The Barber's Chair
A Novel
Chapter 1
Russ Margolin stood at the door of his barbershop, glanced over his shoulder at the wall clock; 9:01, then peeked outside past the drawn shade. Across the street with the windows rolled up, Arnold Bakkus was sitting in his new ’81 Buick Riviera—no doubt with the air on—staring at the same door that hid Russ. Arnie was in real estate, a broker—a rich one. Forty-five years old, still athletic and trim, he had a full head of hair that was just beginning to show a little gray at the temples. He thought himself quite the lady’s man, and therefore very conscious of the hair that was encroaching on his ears. Russ knew that, as he knew a lot of things about his customers. He’d been cutting hair in this same shop in Delano for nearly fifty years, taking over when his grandfather retired.
Russ liked it in small town Delano, a stable place with a familiar population—that was until about fifteen years ago when big-city folks learned about the clean air, open spaces, and non-existent crime, things the locals took for granted. He scanned the street up and down, searching for nothing in particular, glanced again at the time, 9:03, and then looked back just as Arnie scrambled out of his car and fast-walked across the street. “Mornin’, Mr. Tolman,” he heard Arnie say cheerfully. Russ let the shade roll up and opened the door.
“Who’s mindin’ the store?” Arnie asked the elderly man standing on the sidewalk beside him.
“Most folks can read a back-in-ten-minutes sign,” the older man replied, “and Tuesday mornings in an antique store are fairly uneventful.” Porter Tolman owned and operated a small antique shop in the middle of the next block west. Approaching seventy, he moved like a man thirty years younger, and his soft gray eyes were as lively as his step. Russ and Porter had grown up together—friends. Porter took off his well-worn, snap-brim hat, and waved his free hand at the open door. “After you—son,” he said to Arnie.
Bay Rum and lavender perfumed the small room. Two very different barber chairs were centered on the mirrored back wall of the shop: one was a modern, plastic and chrome affair with electric powered adjustments, the other sat on an imposing white marble base; ornate, with nickel and brass trim, and a leather seat, it looked to weigh a ton. The controls were manual hydraulics. Along the left wall were placed four, identical, red, naugahyde seats and a small, magazine-strewn table with a coat rack above. A fifth matching chair sat against the back wall next to a door that led to a restroom. A red Coke machine stood in the corner by the front window, opposite the four chairs.
“Hot enough for ya, Port?” Russ asked.
“It’s only nine, and already over eighty degrees,” Porter replied. “I don’t much like August.”
Russ and Porter where about the same age, but there the similarity ended. Where Porter was six feet tall and one wide, Russ’s short frame supported an ample belly that daily tested the belts on the pale green smocks he wore. “I’m ready if you are,” he said as Arnold made a move to sit down by the table. Russ turned the big chair to face the room and Arnold Bakkus sat down. With a flourish, Russ floated a white nylon cutting-cape across him, then stepped behind to pull it snug around Arnie’s neck and clip it in place. “Just your regular?” Arnie came in every two weeks and had done for years.
“Yep. Trim it up.” Arnie shifted a little in the chair as Russ picked up the coarse clippers and a comb. “When you gonna get rid of this lumpy old chair?”
Russ tilted Arnie’s head slightly forward with some not-so-subtle pressure. “My grandfather gave me this chair. It’s special.” The cutter whirred to life.
“So, Mr. Tolman,” Arnie asked. “How’s the antique business doing with these damned interest rates the way they are?”
“High interest is good for a shop like mine,” Porter said.
“I can understand that. Folks get in a little over their heads and decide to sell off grandma’s butter churn.”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t have much use for old junk, know what I mean? Call it what you want, trash is still trash.” He chuckled. “Ya know it when ya see it.”
“Indeed.” Porter gave him a sideways glance, then picked up an old copy of Newsweek from the table, and flipped it open.
“What we need in Delano is a good furniture store,” Arnie continued. “I’m about to start on my project, and there’ll be seventy-one houses needing furnishing with no place to get it within thirty miles. Think about that; money to be made.”
“Or lost,” Porter said, without looking up from the page.
“Bull. The interest rates are overdue for a major downturn. The banks have about scalped us for all they can.”
“Move again and you’ll know scalped,” Russ said and laid his hand on top of Arnie’s head.
“Sorry.”
Just then the door opened with a jingle, and a uniformed man stepped in, dinging the bell again as he closed it. “Mr. Tolman. Arnie,” he said and took off his cap.
