"Go ahead," said the Fixer. "I still need a haircut. And I'll take your advice on the length."
Soon the man's hair was falling like a light snow on the plastic tarp spread out beneath the chair, and despite everything, Sammy fell into the calming, competent rhythm of his work. Snip and move and pull. Snip and move and pull. Forget that this guy had a gun in his hand.
A simple phrase pulsed in his head: Do something or die. Do something or die.
Sammy concentrated on his work as if his life depended on it, and when the Fixer leaned forward in his chair so Sammy could pull off his plastic poncho, he couldn't help but be impressed. "Now I know why those rich ladies drive all the way out here."
Do something or die.
"One last spot," said Sammy, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. The man chuckled, then he settled back in his chair. When he looked into the mirror, he saw Sammy's right hand blur across his chest.
Goddamnit, he couldn't believe it. Not this puny little fag. Not here – not like this. Oh, Jesus, no.
The slice of the razor was so fast and clean, the Fixer didn't know for sure if his throat had just been cut until he saw a second pink mouth flap open beneath his chin. Then, as the hairdresser reached from behind the chair and pinned his arms with a strength and fury that was the final surprise of his life, the Fixer watched the life gush out of him.
"Who's going to fix this?" were his last five words.
When Sammy released his hug, the large man slid out of the chair onto the plastic tarp on the floor. Sammy took a deep breath and tried to think this mess through. Fast. Jesus, he'd killed this guy. Nothing he could do about it now.
Once he made up his mind, he went upstairs and packed. Then he went to the garage and siphoned a couple of gallons of Exxon regular from his car. He wetted down the cottage, corner to corner. Then he tossed in a flaming Zippo.
By the time the first pumper truck arrived, that's exactly what was left of Sammy's Soul Kitchen. Zippo.
Chapter 51
I WAS WORKING UP A FEW NOTES to give Nadia Alper when I heard Mack's bellowing voice downstairs. "Jack, come outside. Your girlfriend's here. Pretty as ever, too."
Pauline was barely out of her car when Mack insisted she stay for dinner. About ten minutes later he announced he was abandoning us "lovebirds" to investigate the various offerings of Montauk's more reputable vegetable stands and fishmongers. "You are staying for supper," he told Pauline, and she didn't bother to argue.
Two and a half hours later, as the sun was losing its edge, he made his triumphant return. In one hand he held the first local corn of the summer. In the other, three fat swordfish steaks.
"Sal swears on the soul of his mother that he carved these out of a three-hundred-fifty-pounder this morning," boasted Mack.
After unloading his treasure, he cracked open three beers and joined us on the deck, where we brought him up to speed on Pauline's latest discoveries about Barry Neubauer.
After he listened to the dirt, Mack surveyed our respective strengths in food prep. Then he doled out assignments. I headed to the garage to dig up the old hibachi. He and Pauline disappeared into the kitchen.
Just having Pauline around was making everyone happy. For the first time in years, the place felt like a home instead of a dorm for lost boys.
Mack was particularly euphoric. It was as if someone had slipped him a tab of Ecstasy. Every once in a while he'd wander out from the kitchen just to stand beside me and share his affection as I poked the coals.
"I know you're dying to tell me how much you love Pauline, so why don't you get it off your chest?" I said.
"You should see her working on the salad dressing, Jackson. Madame Curie in cutoffs. I strongly urge you to marry this woman. Tonight if possible."
"I haven't even touched her yet."
"Yeah, well, what's that about?"
"Macklin, can I ask you a personal question, just between us? Mullen to Mullen?"
"But, of course. Please do."
"You think these coals are ready?"
"I talk to you of the longings of the human heart and you ask me about coal. Cook the damn fish, Jack. Show how you can do something right."
"I like her, all right?" I finally said in an exasperated voice.
"That's not good enough, Jack. This one deserves more than 'like'!"
"Mack, I know what she deserves."
Thirty minutes later we all sat down on the back porch to a perfect summer dinner.
Everything turned out just right – the swordfish, the corn, the wine. Even Pauline's salad dressing lived up to the hype.
We were all a little laid-back after the meal. I looked at Mack's ragged map of a face. It seemed to be lit from within, like a lantern. Pauline looked more relaxed and lovelier than I'd ever seen her.
Mack drew out Pauline about her childhood in Michigan. She told us that her old man was a retired Detroit cop, and her mother taught English in an inner-city high school. Most of her aunts and uncles were autoworkers.
"How'd your parents meet?" asked Mack, still persistently steering the conversation.
"My father is my mother's second husband," said Pauline. "Her first was this big, bad charismatic dude from the old neighborhood named Alvin Craig. Craig was a drag racer, a brawler, always in and out of trouble with the law, and once when he was drinking, he beat up my mother. The last time he tried to do it, she was five months pregnant with me. She called the cops.
"The cop who arrived at the house was a big tough guy, too. He took one look at my mother and asked Alvin if they could talk outside for a little bit. My parents lived in a tiny row house, and for about an hour Alvin and the cop sat on the stoop out front.
"There was no fighting. No yelling. Neither one even raised his voice. When they got up, my lather went upstairs, threw his stuff into two suitcases, and left for good. The cop stayed for coffee, and a few months later my mother had a new husband.
"I might never have known the real story except that one day when I was fifteen and acting like a total brat, I called my father an asshole. My mother was furious. She decided it was time I learned how they met and fell in love. They are a sweet couple, actually."
It was an impossible story to top, so Mack didn't even try. But he offered childhood tales of his own, including the time he and his best mate, Tommy McGoey, hopped a lorry and spent three days walking around Dublin, sleeping under wagons and living on stolen milk and rolls, mesmerized by everything they laid their eyes on. Pauline had inspired him to dredge up stories that were new even to me.
That's the kind of serenely magical night it was, when friendship feels as solid as family, and family as light and untroubled as friendship. I suppose it was too sweet to last. Just before midnight we heard a car door slam in the driveway. Then the sound of shoes scraping on the gravel.
When I turned to look, Dana was walking toward us like a long blond ghost.
"Ah, speak of the devil," said Mack.
Chapter 52
FOR THIRTY EXCRUCIATING SECONDS, the eye contact around the table was as fast and furious as a Kabuki drama.
"Don't all act too excited to see me," Dana said finally. She turned toward the dark-haired stranger.
"I'm Dana. Jack's girlfriend. I think."
"Pauline."
After extending an urgent conciliatory shrug toward Pauline, I turned to my self-described girlfriend.
"Pauline's a very good friend from Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel," I said, and regretted it instantly.