In front of her stood a rather unusual figure. Dressed head to toe in black, only his hands and face stuck out of the dark clothes. He was thin to the point of being sickly. His grayish skin had the pallor of the bodies she virtually dissected in her latest class at the Beijing Online School of Hairstyling and Medicine. Still, there was something powerful, enticing about him. His eyes told a tale of a past beauty, of a rugged yet feminine charm, which clung to him like a distant memory. Genny felt attracted and repulsed at the same time, the attraction winning out.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but we’re closed. Please come back tomorrow, and we’ll be happy to serve you then.”
He stood silently, cocking his head and observing her like a man making up his mind.
“The sign says ‘Open’,” he said.
“I forgot to flip it over. But if you look outside the door, you’ll see our hours of operation.” She gave him the sweetest smile she could manage.
He glanced at a chair with a black cloth draped over it. Instruments for trimming and styling lay in organized lines on the counter in front of the chair. Everything else had been put away.
“Looks like you’re expecting someone,” he said. “Clearly, you’re not closed.”
A shiver ran through Genny’s body. It was too small, however, for her to notice.
“I was expecting someone,” she replied, “but she didn’t show.”
“Seems like you were prepared to stay late for her.” It almost sounded like an accusation. “I figure you could do the same for me.”
“She was a regular client, someone who ….” She paused. “If you’ll excuse me, I don’t really owe you an explanation. As I said, we’re closed, so please come back tomorrow.”
“I see. Not a problem. I can take a hint.” He turned as if to go but stopped before he made it out the door. “Tell you what, since you’re closed even though all the signs indicate otherwise, I’ll help you out.”
He reached out and flipped the sign around so that the side which read ‘Open’ faced towards them. The other hand took hold of the lock and twisted it until it clicked.
“There you go,” he said. “Now, you’re closed and nobody will come in and bother us.”
This time, there was no burst of adrenaline, just that feeling a person gets when he or she realizes something has gone terribly wrong. Genny’s arms crossed unconsciously. Her body tensed as though guitar pegs stuck in her shoulders had tuned her muscles to an uncomfortably high note. Her feet bounced onto her toes in preparation for flight. The problem was that the man stood between her and her only path to freedom. And it was about to get worse.
The corner of her eye caught the reflection of the light off the silvery blade as it slipped from the man’s waistband. A soft moan escaped her lips. The man noticed and smiled.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not going to kill you this.” The blade rose to his face and twisted around. “I’m just going to slice you up a bit. Make you bleed a little. No. I have something much better in mind. By the time I’m through, you’ll wish it was the knife that killed you.”
Genny didn’t wait to hear the explanation. Her feet took off long before she became conscious they had. They dashed around the edge of the wall, jumping over chairs, hurdling the counter. Her elbow brushed against the tray she had set up and sent the hairdryer, scissors, and a pair of brushes crashing to the floor. An open bottle of shampoo tipped. Its contents leaked onto the floor in an overpriced mess.
On the next loop, her foot hit the spilled shampoo, causing one leg to slip out from under her. She threw her hands up in wild, flailing arcs to try and maintain her balance, but her thigh clipped the counter. The force of the collision threw her into the front of house products display. Bottles and sprays fell all around her. Lip balms and skin creams, possibly made from the goo that surrounds oysters, plummeted to the ground. Without thinking, she stuffed a few bottles in her waistband, grabbed a couple to keep in her hands, and re-started the dash around the edge of the salon.
This time, at least, she had weapons to defend herself. Ripping the bottle tops off with her teeth, she lobbed them behind her as if they were grenades. She felt the heat of the explosions, heard the mirrors crack and the wooden counter splinter. Well, she imagined it anyway. In reality, there were a few tiny sploots and one splush. A couple more bottle tops. A couple more sploots. Genny kept up her sprint to freedom for what seemed like hours until her lungs burned from the effort.
She bent over, hands on knees. The smell of shampoo and conditioner and smog hung in the air, her chest heaving as it tried to suck in what little oxygen remained in the room. A drop of sweat formed on her brow and disappeared into the humidity-less night. The realization that she would not make it out alive dawned on her. Taking one last deep breath, she stood up and pulled out a toothbrush.
The killer was still in the same spot. He didn’t seem to be breathing hard, as though he hadn’t moved at all. “That was interesting,” he mused. “I’ve never seen a reaction quite like that before.” He wore the confused expression of a chromosome expert pointing out the two possible X and Y combinations to a social ‘scientist.’
“Really?” Genny said. “You’ve never seen the stages of grief. I studied them extensively in my How to Make People Groups Comfortable Before We Remove Their Organs class at the Beijing Online School of Hairstyling and Medicine. First, there’s the running around in panic circles stage. Clearly, that happened. Then, there’s the wee yourself stage.” She checked the inner part of her thighs. “Check. Finally, there’s the brushing your teeth to make yourself presentable in death stage. And that’s why I have this.” She held up the toothbrush.
