Denny glanced up from his magazine, quickly looking down when he noticed Russell staring at him. Here it comes, Denny thought, he’ll stare at me for a while, dig through his mental phone book until he figures out who I am, then come out with, “You’re the O’Brien kid, right?” It amazed Denny that Russell could remember every person in Haven and who they were related to, but it unnerved him the way Russell gawked at him.
“You’re Jimmy’s little brother, right?”
At this, the rest of the guys turned to look at Denny. Sometimes Denny thought this was the worst part of being the brother left alive. Worse than the empty feeling and the heartache at missing Jimmy: the looks of others. Are they pitying me? Or are they thinking Jimmy should be sitting here instead of me? He felt his face turning red. “Yes, sir, Denny O’Brien.”
“Good kid, that Jimmy. Helluva good athlete.”
“Yes, sir.” Now comes the rest. He’ll ask me what sports I play and if I’m as good as Jimmy. Denny felt his face burning, felt the stares of the other men in the shop. His mind raced thinking of a way he could get up and out of the barber shop without looking like a complete jackass. But when he looked up, Russell was back to furiously clipping away at the wispy hair on Mr. Jackson’s head and West End Willy had a finger cheerfully up his nose to the second knuckle. And an idea snuck into Denny’s head, finding a crack in his grief and guilt over Jimmy’s death: maybe it’s all in my head. Before he could start analyzing just what that meant, the conversation around him veered off the normal path.
“What do you think Crawford will do about the Sheehan murder, about Greymore?” Dom asked.
Willy examined the treasure on the end of his finger, wiped it on the palm of his other hand, and began vigorously rubbing his palms together. Denny made a mental note to never shake Willy’s hand.
“Mightn’t have to do nothin’. Might be folks who take care of it for him,” Willy offered. He spoke with an accent that Denny couldn’t place. Somewhere south for sure. It just added to the mystery that was Willie. Maybe West End was somewhere in Texas, or the Carolinas.
Dom nodded thoughtfully. “You could be right on about that, Willy.”
“Now don’t leave us hanging,” Jackson chimed in, “just what do you mean by that?”
Denny felt him staring again. He’s wondering how much he should say in front of me. He brought the magazine closer to his face and began mouthing the words of an article about Large Mouth Bass, hoping the look on his face was one of intense interest. It must have been good enough.
“Coupla fellas in here over the past few days are talking about doing just that.” Willy continued, “Sometimes folks get to talking big, but I got a feeling these guys weren’t just flapping their gums, I think they mean business.”
Denny flipped the page of the magazine, he wanted the men to keep talking and they wouldn’t do that if they thought he was listening. He snuck a glance at Russell and saw him looking hard at Willy. “I think someone’s gums are flappin’ right now.” The men all laughed, but Denny didn’t hear any humor in Russell’s voice, what he heard sounded more like a warning. One that Willy didn’t pick up on.
“Folks think Crawford’s gone soft. Too much time with the bottle to handle anything bigger than moving violations or breaking up brawls at the Hat. Might be that somebody has to do his job for him.” With that off his chest, Willy went back to picking his nose.
Denny took another peek: Russell looked pissed. Ray Jackson was looking at Russell in the mirror with wide eyes that held a mixture of surprise and anticipation. Denny quickly went back to the magazine, sensing Russell about to check on him. After what seemed like an eternity, Russell spoke. “I don’t think Chief Crawford would be too happy to hear that kind of talk. Funny you never mention it when he’s in here for his weekly trim.”
Willy pulled another winner out and began rubbing it into his palms. “I would have mentioned it, but the Chief was too busy looking through the envelope you gave him.” He said it so casually, but it was a direct hit. Russell was seething. Jackson looked ready to jump out of the barber chair for fear of losing an ear.
“Willy, might be a good time for you to head out,” Russell managed through tight lips.
Willy was already getting up. “Maybe so, Russ. I’m thinking about growing my hair out anyway.” Dom and Ray cracked up, but Willy and Russell just glared at each other before Willy turned for the door. “But I’ll leave you with this: there’s other folks, me included, that remember a lot about when kids were going missing before. And when it ended up Greymore was behind it, things just didn’t smell right.” The bell jingled and he was gone.
Russell watched him go. “I think old Willy might have done some brain damage by sticking his finger a bit too far up his nose.” The others laughed, but it sounded forced. “You’re all set, Ray. Do you want the Al Capone?”
Ray snorted. “Of course, do you think I come here for your cutting skills and intelligent conversation?” That broke the tension and the laughter sounded genuine to Denny.
Russell chuckled as he opened a drawer and pulled out a device that looked something like an old belt sander but with rows of coiled springs where the belt should be. He slipped his hand into a leather strap on the top of the device and flipped a switch. Whatever the thing was, it started humming and Russell began moving it across Ray’s shoulders, back and neck. Ray moaned and looked like he might just melt into the chair.
“Russell, I’ll trade you my wife for that thing, straight up, right now.” His voice sounded alien, vibrating. It reminded Denny of when his brother used to tap him hard and fast on the back and tell him to talk. It came out all weird, like Ray sounded now.
“No deal, Ray. Nothing against Mrs. Jackson, of course, but this is my secret weapon.”
Finally, it was Denny’s turn for his boy’s regular. Most days, he would sit there with the napkin around his neck feeling too tight and the inevitable itch on his nose driving him crazy with his hands trapped under the barber poncho. Russell would ask him the usual questions and Denny would politely respond. But today was different, and what he had just seen had him burning with curiosity. “What’s the Al Capone thing?” he blurted out before Russell could start his inquisition.
There seemed to be a new shine in Russell’s eyes. Most people came in to shoot the breeze and gossip about Haven stuff. Not many took an interest in Russell or his profession. “Ahhh, you like the looks of that, huh? Or is it the name Al Capone that got you riled up about it?”
“Both, I guess.” Denny replied, shyness taking over his curiosity.
“Well, that little beauty is called a portable massager. They were quite popular back in the twenties. After a shave and a haircut, important customers would get a massage. I call it the Al Capone because he insisted on the massage after his weekly cut. At least that’s what the guy that sold it to me said.”
Denny smiled. “Wow, that’s pretty cool.”
“Tell you what, young Mr. O’Brien. After I finish up with you up here, I’ll try out the Capone on you. Better that than to have you come in here with your gang and shoot the place up.” He gave Denny a conspiratorial wink.
As Russell began working on Denny’s hair, the bell over the door jingled and in strode Jason Hamilton and Richie Lincoln. They were both seniors at Haven High and stand-outs on the football team. Jason was quarterback and Richie a wide receiver. At last season’s Thanksgiving Day game, they hooked up for a 40-yard touchdown pass to win the game. The PA announcer, moderately famous in Haven and surrounding towns for making up nicknames for players, called them “the Presidents.” The nickname stuck and rarely did anyone speak of them as individuals anymore.