by Ross Pennie
Chapter 48
On Friday morning at six fifteen, Hosam stepped off the Route 34 Upper Paradise bus at his usual spot, made the short walk to the barbershop, and unlocked the door. He locked it behind him immediately and checked that the closed sign was still lit. He made sure the blinds were tightly shut. Unless he had been frightened off like so many of their other regular clients, Joe Smith would be arriving anytime between now and six forty-five. Sometimes he arrived from one direction, sometimes from the other. He never parked in exactly the same spot — sometimes up the street, sometimes in the parking lot at the front. Though he varied his route and arrival time, he came to his appointment every Friday without fail. Today, that loyalty to Paradise Barbers was going to be tested. And so was his vanity.
Every week, “Mr. Smith” came for the same service: a hot-lather shave, a businessman’s trim, and a twenty-minute colour rinse in Midnight Brown. He paid the going rate plus a seventy-five-dollar tip in cash, which Ibrahim and Hosam were only too glad to accept. As the shop’s senior barber, Ibrahim usually looked after Mr. Smith. But on days like today when he couldn’t get to the shop early enough, he asked Hosam to take his place. Understandably, Mr. Smith did not want anyone to know he had his hair dyed, which explained the clandestine nature of his weekly visits. His name may have been Smith, but he had the complexion of a Hussein, an Onassis, or even a Khayyam. And like many Mediterranean men, he had a heavy beard and appreciated the straight-razor shave that left his neck, chin, and cheeks feeling like an infant’s bottom.
Mr. Smith was extremely fit, and rather vain, admiring himself in the shop’s large mirror a couple of times every visit. The muscles of his neck, arms, and shoulders were impressive. He admitted to lifting weights regularly. And he probably took androgens. If he was not careful, the hair on his scalp would thin more than it had already. No amount of Midnight Brown would fix that. He had told Hosam he was in commercial real estate: buying, selling, and renting. From the size of the diamond attached to the cross around his neck, it was clear that Mr. Smith was a wealthy man.
Today, he arrived at six forty. And, for the first time since Hosam had met him, he was not alone. Someone else had driven his black S-Class. The driver parked close to the barbershop’s door and remained with the vehicle. Mr. Smith studied the shop with a suspicious eye as Hosam locked the door behind him. Was he looking for threatening figures or for signs of the bloodbath he would have heard about on the news? The few clients who turned up yesterday morning had done the same.
Hosam took the man’s suit jacket, and by the time he had hung it up, his client had already undone the top buttons of his shirt and was making himself comfortable in Hosam’s chair.
“Looks like they cleaned the place up pretty good,” Mr. Smith said.
“They are thorough, these special cleaning companies.”
“Do you have any idea who those two guys were working for? I doubt it was a random attack.”
Hosam shook his head and busied himself with his preparations. He removed Mr. Smith’s badger shaving brush and Jermyn Street (London) shaving soap from their place in the cupboard. He had already prepared the towels, loaded the razor with a new blade, and run the water until it was hot.
Mr. Smith never talked while Hosam was shaving him. Sometimes, he relaxed so much during the experience that he fell asleep. Today, he seemed preoccupied. Did he have a major business deal on his mind? He did not seem the type of man to be bothered by the fact that a week ago the chair beside him had been dripping in blood.
Ninety minutes later, well before the shop was due to open at nine o’clock, Hosam sprayed a little of Mr. Smith’s favourite cologne on his neck, removed the cape, and showed off his artistry in the hand mirror.
“As usual, a great job. You’d never know I’d had it done. Thanks, Hosam.”
“Always a pleasure, Mr. Smith.”
They walked together to the front desk and the man pulled out his wallet. “Shit. I’m sorry, Hosam. I gave all my cash to my kid last night. He’s twenty-two, and I’m still paying for his beer and pizza. Go figure.”