“First of all,” the killer replied, “there are five stages, not three. Also, I don’t think any of the ones you mentioned are the actual stages of grief.”
“I’m pretty sure they are,” Genny said.
“I’ve been doing this for a while now,” the killer said. “I think I know what I’m talking about. One might even call me an expert.”
“Be that as it may, it would seem that I have first-hand experience with this. And what happened? Panic circles, weeing, and the uncontrollable urge to brush.”
“Whatever.” The killer let out an aggravated grunt. “The point is moot.”
“I think you mean mooed.”
“Huh?”
“The past tense of moo is mooed.”
Outside the window, a cow mooted.
“My mistake,” Genny said.
A scowl crossed the killer’s face. “The time for talk is over. Prepare to die.”
“I understand,” Genny said. “Just do me a favor, and grant me a final request.”
“What is it?”
“Let me go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I don’t want the coroner to find me with plaque in my gum lines.”
The killer squinted. “You’re not going to use the opportunity to try and find a way to escape, are you?”
“What me? Pfssshh. No, of course not. The thought never crossed my mind.”
“You’re lying.”
Genny’s eyes scrunched downwards, and her cheeks scrunched upwards. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I can tell.”
“How?”
“Your fingers are crossed. You’re laughing maniacally. And you’re whistling the song ‘Lying to Cheat Death,’ by the Lying Liars Who Lie.”
Genny’s lips unpuckered. “Aaa. You got me.” She sighed her last sigh. “I guess it’s time to go. Promise me one thing, and I’ll stop fighting and running.”
“Name it.”
“Don’t stab me in the face ….”
“Fair enough.”
“… or the neck … or the chest, the back, the stomach, the kneecap, the ….”
“Shut up already!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You ready to die?”
“I guess so,” Genny said.
She closed one eye and half-turned away, leaving one eye open to watch the killer. He raised the blade.
“Sir?” she said.
“What is it?”
“You might want to step to your side.”
“What?”
“You might want to scootch a little bit that way.”
“OK, that’s it. I’ve had enough of your stalling.”
“I’m just saying …”
“Shut! Up!” The killer’s eyes burned bright red.
Genny shrugged. “Have it your way,” she said.
A moment later, the squeal of brakes, followed by window and storefront shattering, split the night. Before the killer could react, the front bumper of a late model sedan slammed into him. His body cartwheeled through the air and landed with a thud against the back wall.
Genny twisted her head upside down and said, “I told you so.”
The car’s motor revved a few more times but soon sputtered and died. Genny turned towards the driver’s door and watched as a young girl with lovely, golden curls hopped out.
“Cherie?” Genny asked. “Is that you?”
“Sorry I’m late,” Cherie said. “My chauffeur was sick. I couldn’t find anyone else to drive, so I drove myself here.” She looked around at the mess. A large shard of glass fell from the window. “Not bad for my first time.” She hopped into a chair and wrapped herself in a black cloth. “Anytime you’re ready.”
“I … I don’t think I’ll be able to tonight,” Genny said.
“And why not?” Cherie was visibly annoyed.
“I almost died.”
“Pishaw. I missed you by a good foot.”
“I’m not talking about that. I mean that guy over there. He nearly killed me. If it wasn’t for you crashing through the front, I’d be dead.”
Cherie scanned the room. “What guy?”
Genny pointed behind her and turned at the same time. “That guy against the wall.” She paused. “Strange. He was there a second ago.”
“I don’t see anyone, Genny. Did he run out the back?”
“We don’t have a back door. He must have slipped past us ….” Her voice trailed off.
Cherie walked to the back and took a look around. Then, she headed out where the front door used to be and peered up and down the street.
“There’s no one there,” Cherie said. “Are you sure you didn’t imagine it? I mean ….” She stopped when she saw Genny’s face and the wee on her inner thighs and the toothbrush in her hand. “The third stage of grief,” she said to herself. She let her eyebrows flex and the topic drop. “Well, I guess there won’t be any trimming done tonight. Why don’t you go on home, Genny? We can try again tomorrow.”
“I can’t go home,” Genny said. Sobs formed with her words.
“Why not?” Cherie asked.
“I just can’t.”
Cherie studied her face. “Alright, Genny. Why don’t you come with me? You can stay at my place for a few nights.”
Genny wiped her face. “You’d let me do that?”
“Of course,” Cherie said. “That way you can give me a trim any time I want.”
Genny smiled. Cherie grabbed her hand and led her over the broken pieces of wood and brick, past the steam which stammered out of the car’s hood.
“Looks like we’ll be taking a cab,” she said.
Genny nodded and glanced once more over her shoulder. The killer was nowhere to be found.