Willie picked up a broom and started sweeping hair.
“Booker, you been playing hooky from Willie’s Barber for how long?”
“It’s been a while,” I said, glancing at framed pictures on the walls. Moving closer, I saw signatures under the glass frames, each one a different photo of a named person sitting in a barber’s chair and Willie with his arm around his shoulder.
“Checking out my latest editions on my wall of fame?” he asked, nudging his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose. “It’s been so long since you been in here you might not have seen the one with Prime.”
“Deion Sanders? Yeah, here it is.” The former Cowboys cornerback had a bigger smile than Willie in this picture. Next to that was his former teammate, the Playmaker, Michael Irvin.
“Hey, who’s this guy?” I said, pointing to a chubby guy wearing a brown suit.
“You don’t keep up with the local politics? That’s our mayor pro tem, the not-so honorable Kevin Chambers.”
My brow furrowed a bit. “Not so honorable? Why’s he on your wall of fame?”
“Back then, we thought he was cool. But stuff has come out, you know.”
“Uh, no, I don’t know.”
Bringing a closed hand to his mouth, he cleared his throat and spoke in a quieter tone, even though everyone in the shop could hear him. “Hand in the cookie jar, if you know what I mean. Come on, man. You’re the Shaft of Dallas. You supposed to know the skinny on everyone.”
“Right. Like I got time to keep tabs on every suit.”
He chuckled again. I took off my leather jacket, rested it on a hook.
Jerry pulled out his mirror and offered the front and rear view to his customer, an elderly guy whose lips curled in like he had no teeth. He gave an approving nod, and cash was exchanged. Apparently, a lot of cash.
“Thank you, Miles.” Jerry’s eyes lit up as he fanned the cash across his face. “What got into you? Usually you’re, uh, one of my more conservative customers. No offense or nothin’.”
“Insurance check came back on my house that burned to the ground a few weeks back. Sonofabitches who did that…if I ever catch them, I’ll ram those scissors up their—”
“Whoa there, Miles. No need to go Rambo on us now. You’re pushing eighty-four, eighty-five?”
“Eighty-seven, thank you very much. I guess I do look a little younger,” he said, rising out of the chair, checking himself out in the mirror on the opposite wall.
“Damn shame what happened to your house,” Jerry said, slapping a towel off the vinyl seat.
“Amen to that. Now I gotta live with my daughter and her family. All her husband does is sit around and drink beer and belch. Thinks he’s the smartest guy around, manipulates my daughter time after time, and she just don’t see it. Staying there watching him screw with her, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
Jerry’s oversized face jiggled like a walrus. “Well, at least you’re swimming in cash. That ain’t all bad.”
Miles put a hand to his scraggily chin. “Hmm. Maybe I’ll splurge and take a trip to Vegas. You know, go five-star the whole way. If I play my cards right—no pun intended—maybe I’ll party my ass off and live my last breath on the casino floor with the crowd cheering me at the craps table.”
“Ah, Vegas,” Willie said with a little bit of Barry White in his voice.
Jerry nodded at me, and I jumped in the empty chair. He snapped a cover around my neck as Willie stood there, both hands propped on the broom.
“What happened in Vegas, Willie?” I asked.
“It’s not what happened, it’s what didn’t happen,” he said with a burst of laughter. He and Jerry exchanged hand smacks again.
“That’s okay. I don’t need to know.”
“Oh, I’m an open book. Have been since I opened this place before you were ever born, Booker T. Adams.”
“Spill it, then.”
“Well, to cut to the chase…I met my future wife.”
Jerry had just started trimming the back of my neck, but I still managed to twist my head a bit.
“I thought you were married.”
“To who?”
“I don’t remember her name. I just remember her coming up here and giving you shit about not cleaning the toilets at home.”
“Oh, that was Clara, the neat freak. Wife number three. We parted ways after about nine months. I couldn’t take it.”
“Has there been any other after her?”
“Wives or women in general?”