Hosam smiled. He genuinely liked this man. He admired his appealing mix of physical strength, wealth, and folksy demeanour. And if it were not for the man’s vanity, Hosam would have fewer dollars in his pocket at the end of each month.
“No problem,” Hosam told him. “You can pay next week.”
“No, I’m gonna pay now. Business may be slow in here for a while. You take Visa?”
“Certainly.”
“Great,” he said and handed Hosam a small green envelope the size of a credit card. It took Hosam a second to realize it was an RFID protection sleeve with the Visa card inside it.
Hosam slid two fingers into the open end of the envelope. Two cards slipped out. The Visa credit card, in the name of Joe Smith, stayed between his fingers. The second card dropped onto the desk. When Hosam picked it up to return it to the envelope, he saw it was a driver’s license.
The face in the photo was the one he had just shaved.
The name on the license said Giuseppe Michelini.
Hosam swallowed hard, and with shaky hands returned the license to the envelope as rapidly as he could, hoping Il Proppo had not noticed. He processed the payment on the cash register and inserted the Visa card into the reader. The man took the reader, studied the screen, and pressed the required sequence of buttons that included his PIN. Before handing the device back, he said, “It’s better for you if I don’t put the tip on the card. I’m gonna send someone tomorrow with the cash.”
Hosam waved one hand dismissively. The other was holding onto the desk while every drop of blood drained from his cheeks. He was trying to look natural, but he had never been able to keep his surprise, or his darkest thoughts, from showing on his face. He knew his eyes would be black and his skin a sickly shade of green. “Um . . . You do not need to do that, um . . . sir. Next time, um . . . next you come in —”
The man lunged across the desk, grabbed Hosam by the neck of his polo shirt, and twisted hard.
It felt like his eyes were about to pop out of his cranium.
He could not breathe.
“You saw, didn’t you?”
Hosam lifted his arms and shoulders in a flaccid half-shrug. He tried to cough, but the man had his neck in a steely, two-handed grip.
“So what’re you going to do about it?”
Hosam had learned at the hands of the Mukhabarat that battling torturers made everything worse. If the man wanted answers to his questions, he would have to let go of his throat.
Il Proppo glanced at the door as if expecting reinforcements to storm through it any second. “Speak up, or I’ll make the bloodbath you had in here last week look like a Sunday-school picnic.”
Hosam pointed at the thumbs on his trachea. “Cannot . . . talk.”
The man gave the windows a quick study. Satisfied the blinds were closed, he let go of Hosam’s neck and pointed to Hosam’s apron. “Empty your pockets. All of them.”
Hosam removed the scissors and comb from his apron and his wallet from his trousers. He held them out for Il Proppo to see.
“Drop them on the desk.”
He did as he was told.
“Now take off that apron. And your shirt.”
He draped them over the chair beside him.
“Drop your pants.”
Wondering what was coming next, Hosam simply stood and stared.
“Don’t give me that look. You know I’m not a goddamn pervert. I need to see for myself you’re not wearing a wire.”
Hosam undid his belt and let his trousers fall to his ankles.
“Turn around.”
He steadied himself with the chair as he turned three-sixty degrees. He prayed that Il Proppo would not comment on the web of scars left by the Mukhabarat’s daily lashings. He did not want this man’s pity. His a
nger was bad enough.
“Looks like you’re clean. Put your clothes on. And then tell me what you know about my family.”
Hosam did not know what to say. If he told this guy the unvarnished truth, he would call his bodyguard out of the car and the two of them would turn him into hamburger meat.
“Stop stalling.”
“Your . . . your rivals,” he said, buttoning up his shirt, “they have been hassling me.”
“The Scarpellinos? You owe them money?”
“I owe them nothing. I have not even seen them.”
Il Proppo scanned the shop like a jackal. “What? They want you to pay protection? Don’t worry, I can take care of that.”
Hosam shook his head. “It is not about protection.”
“Then what do those fuckers want?”
“I must perform a job for them. If I do not, they will do terrible things to my wife and my son.”