“Morning, Chief,” Russ gently firmed his grip on Arnie’s head.
“Chief Paulson,” Porter said.
“Hi, Pauley,” Arnie added.
Saylor Paulson was the town’s Chief of Police; had been for 15 years, and a patrolman for eleven years before that; law enforcement was all he knew. His physique reflected the effects of thousands of cups of heavily sugared coffee, an addiction to Hostess Twinkies, and a couple million miles in the seat of a cop-car. He was shaped like an eggplant. “Mornin’, Russ.” He sighed himself into a chair one over from Porter, and dropped his hat on the seat between. The drooping frown on his round face matched the dark bags under his eyes.
“Jeez, Pauley,” Arnie said. “That little lady still whuppin’ your tired butt? Ya gotta be firm.” One of these day, I’ll slap the snot out of mine—show her who’s the boss. Damn right.
Pauley shook his head. Saylor Paulson had been a confirmed bachelor until two years ago when his mother died and left him the big house they’d shared, and a savings account worth over two hundred fifty thousand, net. Overnight, literally, he’d become the feature attraction at a stud auction, and as any 46-year-old male would do, he chose the youngest, fastest and most willing filly that came prancing. Beth Proctor had already been through four husbands—averaging three years each, but she was a looker, and swore she was ready to settle down in one bed. Pauley had assumed she meant his. “Happy as a cow in clover,” he said. “Who wouldn’t be?”
“That accounts for your cheerful look then,” Arnie said.
“Worked part of a shift last night. One of the guys got a bad burrito or something.”
“Well, ya look like ya been shot at and missed, but sh–”
“You about ready to dig some holes out there on that subdivision?” Pauley asked. Arnie owned fifty-eight acres, half of it annexed and platted for over seventy houses, and he couldn’t give a plot away.
Porter grunted and turned another page.
“Real soon,” Arnie said eagerly. “Got a few–”
“Dammit, Arnie,” Russ growled and showed him a pair of scissors. “You want to keep your ears the same size?”
“Sorry.” Arnie straightened up in the big chair, squaring his shoulders against the button-tucked back. “I’ve got two out-of-towners who want to go in with me. They’re good for an even million. Good times are gonna roll again. Still time to get in, guys.” It’s actually eight hundred thousand and that’s only if I give them eighty-five percent. Greedy sonsabitches. In exactly four months my balloon is due. I’ve got a hundred, but where am I going to get another four?
Russ carried the comb to the end of the lock of hair and clipped. “I wonder how the schools are gonna absorb that many new kids,” he said, and made another quick pass with his comb—snip—then combed the back of Arnie’s head and stepped back.
“By passing another bond,” Porter sniffed. “With all the newcomers, it’s become pro-forma; they bang away and we pay for it.”
Russ turned around, dropped the comb and scissors into the sterilizer and stabbed the top of the foam machine; it whirred a warm pile of white onto the tips of his fingers. After dabbing the shaving cream over Arnie’s ears and around the back of his neck, he quickly shaved where he needed, wiped the residue off with a tissue, and grabbed the hand-mirror. “How’s that?”
The fat old fart knows how to cut hair; I look great. “Looks good, Russ, thanks.” Arnie waited until Russ had whisked a few hairs from his neck and whipped the cape off before he straddled the footrest on the cast iron monster and stood away. Dragging out his wallet, he handed Russ ten dollars. “Keep the four bucks. I’d hate to see you quit workin’. See ya later, Pauley.” He jabbed a forefinger in the chief’s direction. “Maybe you ought to sleep at the jail tonight.” Arnie dinged the door open. “Mr. Tolman,” he said as he left.
Porter ignored him until the door closed. “I know for a fact he wears pants only because Mattie lets him, Pauley. His idea of showing his wife who’s boss is tugging at his leash.”
“I know that—damned showoff,” Pauley said. “And he’s got more money than sense.”
Porter closed the Newsweek and tossed it on the table. “From what I hear, he might not have that money much longer.”
“How’s that?” Pauley asked.
“He offered me five lots for less than I know he paid for them. That means only one thing.”
“And what’s that?” Pauley’s eyes were fixed on Porter.
“Desperation. You don’t sell something for less than you have in it too many times. He’s had that tract almost four years, and watched interest rates go from seven percent to fifteen. If I know a cat from a skunk, his out-of-town money is out-of-time wishful thinking.” Porter climbed into the big chair and settled back.