“Don’t give Willie no attention,” Jerry said. “Once you tap into that ego of his, he’ll keep chirping for the next week, reminiscing about one of his many conquests. You’d think he was some hormonal twenty-year-old kid.”
“Ah, Jerry, you’re just envious. Not everyone has moves like this.”
Using the broomstick like a mic stand, Willie jerked it closer to his body as he whipped a leg out and started grooving his hips to some imaginary beat.
I guessed he was imagining himself on stage at the Majestic in Dallas…about forty years ago.
With his eyes shooting laser beams at his fictional audience, the hip thrusts continued for another four counts, then he let go of the stick and did a three-sixty, catching the fake mic stand before it hit the floor. Another shuffle of his feet, and then he let gravity pull him down.
Until his butt halted about three feet off the ground.
“Did someone slip a stool under you, Willie?” I asked.
He didn’t move. I’m not sure he could move. Pushing out of my chair, I grabbed his arm. He took hold and pulled until his feet moved back together. He immediately grabbed for his groin muscle, his face nothing more than pruned anguish.
“I can’t believe my eyes,” Jerry said, his arms hanging to his side. “I slave away here for twenty-something years, and you expose me to that. I’m almost speechless.”
“You old fool, you’re never speechless,” Willie grunted, as he tried to limp to the nearest chair, half of his weight pressing on my arm.
“That’s got to be the worst…and I mean the worst James Brown impression I’ve ever seen.” Jerry raised his clippers until they knocked against the ceiling fan’s metal chain.
Willie plopped into the seat opposite Jerry, his eyes bulging. “Who said it was James Brown? You ever heard of this cat named Michael Jackson?”
I glanced over at Miles, who’d found a seat on the bench and was reading the newspaper, looking perfectly content. He was probably used to the childish banter between Willie and Jerry. The fact that he was still in the shop witnessing all of this told me just how bad an environment he must live in at his daughter’s place.
“You ever heard of inhumane? I think you just gave me a case of PTSD.” Jerry smacked his hand against his chest then appeared to lose his balance.
“Fred Sanford. Really, Jerry? You just gotta show Booker here how old you really are. Old and stupid. That’s all you are.” Willie stabbed a finger toward his buddy and employee, his upbeat attitude completely evaporated.
I moved in between the firing line, my red-checkered styling cape still wrapping my torso. “How about that trip to Vegas, Willie? You met your future wife?”
Jerry rolled his eyes, then tapped the seat, the signal that he was finally ready to get back to the business of cutting my hair.
As my back hit the chair, Willie had already started to snicker, his eyes staring at some point in the distance, apparently reliving one of his prized memories.
“Willie, you going to answer Booker or just fly away to your dreamland?”
“Huh, oh…yeah, I think I’ll relive my dream a few more times,” he said.
“Hell, I get to live the dream every day just by showing up here,” Jerry said, his cheeks bubbling into a full smile.
“Me and this incredible lady spent three memorable days and nights in Vegas.” Willie swiped his arm across his body, as if he were displaying a marquee. “We hit all the shows, all the big-time casinos. And I was on a roll, like never
before in my life.”
“And?” Jerry said. He’d heard this story a hundred times.
“It felt like the world was mine for the taking, I’m telling ya. Every dice I rolled, every slot machine I put a quarter in, I won…and won big. With Nedra at my side, I just couldn’t lose. The casinos started treating me like royalty. Both of us. She was my biggest cheerleader.”
“Boom boom in the bedroom, right, Willie?” Miles giggled from the bench.
Willie pointed a finger his way, like he was on stage interacting with his audience. “Oh boy, you don’t know the half of it.”
“Wanna bet?” Jerry said. “But…get on with the good stuff.”
Willie held out a hand, his eyes still glazed. “Me and Nedra decided we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. Said she’d come back to Dallas and open up a nail shop right next door here. So, we hightailed it over to one of those chapels. Got all dressed up, bought flowers with some of my winnings, and were just about to walk down the aisle.”
