day, then came in every other night after closing time to do the rest. Sometimes at six, sometimes at nine, sometimes as late as midnight; Mickey allowed him to set his own schedule.
“I found your boy,” he said, the instant Gunner answered the phone.
It took Gunner a moment to place the voice. Phone calls from Foley were not a common occurrence. “Foley?”
“I found ‘im, man. The boy you lookin’ for.”
“Pearson?”
“Yeah. The one … the one you been askin’ about.”
Foley sounded odd.
“Where is he?”
After a long pause, Foley said, “You gotta meet me here at Mickey’s. I’ll show you.”
“Mickey’s?”
“Yeah. I’m here right now, finishin’ up. Come on down an’ I’ll show you where the boy’s at.”
“Come on down? What do I want to come down there for? Just tell me where he is now and I’ll go find him myself.”
“No! You … It ain’t gonna work that way, man. I gotta take you to ‘im.”
“I don’t understand,” Gunner said.
“Look. It’s like, where the boy’s at, you’d never find it on your own. I gotta take you there. Otherwise …” He let his voice trail off.
“Yeah?”
“Otherwise, you ain’t gonna get there in time. ’Cause he ain’t likely to be there long. Fact, he might be gone already, I don’t know.”
He wasn’t making a great deal of sense, but Gunner had the feeling he could talk to him all night and he still wouldn’t. Foley could be like that, especially with a drink or two in him.
“I’ll be right down,” Gunner said, only halfway sure he was strong enough to make it as far as his front door.
The first thing he saw when he came in was the man in the barber chair.
The third and last chair in the shop, furthest from the door. Mickey’s chair. The lights weren’t working and the room was black as coal, and the chair had been turned around to show its back to him, but Gunner could see the man—if it was a man—sitting there just the same, reflected many times over in the shop’s mirrored walls. A silent and motionless ghoul, wearing one of Mickey’s striped barber aprons over his head like a shroud.
He was about Foley’s height.
Gunner called Foley’s name once, twice, but the body in the chair didn’t move. He tried the light switch again, and again received the same result: nothing. His head began to swim. He’d come halfway prepared for something like this, but now that he’d found it, he wanted no part of it. He never did.
He lifted the nine-millimeter Ruger automatic from the waistband of his pants and started forward.
“Foley! Is that you?”
The head under the apron shifted, then grew still again. Foley coming around, or Michael Pearson playing possum; it was impossible to tell which.
He hoped to God it was Foley.
The chair wasn’t more than fifteen feet away, yet it felt like a distance he would never live to cross. The silence in the room was paralyzing. Just beyond the chair, past a beaded curtain hanging in an open doorway, more darkness loomed: the office in the back. A black pit offering him nothing but one more thing to fear.
He made it to the chair.
The clothes and shoes beneath the barber’s apron looked like Foley’s, but he couldn’t be sure. It was still too dark to be sure about anything. He held the Ruger out with his right hand, aimed directly at the hooded man’s skull, and spun the chair around with his left, yanking the apron away as he did so.
Gagged and unconscious, Foley fell forward toward him just as the beaded curtain nearby exploded, thrown aside by someone entering the room like a projectile fired from a cannon.
Gunner tried to swing the gun around, but too late: He was knocked off his feet before he could complete the motion, ducking a right hand thrown at his head that only partially missed. The two men hit the floor hard, Gunner leading with his back, his right cheek burning strangely.
He figured he was good for ten, maybe fifteen seconds of serious horseplay; any
“I found your boy,” he said, the instant Gunner answered the phone.
It took Gunner a moment to place the voice. Phone calls from Foley were not a common occurrence. “Foley?”
“I found ‘im, man. The boy you lookin’ for.”
“Pearson?”
“Yeah. The one … the one you been askin’ about.”
Foley sounded odd.
“Where is he?”
After a long pause, Foley said, “You gotta meet me here at Mickey’s. I’ll show you.”
“Mickey’s?”
“Yeah. I’m here right now, finishin’ up. Come on down an’ I’ll show you where the boy’s at.”
“Come on down? What do I want to come down there for? Just tell me where he is now and I’ll go find him myself.”
“No! You … It ain’t gonna work that way, man. I gotta take you to ‘im.”
“I don’t understand,” Gunner said.
“Look. It’s like, where the boy’s at, you’d never find it on your own. I gotta take you there. Otherwise …” He let his voice trail off.
“Yeah?”
“Otherwise, you ain’t gonna get there in time. ’Cause he ain’t likely to be there long. Fact, he might be gone already, I don’t know.”
He wasn’t making a great deal of sense, but Gunner had the feeling he could talk to him all night and he still wouldn’t. Foley could be like that, especially with a drink or two in him.
“I’ll be right down,” Gunner said, only halfway sure he was strong enough to make it as far as his front door.
The first thing he saw when he came in was the man in the barber chair.
The third and last chair in the shop, furthest from the door. Mickey’s chair. The lights weren’t working and the room was black as coal, and the chair had been turned around to show its back to him, but Gunner could see the man—if it was a man—sitting there just the same, reflected many times over in the shop’s mirrored walls. A silent and motionless ghoul, wearing one of Mickey’s striped barber aprons over his head like a shroud.
He was about Foley’s height.
Gunner called Foley’s name once, twice, but the body in the chair didn’t move. He tried the light switch again, and again received the same result: nothing. His head began to swim. He’d come halfway prepared for something like this, but now that he’d found it, he wanted no part of it. He never did.
He lifted the nine-millimeter Ruger automatic from the waistband of his pants and started forward.
“Foley! Is that you?”
The head under the apron shifted, then grew still again. Foley coming around, or Michael Pearson playing possum; it was impossible to tell which.
He hoped to God it was Foley.
The chair wasn’t more than fifteen feet away, yet it felt like a distance he would never live to cross. The silence in the room was paralyzing. Just beyond the chair, past a beaded curtain hanging in an open doorway, more darkness loomed: the office in the back. A black pit offering him nothing but one more thing to fear.
He made it to the chair.
The clothes and shoes beneath the barber’s apron looked like Foley’s, but he couldn’t be sure. It was still too dark to be sure about anything. He held the Ruger out with his right hand, aimed directly at the hooded man’s skull, and spun the chair around with his left, yanking the apron away as he did so.
Gagged and unconscious, Foley fell forward toward him just as the beaded curtain nearby exploded, thrown aside by someone entering the room like a projectile fired from a cannon.
Gunner tried to swing the gun around, but too late: He was knocked off his feet before he could complete the motion, ducking a right hand thrown at his head that only partially missed. The two men hit the floor hard, Gunner leading with his back, his right cheek burning strangely.
He figured he was good for ten, maybe fifteen seconds of serious horseplay; any
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