“If a feller was to be offered a few of those plots, it might not be such a good idea to buy them, right?”
“Not might, Pauley. It would be called flushing,” Porter said. Did I read Arnie’s face right? I saw panic all over it.
Russ squeezed his friend’s shoulder, and then looked at the Chief. “Port is right, Pauley. A smart man would hold back for now, and watch Arnie’s little project go where it will. He could always buy in a little later. Seventy-odd houses is a lot of money. Just a little off the sides, Port?” Russ said.
“You been hacking at it for forty-five years, Russ, what do you think?”
Pauley suddenly stood up. “I’m going to run to the bank for a few minutes, Russ.”
“Don’t open for”—Russ looked over his shoulder—“eight more minutes.”
“Clare will let me in. I’ll be back.” He grabbed his hat and hurried out the door.
“So, what was Arnie thinking?”
“He’s in a real tight spot: he has one of those damned balloon payments coming due. Now there’s a scheme cooked up by the devil himself—a balloon payment. They make it sound almost festive.”
“How much? Or did he say?”
“Hard to believe, but $500,000.”
“Good God.”
“He has four months.”
“What about his investors? Any of that true?”
“As with most lies, there’s a grain of truth. They’ll give him what he owes on it and leave him a fifteen percent share of anything he makes on the project. In other words, he’s out. Unless he can find some real money fast and then convince the Federal Reserve to lower the prime to seven or eight, he’s going to lose it all.”
“And Pauley almost bought some?”
“I’ll know as soon as he comes back.”
“Why do you hear them only when they’re in this chair? You could own the town, you know that?”
“You’ve said that before—a hundred times. Grandpa told me it was a trust and to let my conscience guide me. I can’t count the time in the past forty years I’ve seen where I could have done some good and didn’t because of the damage I might cause by not knowing it all. You have no idea how that wears on a man. It’s enough that I have to listen to some of the crap I do without looking for a way to take advantage. And some secrets have scared the hell out of me. I suppose that’s why I let you in on it.”
“And I’d still like to be able to do it.”
“I don’t pretend to understand, Port, I just live with it.” Russ threw the cape over his friend’s chest and fastened it. “Now sit there and count your money in your head—I know as much about you as I can stand.”
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2
Chief Paulson’s timing was perfect; Porter opened the door to leave just as Pauley walked up. Porter nodded, stepped around him and onto the sidewalk. “Get some sleep, Chief Paulson. You look awful.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Tolman. Have a good day.” Pauley stepped into the cool confines of the barbershop, and glanced at the empty red chairs. “Looks like I’m next.”
“Now we know why you’re the chief, Chief.” Russ patted the back of the big chair.
Pauley tossed his hat onto a seat and stepped on the flat part of the footrest. He slowly put his weight on it as he looked across at the newer one.
“It’s not gonna break, Chief. Grandpa bought it used in 1917 and it’s as good now as then; timeless these old chairs.” Russ held onto the back to steady it. “You’re bad as Arnie: been complaining about it for twenty-five years.”
Pauley eased his ample rear around and settled down on the shiny leather. At least there’s room for my butt. He pressed against his belly with his elbows. I’ve gotta get some of this off. “I remember you telling me some barber in Cleveland advertised it in a magazine.”
“That’s right. Cost more to ship it than to buy it. Grandpa said the seller seemed almost anxious to get rid of it.”
Pauley thudded the arms with the heels of his hands. “Solid, I’ll say that.”
Russ wrapped him up and reached for the clippers. “So who caught Montezuma’s revenge off that roach coach this time?”
“Larry.” What if he comes in for a haircut and Russ mentions it? I better fix that. “I’ve told the mayor a dozen times that taco wagon is gonna kill somebody, but there’s not a lot he can do. The man pays his fees, and he’s been inspected I don’t know how many times. I think Larry buys that shit and leaves it on the seat for a couple hours. I don’t know."
The business-like buzz started up, and Russ moved the tool along the back of Pauley’s head. “So how late were you out last night?”
“I took over at nine and got home right after two. I don’t remember it being that boring.” I drove past the house ten times an hour and never saw anything unusual.
“Monday night. Try Saturday when the kids are out in force.”
“I have, just to keep my hand in, ya know. Wise mouth little buggers, aren’t they?”
“And getting worse.”