Jerry snorted three times, unable to contain his laughter.
“Out of nowhere in walked two medics from the local wacky house to haul Nedra away. She’d apparently done this six other times, each one using a different personality.”
“Damn,” I said.
“Yep. Feast to famine, just like that,” he said, plopping his foot to the floor. He winced a bit and grabbed for his groin.
“You going to need to put some ice on that,” Jerry said as he shifted to the side of my head.
“But I can’t afford no…uh, shrinkage, if you know what I mean, Jer. I’m in the courting stage right now.”
“You mean you’re on the prowl like a washed-up panther with no claws,” my barber said. “Give it a rest, old man. No woman is going to put up with your shit.”
Willie’s eyes blinked, a quick smile lighting up his face. “Hey, Booker, how’s your momma doing? Vera, right?”
My relaxed state of mind turned sour quickly.
“Don’t go there, Willie.”
“What? It’s been a few years, that’s all I’m saying. Wasn’t sure if she was in town. She’s off saving kids around the world, typically. I just remember her having lots of spunk. Yeah, a classy lady with spunk.”
I opened my mouth, a quick retort ready to spill out when the door jingled open. I heard the voice before my eyes had a chance to swing around.
“Yo, Willie, my man, need a quick trim on the sides. I got a date tonight with a fine piece. Wanna do me a solid and I’ll pay you back next week?
Metrick McHenry had come to get a haircut.
Our eyes locked for a split second. His car wash jumpsuit had been replaced by a slick pair of designer jeans, collared shirt, and a brown suede vest.
With unblinking eyes staring a hole in me, Metrick flipped his body around and lunged two steps before running smack into the glass door. He grabbed his nose and dropped straight to the floor.
Dumbass.
With a chance to grab him before he left the shop, I leaped from the barber’s chair. My cape snagged a crack in the footrest, and my body snapped down to the floor like a dog whose leash had just run out of play.
Now who was the dumbass?
“Metrick, what do you think you’re doing, you silly fool?” I heard Willie say. “You haven’t paid me back for the last three cuts. You think I got shit for brains or something?”
Taking a second to eye the blood now dripping into his hand, Metrick squirmed onto his knees, then darted out of his stance. He threw the door open and hightailed his ass down the sidewalk.
Crap.
Still grappling with the cape twisted around my foot, I ripped the snaps from my neck, then kicked the last of the cape off my boot as I stumbled to the door.
“That’s right, Booker, chase down that low life and make him pay me back,” Willie hollered as I flew out the door.
I spotted my former football teammate already about fifty yards down the street. He cut between two parked cars and headed right down Latimer. Swinging my arms, I hit fifth gear in about five seconds, my eyes still on him—meaning they weren’t on the sidewalk.
I heard a little girl scream. Just as I turned my head, I spotted the blur of a girl near a stroller. In my periphery, I saw a woman lifting something from her backseat. With little time to react, I just leaped—headfirst—over the stroller and the little girl, whose piercing shriek never let up. I cleared the hurdle without harming the kid or stroller, but I landed on the unforgiving concrete, my right forearm and shoulder taking the brunt of the blow.
Dammit, my bad shoulder…again.
“Sorry,” I said as I jumped to my feet.
“Who do you think you are running around our neighborhood with no regard for the people on the sidewalk?” I heard the woman yell out.
I held up a conciliatory hand, but I doubt she understood my gesture.
Back in full stride, I caught sight of brown suede disappearing behind a strip center, heading east on Latimer. Even with an extra forty pounds or more, and with cancer ravaging his body, Metrick moved at a clip that reminded me more of the kid who’d patrolled the Trojans defensive backfield. I lost more ground.
“Dammit,” I said, as I hoofed it across the street.
Honk!
My heart jumped into my throat as I jerked right and saw a dump truck ten feet from me. The driver locked his brakes, sending the smoky smell of burning rubber into the air. Throwing up my arms, I braced for impact. The truck skidded off the concrete and slammed into my arms on its final sputtering lunge. The force launched me backward, but I somehow landed on my feet.