Il Proppo thought for a moment. “I get it. They know you’re a surgeon. They want you to cut a stiff into pieces for easy disposal?”
“They are not interested in my surgical skills.”
Il Proppo flexed the fingers of his massive hands. The implication was obvious.
Hosam looked Il Proppo in the eye and told him straight. “They want me to kill you. Or a powerful person in your family business. They have not revealed the exact target.”
“What? You’re supposed to slit my throat while you’re shaving me?”
“He wants me to use his Glock.”
“Whose Glock?”
Hosam swallowed hard but could not get any words out.
“Come on, cough it up. Who’s your contact?”
“They call him the . . . the Caliph. In Syria, he was a warlord. Now, he is working with the —”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard the Scarpos were in with some slimy Arab.” Il Proppo spat on the floor. “He can only be a two-bit punk. No one else would be foolish enough to go into business with the goddamned Scarpos.”
“The Caliph makes good on his threats. Look at what his guys did to our barber.” Hosam blinked back the tears. “He was just a kid.”
Il Proppo crossed his arms. The rage had left his eyes. He seemed pleased with the way the conversation was going. “So . . . What are you going to do?”
“I know one thing only. I will not kill anyone.”
“You don’t have to. My guys will take out the Caliph when we’re doing the same with the Scarpos.” He looked into the unseen distance as if imagining the deathly scenario. “Our problems will be solved. Yours and mine.”
“No one ever sees him. You will not find him.”
“What, he’s a ghost? How does he contact you?”
“Through his girlfriend. She is Syrian as well. Tall. Long blond hair down to her waist. Bright red lips. Tough as nails.”
“Where does she hang out?”
“Every time we meet, it is in a different place. And a different vehicle.”
“So, she’s a ghost too?”
Hosam eyed his wallet on the desk next to the scissors and comb. Inside it was a scrap of paper that could be the Caliph’s death warrant. And possibly Saramin’s. Was he prepared to go that far to secure his family’s safety? Now that the Caliph had upgraded his demands from petty thievery to murder, the answer was not so difficult.
He pointed to the wallet. “I wrote down her license plate. The last time we met, she was driving a small Ford. A Focus. That one, I do not think was stolen. Perhaps its plate number will be of use.”
Il Proppo smiled as he rubbed his jaw with his fingers, enjoying the baby-fresh smoothness of the professional, triple-lather shave. “No problem. That’s all I need.”
When Hosam could not conceal his surprise, the mobster chuckled. “We’ve got plenty of friends among the boys and girls in blue. They’ll be only too happy to help us get one more scumbag off the streets.”
Chapter 49
The next day, Saturday, proved to be a long, drawn-out day at the barbershop. As he had predicted, many of Hosam’s regulars, spooked by last week’s events, did not come in for their monthly and biweekly cuts. By four o’clock, the flow of patrons had trickled to a halt, and Ibrahim left Hosam to man the place on his own until closing time at six.
Hosam’s only hope was that the shop’s reputation for excellent service would bring the customers back after a bad cut or two somewhere else. But that could take weeks, and would Ibrahim be forced to lay Hosam off in the meantime? He pictured the Church People’s patronizing faces as they arrived at 2029 Elgin Street with hampers of macaroni, tinned tuna, peanut butter, and inedible casserole concoctions. The thought of Leila tiptoeing into the Good Shepherd Food Bank around the corner from their townhouse brought on a sweaty chill.
Sitting alone in the empty shop and watching the clock, his gut churned and his mind reeled. He could not stop thinking about Il Proppo and what he had asked the man to do. Had he, Hosam Khousa, facilitated a gangland killing? Is that what it had come to in this quiet country, this supposed haven of politeness and civility? Had he stooped so low as to order a hit on a mobster? And what if the Michelinis bungled it and the Caliph found out who had betrayed him? The Caliph’s treatment of Marwan showed that second chances were nowhere in his lexicon.