“So ya think Arnie might not get that project off the ground?”
“I don’t know. Fooling around with that kind of money has always seemed scary to me. I think cash like that might come to control a person.”
He doesn’t know how right he is. Suddenly having over $250,000 in the bank really screwed up my situation. God, I miss Mom. Arnie has been on me like white on chickenshit for over a month. If it weren’t for what Mr. Tolman said, I’d be sunk right now. Ol’ Oren Davis at the bank wasn’t happy. “Do you know how much paperwork we’ve generated, Saylor?” he’d whined. Like I give a crap. It was the money he was making on a hundred grand he saw going out the window. WE VALUE SERVICE. Yeah, right—bend over. “How long have you been married, Russ?”
“Forty-five years.”
Damn, that’s as old as me. “All of them years happy ones?”
“You’re joking, right? When she turned forty, I wanted to trade her for two twenties. How are you and Beth getting on?”
Crappy. “It’s taking both of us some time to adjust. Mom had the house like she wanted it, and Beth sees things a little different.” Like everything out; new carpet, paint, curtains, complete new kitchen—the cabinets were fourteen thousand alone and she’s still not happy with them!—remodeled the bedroom, with a mirror on the friggin’ ceiling for crap’s sake. How creepy is that? “We’ll get through it. She’s a lot of fun to be with.”
“There are thing to be said for newlyweds.” Russ leaned his belly against the arm of the chair.
New for sure. She was fun before we got married. Kinda kinky and some of the stuff was—but that lasted about six months and now it’s “I’m tired, or it’s late, or is that ALL you think about?” Well, sissy, it was all YOU thought about before we got married. Someone else is helpin’ out and when I find out who, I’ll kill ‘im. Well, not really, but he’ll wish he’d been born queer.
“You were a bachelor a long time, Chief,” Russ said. “You give a little, and so will she.”
Now that’s a hoot. Dell Shipley down at the lumberyard told me before I tied the knot, “Ya really don’t know a filly till you’ve ridden her bareback.” I wonder if Dell knew something? “Ya may be right, Russ. It was just me and Mom for as long as I can remember. I always got the straight skinny when I talked to her—no complications, know what I mean?”
“All too well, Chief.”
The rest of the day was a slow but steady stream of school kids, and he got a break from the chair’s strange effect—the first two either thought nothing, or head-juked their way through the lyrics of something “Physical”—who the hell is Olivia Newtonjohn? After them, he’d moved over to the other chair, then closed early and went home.
Home was a largish frame house on a corner lot, white with green trim and a black painted shingle roof. It too had been his grandfathers, and the only improvement Russ wished he’d made was expanding the garage to accommodate two cars. He wheeled his Dodge Omni up the driveway beside the house, turned off the ignition, and then quickly let out the clutch to stop the knock coming from under the hood. He puffed his cheeks; it was hot enough to toast a toad. He cranked up the windows, climbed out and went in the house through the kitchen door.
"Well, hello handsome. You’re early,” his wife said. She was pitting plums at the counter.
“Hi, Lil. Got tired of listening.”
She put down her short paring knife and turned to face him. “Who now?”
“Arnie Bakkus has some big money problems, and I finally found out what’s wrong with Chief Paulson’s marriage.”
“He was a bachelor forever, Russell. Give Beth a break. She has to make that dreary old place fit to live in. Angie Paulson never learned they could put something besides beige in a paint can.”
“How about a big mirror on the bedroom ceiling? Got any coffee?”
“Fairly fresh. Pour me one, too.” She picked up her knife and another plum. “I’ve always wondered how that would be.”
Russ shut the cupboard door and put his favorite mug on the counter. “What would be?” He reached for the porcelain coffee maker.
“A mirror on the ceiling.”
“What! Who? Where’d?” He feigned dropping the pot on the floor, then looked over at her. She was stifling a giggle with half a plum. “You little tramp.” He gave her a dog-protecting-a-bone growl and curled his lip.
“You pretend to be so straitlaced, Russell. I remember the last time we tried something different. It took you half an hour the first time, and then for three weeks you decided we could save a little money if you came home for lunch.”
“That’s beside the point.” He poured his cup full and then hers.
“That is the point. Beth is half our age and newly married to a man in his middle forties with little or no experience. She has to do something, because he certainly won’t—or can’t.”
“She’s doing something all right, Lillian. With someone else.”