“Mother fucker, what you doing in the street? I could have killed your ass,” a man with about three teeth and a face covered with pockmarks yelled from his open window, raising a fist to the sky.
I forced out a breath, the stench from the truck’s exhaust mixing with the burning rubber pinching my nostrils. Moving my arms to make sure nothing was broken, I felt another twinge in my shoulder. No time to deal with my medical issues. I yelled out, “Sorry!” for the second time in the last minute and took off down Latimer.
I was two-for-two in near misses….or zero-for-two, depending on the perspective.
Leaping onto the curb, I came up quickly on two old guys plodding along, both wearing ratty baseball caps. Moving faster than I thought possible, they peeled apart and let me race through. They didn’t say a word, but my eyes caught matching scowls shooting darts at me.
I wasn’t making friends in the old hood.
Just ahead, I spotted Metrick darting across Latimer, hooking a left onto a side street, his breakneck pace a couple of notches slower. I had a chance. Buoyed by the renewed opportunity to catch the son of a bitch who’d tried to run me over, I picked up my speed, although the more I pumped my arms, the more it felt like my shoulder wasn’t completely attached.
I scooted across Latimer, my head on a swivel this time. When my boot touched the sidewalk, I regained my stride in no time. Fifty yards of a full-on sprint, and I turned left on Tanner.
He had disappeared. “Shit!” I yelled at myself as I slowed to a jog. Lined with homes on both sides, the street was void of people and pets alike. Shifting my eyes to the end of the street, I didn’t think he’d had enough time to make it that far, which meant he had ducked into one of the homes or escaped by running in between them.
Downshifting to a brisk walk, I listened for any signs of a person.
A dog yelped just to my left. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the canine midair as the leash around his neck went taut, the other end tied to a tree. When his paws hit the grass, I noticed he was a mastiff. He continued lunging at me, barking up a storm, spit flying out of his mouth, jagged teeth ready to take a chunk out of my ass.
Thankfully, the four-legged killing machine wouldn’t get the chance. Shoving my heart back into my chest, I jogged away, my eyes still searching for Metrick. At this stage, I would take anything human, with hope they’d seen Metrick.
Taking a quick peek through the back window, I only saw one head, on the driver’s side.
I pulled around to the side. “Hi there. Have you seen—”
“Back off, asshole. This can of mace can knock a can of beer off a fence post from forty feet away. Once that maims you, I’ll pull my .45 out of my purse and put a bullet between your eyes. You hear me?”
Lifting my hands, I backed up two steps. “Ma’am, I’m a licensed private investigator searching for a person wanted for attempted manslaughter.” I created the charges, but if the cops had been involved, that’s what Metrick would have been facing. And he still might, if I could catch the big weasel.
“Let me see your license.”
I touched my chest and quickly recalled I’d left my leather jacket back at Willie’s.
“Damn, I left my license, money, everything back in my jacket at Willie’s Barber. You know, down there off MLK?”
The fifty-something woman with a cropped haircut lowered her chin while raising her eyebrow. She’d perfected the female scowl. I had nowhere to hide.
“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain around me. That’s just for starters,” she said, now wagging a finger at me.
I hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to argue the point. “Oh, sorry about that. I’m just all wound up since I started the chase back at Willie’s.”
She looked me over. I had a few scrapes on my forearms, my clothes were disheveled.
“Ma’am, I’m telling you the truth. Feel free to call Willie, or better yet, call the assistant district attorney for Dallas County, Henry Cho, and he’ll vouch for me.”
“Hmm. What’s your name?”
“Booker. Booker Adams.” I felt like I was being interrogated by a Marine drill sergeant. I lifted my eyes for a moment, scanning the area for anything moving.
“Wait, are you Vera’s boy?”
Was that something in the bushes?
BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6 Page 65