By the time Hosam arrived home, he was desperate for a Canadian cold one. Instead of a beer, he was greeted in the kitchen by a wife who was simultaneously annoyed and triumphant. Yesterday’s red, puffy eyes had disappeared. She had put on a little makeup and spruced up her lashes. Her face was glowing.
“Do you see what this is?” she said, holding up a small strip of paper.
“They arrived?”
“This morning.” She held the strip close to his face. “Look at it and tell me what colour you see.”
The crucial line running the length of the sterilization indicator strip was a bright, purplish red. “I do not know what you call it,” he told her. “Some sort of purple?”
“Exactly. It started out grey, but now it’s vivid magenta.”
“Is that good news?”
“Your Dr. Szabo will have to find his Parvo-W somewhere else. My autoclave is working perfectly well.”
“You tested it?”
“With a full tray of instruments.”
He gestured toward the garage. “Then there is something else in there that is harbouring the parvovirus.”
She waved the strip at him. “That’s impossible, Hosam, and you know it. We turned that place upside down.”
“I still say we missed something.”
She made a face then tossed the strip onto the table and gripped his arm. “There’s another thing I need to show you. Come with me.” She led him into the living room at the rear of the townhouse.
There was not much in the small room other than a couple of chairs and the television. The Church People had beamed with pride when they unveiled the generous, high-def flatscreen. Omar, who loved watching international soccer matches almost as much as playing Fortnite, had been thrilled. And Hosam had to admit it helped the three of them with their English proficiency.
“You will be responsible for paying your cable bills every month,” the committee chairman had said after explaining the complicated system of television channels and associated billing options. But now, if Leila could not work and Hosam’s fearful clients stayed away, there would be no money for cable bills. The TV’s screen would remain a huge black eye on the wall.
Leila pressed the remote, and the local news channel flashed in front of them. “They’ve been playing the same story all day.”
The television at the barbershop was permanently tuned to the golf channel, and Hosam had never thought to change it after Ibrahim had left for the day. Golf had been an agreeable distraction. “What?”
“A triple murder. Last night on Barton Street. At the
far east end. A scrapyard.”
“A shooting?”
“Gangland style, they say. Shot through the forehead.”
“Who?”
“Two men and a woman. No names yet, officially. But anonymous sources say it’s two Scarpellino cousins and a female associate. You can watch the details for yourself, later.” Before he had a chance to think, she had pressed the remote again. “What sort of car was that awful woman driving when she picked you up on Wednesday?”
“A small Ford,” he told her. “A Focus. What is this about?”
Now on the screen was a list of programs the machine had recorded. Leila selected one from earlier today, and soon a freeze-frame of a grey, compact sedan was filling the TV.
“Is that it?” she asked.
He could see the familiar brand name on the oval disk above the front grill. “Well, it is a Ford, and it does look like a Focus.”
“Did you ever take note of her license plate number?”
Of course he had. And had seen it again yesterday in the barbershop when he was sealing her fate by handing her over to Il Proppo. The combination of letters and numbers on Saramin’s vanity plate had seared itself into his memory: STLU 414.
In the fuzzy image, the front license was visible, but only half the digits were in focus. He strained to make them out. The initial STL was clear enough, and so was the final 4.
His brow grew cold with sweat. His heart raced. “It looks like he . . . Oh my God, I cannot believe it happened so fast.”
Leila’s made-up eyes grew huge. “Don’t tell me you arranged it, Habibi. Have we sunk as low as this?”
He said nothing. He could not take his eyes off the television.
“Will the Caliph suspect you’re involved? Allah have mercy on us, how much danger are we in?”
“We must keep our doors and windows locked. We cannot open them to anyone. Least of all a patient. You never know who the Caliph will send disguised as a man with a toothache and armed with a knife.”
Leila dropped onto a chair, the brightness in her eyes and the confident glow on her face long gone. “But —”