“Oh, damn. I was afraid of that. Does he know who?”
“Nope. He was real upset though, convinced enough to take a half shift last night to see if he could catch her.”
“And didn’t.”
“You sound sure.”
“We’re the weaker sex, Russell, not the dumber.”
“I could resent that.” But he smiled instead. “So, Toots, what do I tell him when he asks, and he will.”
“Tell him to look in the mirror. The new one”
“But that’d put him–”
“Exactly.” She winked. “Now, get a knife and help me with these. I’d like to make jam later when it cools off.”
Wednesdays are an odd day for barbers. For some reason known only to the follicle gods, people will walk by, hesitate ever so slightly, and then move on. What changes their mind? Obviously they think about coming in; the pause is very apparent, but they give a slightly embarrassed wave and disappear. Even the folks who just stop by to shoot the breeze a little seem to have something more pressing to do on Wednesdays.
And maybe it was just as well. Russ was in no mood to listen to secrets, fantasies, rants and tirades, or the incredible nonsense that clutters a person’s mind when it is truly disengaged. He was half asleep in the big chair when a slight tap on the window snapped his eyes open. A stranger was shielding his eyes with a cupped hand and peering in the window. Russ’s first thought was what chair to put him in if he entered—which he did.
“Not disturbing a nap am I?” The man glanced up at the bell. He offered an engaging smile or Russ might have said what he thought. That was getting to be an age thing lately. “The man at the Phillips station said you were the best.”
“He can say that. He’s bald as a smoked ham.”
The man chuckled. “I’m new in town, from Cleveland.”
Russ pushed out of the big chair, and stepped gingerly over the footrest. “Have a seat. I’ll take a whack at it.”
“Wow, that’s an antique.”
“So am I,” Russ said. “We understand each other’s quirks.” He patted the white marble arm. The new man stepped up to the chair, studied the row of cryptic writing cast in a brass decoration that arched over the back, and then sat down. Russ covered him up, turned the chair around to face the mirror, and grabbed hold of the back. “Crewcut?” he asked and winked.
“Do I look that eager for a change?”
“New man, checking out the town’s services. Just a guess, but I’d say transplant.”
“Do you know where Hawken is?”
“Cascade Mountains. South shore of Lake Fremont.”
“I’ve been going there for years. I rent a cabin for a couple weeks, fish a little, drink a lot; no phone or TV, no car alarms at three AM. Paradise for a guy like me.”
“Or anyone. What you looking for here?”
“A place to live.”
“No, I mean your hair. Trim, shorten it up?”
“Oh.” The man ran his hand over the back of his head. “Shorten it up and layer it.”
“Razor cut then? Cost’s eight instead of six.”
“Six? You need to go to back east.”
“No, thanks. Been there and made it a point to not forget anything.” Russ reached for his squirt bottle and started to mist the hair, combing it straight down as he did. “Transplant then?”
“Could be. I intend to settle out here somewhere, and you’re an hour from the lake. Might even build a summer place up there.”
“Summer place? Why not stay there year round?”
“I need to get back east from time to time. Can’t afford to get snowed in.”
“You’re not retired then?” The man didn’t answer immediately, and Russ prepared for the stream of thought to commence. Rain? He glanced in the mirror for a look out the sunlit window and shook his head. Silence. He shot another shower into the brown hair and continued to comb.
“I’m not working at present, put it that way,” the man said. “I’m an investment advisor. I can do that anywhere there’s a phone.” He craned his neck. “My name’s James Buess by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you, James. Folks call me Russ—or worse.”
“Jim is good. Pleased to be here, Russ.”
Settling against the back of the chair, Russ started sectioning the hair, carefully cutting and aligning each layer. “Investment advisor? What is that exactly?”
“I take other people’s money and invest it where it will make them some more money. For that service, I keep some of it.”
“Of what they make?”
“They wish. Of what I invest for them. I get mine first.”
“What happens if they lose money?”
“Very shortly, I lose a client. I try real hard not to let that happen. So far, I’ve been very lucky.”
“Do you ever invest in real estate?”
“Condos a time or two, hotel once; sticks and bricks are not so good right now. Undeveloped land? Much better prospect there.” He sighed and settled back a little.
Russ glanced at Jim’s face in the mirror—the man’s eyes were closed, his face completely relaxed, and all Russ could hear was the sound of rain. He glanced out the window again.
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The Barber's Chair Excerpt
