“You look fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Hey, Bubbles,” Sal said, “hey, Bubbles, come on now.”
“That’s all right,” I told Sal.
“Sure,” Bubbles said, relenting, holding open palms up at the level of his lapels, a broad, innocent “Who, me?” smile on his face. “No more shop talk.”
“Next?” Sal called out nervously, and I took a chair different from the one Bubbles had just vacated. The two of them did some business at Sal’s big brass register and then Bubbles left. “ ‘Next,’ “ Sal said, “you know how long it’s been since I said that?”
“Business is bad?”
“Business is booming,” Sal said, watching Bubbles cross the street and get into a car. “He brings his own towels,” Sal whispered after Bubbles had started the car and driven off.
“Who is he?” I asked.
Sal didn’t answer. He pointed to some loose locks, clipped fur-balls of different-colored hair scattered about the floor of his shop. “That’s off of dead people,” he told me. “I put it down there. To make the place look lived in. What do you think? Too much?”
“It’s nice.”
“Yeah? Maybe I’ll get a darky with a push broom. Give me shoeshines, fetch me coffee. Hey,” Sal said, “you were safe there with Bubbles. You think I’d jeopardize a pal? He’s a wise guy. So how is it having the kid back? Is it great? Kids,” Sal said, “you can’t live with ’em, you can’t live without ’em. Hey,” he said, “she came in one time, asked me some stuff about Jesus. Said it was for a report she was doing for her school. I told her what I know. I don’t know much. Did I do wrong?”
“Who is he?”
“I said,” Sal said. “Just some wise guy. Hey, those birds don’t shoot you for kicks, you know. There has to be something in it for them. Sure,” he said, “the hardest guy in the world to rile is a professional hit man. You can give him lip, butt in front of him in line, spill soup down his pants, he won’t lift a finger. I don’t know, it’s a professional pride, something.”
“Sal,” I said, “I saw his gun.”
“A calling card, a trademark. Like my barber pole, like that shit on my floor.” Then, urgently, he leaned toward my ear. “All the years you been coming into this shop,” Sal scolded, “did I ever hold out on you? Wasn’t I always up front? Didn’t I already tell you fifty-sixty times about the American way of death? What’d you think that stuff was I was feeding you? Folklore? It was hard information. Jesus, Padre, show me a guy brings his own towels, I’ll show you a fuck working hard on his image! And he ain’t shy, that one. Or even like I was in some need-to-know relation to him. Hell,” Sal said, “I’m a dime a dozen with a man like that. We all are. He’s got barbers all across New Jersey, throughout the entire tristate viewing area. A hot towel here, a manicure there, a haircut somewhere else. Dropping hints all over. ‘Here, Sally,’ he says, ‘use my towels instead.’ Fucking showboat.”
“It’s a sickness,” I said. “Some people are terrified of germs.”
“He don’t give a shit about germs. It’s in case they shoot him while he’s in my shop. He says he don’t need it on his conscience he’s the one responsible for ruining my towels. Who the hell does he think he is, Anthony Anastasia? Fucking showboat! How do you want it today, Rabbi, the usual?”
“What hard information did you ever give me?”
“Oh, come on,” Sal said, “what more did you need?”
“What hard information?”
“Oh, please,” Sal said.
“No,” I said, “really.”
“What do you want to see, Rabbi, a bill of lading? You want to look in a body bag? Come down to the basement of the business parlor with me. We’ll look in the one Bubbles brought in.”
“What are you talking about?”
“No, no,” Sal said, “we’ll check him out against the death certificate. You’ll see for yourself.”
“What will I see for myself? What are you talking about?”
“No, no,” Sal said, “don’t take my word.”
“Boy,” I said, “who is it this time? Jimmy Hoffa?”
“You already did Jimmy Hoffa.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know. Some guy who’s connected.”
“He couldn’t have been too connected,” I said.
“They disconnected him.”
“Sure,” I said.
“I seen him, Rov. What they done to him. He looks like Beirut.”
“Watch out, Sal, the goblins’ll get you.”
“Probably,” Sal said. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “they probably will.”
“Come on,” I said, “what’s this? You can’t really be scared. This is more shmooz and hot towels, right?”
“Right.”
“Talc and toilet water.”
“That’s right,” Sal said.
“A little hair oil and stickum.”
“Why do you think they tell me?” Sal demanded suddenly. “Why do you think he showed off in front of you? Why do you think they let us know their business? What’s wrong with you? If they didn’t want to make certain we were going to protect their secrets, why would they let us learn them in the first place? Guys like that? Like him? God damn Tober’s goddamn Edward! God damn his sporty poster kid who can’t tell here from there, up from down, in from out. God damn Shull’s fucking goddamn needs. God damn need itself or whatever else it was stole shit from the gods and brought it to goddamn Lud!”
“Hey, easy,” I said, “easy there, Sal. Easy.”
“Like Beirut. I swear. Like he was in an earthquake. Jesus, Rabbi, he looks like a fucking act of God!”
“Who, Sal? Who does?”
“Who knows who does?” Sal said, and showed me a death certificate. “The guy, the special delivery in the business parlor, but who knows who does? He could have been anybody. They bring them in from all walks of life. Guys behind on their payments. Insider trader guys from Wall Street whose inside information didn’t pan out. He could have been anyone who ever disappointed them.”
“This has a woman’s name on it.”
“So,” Sal said, “I guess they’ll be wanting a closed casket then, hey, Rabbi?”
Our own odd version of the car pool — sillier than ever, I suppose, since Connie would no longer permit her classmates to ride with her — had started up again. She was adamant about the point, even though some of the mothers had begun to call, making overtures, devising schedules, proposing ways to divide the labor. She was too humiliated, she said, and told us that the only reason the kids were willing to start up a car pool with us was her notoriety, that she’d become a character. Nor, for the same reasons, would she agree to ride in the school bus. I tried to reason with her, but she had put her foot down, made up her mind.
“The only one you’re punishing here is your mother,” I said.
“I’ll run away if you make me ride to school with other kids,” Connie said.
“It’s all right,” Shelley said. “I don’t mind driving. Really. Real-la-le-lee.”
“This isn’t fair,” I said. “Do you think this is fair, Connie?”
“Whoever said life is fair?” Connie said.
“No one,” I said.
“I don’t even mind if life isn’t fair,” Shelley said.
“Hey,” Connie said, “no sweat. I’ll run away.”