crossing the border. The huge colorful birds that had lifespans equal to that of a man were always in great demand in the drab streets of the barrios.
The barber shop was in a small frame building with asbestos siding. The front door was approached from the sidewalk by ascending three cement steps, but to get to the steps you had to slide around a telephone pole that was inexplicably installed in the center of the sidewalk and aligned with the center of the steps. Herrera had coopted the pole, in defiance perhaps, and painted it barber-pole red, white, and blue up to a height level with the roofline of his shop. It was the most obvious sign on the street. Sparrows had nearly covered the transformer at the top of the pole with their frumpish nests, and their chalky droppings whitened the sidewalk in a two-foot diameter around the pole.
The barber nodded at them as they came into the shop and sat down in the chrome armchairs covered in pea-green vinyl that were lined up against the wall opposite the two barber chairs. Haydon picked up a copy of Impacto. The cover of the magazine was dominated by a Mexican vocalist smiling brilliantly and singing into a chrome microphone. He wore a shiny, lead-blue suit and was standing against a flamingo-pink background. Mooney looked through a scrungy copy of People. The barbershop smelled of sweet tonics and scented powders.
The barber put the finishing touches on the middle-aged man in the chair and whirled him around to check out the new job in the long mirror behind the chair. The man looked at himself out of the corners of his eyes as he twisted his head, then nodded and said, "Bien ." The barber stripped the apron from around the man's neck and dusted inside his collar with a little round brush into which he had shaken scented powder. The man got up from the chair, paid, and went out the door, using the candy-striped telephone pole to steady himself as he descended the steps.
Haydon put down the magazine and stood, as the barber looked at him and shook out the stripped apron, popping it twice.
"We were looking for Ernesto Herrera," Haydon said, reaching in his pocket and presenting his shield.
"You talkin' about my brawther, Ernesto," the barber said. "I'm Ricardo." He smiled and flashed a single gold incisor. His long upper lip was adorned with a thin mustache that rose in two upright lines at the center.
"Your brother's not here?" Haydon asked.
"Naw, he's gone home for lawnch. He won't be back here till two." His face sobered quickly. "Hey, that wass bad business over there, huh? Ernesto, he tol' me." He paused. "Man, I seen ever'thing aroun' here, you know. Shootings ... cuttings ... beatings ... but this one, it's the first nailing/"
He could hardly keep his face straight until he got it out, a kind of staccato throat laugh followed by, "Shit!" Haydon guessed he had pulled that on every customer he had wrapped his apron around that morning.
Behind him, Haydon heard Mooney say sarcastically, "Oh, that's apisser."
"When do you close?" Haydon asked.
"Close? Six. Nine on Thursdays, but this ain't Thursday."
"I can find your brother here until six?"
"Oh, sure, sure. You can catch him later. Ernesto will be happy to talk to you about it."
"I hope he's got a better feel for comedy than his 'brawther,' " Mooney said, standing, and preceding Haydon out the door.
Another customer was coming in as they were going out. "Hey, Javier," Herrera said brightly, "Que dice?" The striped apron popped twice.
They stood on the edge of the sidewalk and looked across to the gates. There was nothing along the wall to indicate what had happened there earlier that morning. They crossed the street and approached the iron gates. Haydon looked through at the dead undergrowth that surrounded the house.
"Lock's on the inside," Mooney said. He reached in and lifted it, looked at its bottom, and dropped it quickly, shaking his hand. "Shit!" He licked his burned fingers. "Brass facing's scratched around the keyhole."
The barber shop was in a small frame building with asbestos siding. The front door was approached from the sidewalk by ascending three cement steps, but to get to the steps you had to slide around a telephone pole that was inexplicably installed in the center of the sidewalk and aligned with the center of the steps. Herrera had coopted the pole, in defiance perhaps, and painted it barber-pole red, white, and blue up to a height level with the roofline of his shop. It was the most obvious sign on the street. Sparrows had nearly covered the transformer at the top of the pole with their frumpish nests, and their chalky droppings whitened the sidewalk in a two-foot diameter around the pole.
The barber nodded at them as they came into the shop and sat down in the chrome armchairs covered in pea-green vinyl that were lined up against the wall opposite the two barber chairs. Haydon picked up a copy of Impacto. The cover of the magazine was dominated by a Mexican vocalist smiling brilliantly and singing into a chrome microphone. He wore a shiny, lead-blue suit and was standing against a flamingo-pink background. Mooney looked through a scrungy copy of People. The barbershop smelled of sweet tonics and scented powders.
The barber put the finishing touches on the middle-aged man in the chair and whirled him around to check out the new job in the long mirror behind the chair. The man looked at himself out of the corners of his eyes as he twisted his head, then nodded and said, "Bien ." The barber stripped the apron from around the man's neck and dusted inside his collar with a little round brush into which he had shaken scented powder. The man got up from the chair, paid, and went out the door, using the candy-striped telephone pole to steady himself as he descended the steps.
Haydon put down the magazine and stood, as the barber looked at him and shook out the stripped apron, popping it twice.
"We were looking for Ernesto Herrera," Haydon said, reaching in his pocket and presenting his shield.
"You talkin' about my brawther, Ernesto," the barber said. "I'm Ricardo." He smiled and flashed a single gold incisor. His long upper lip was adorned with a thin mustache that rose in two upright lines at the center.
"Your brother's not here?" Haydon asked.
"Naw, he's gone home for lawnch. He won't be back here till two." His face sobered quickly. "Hey, that wass bad business over there, huh? Ernesto, he tol' me." He paused. "Man, I seen ever'thing aroun' here, you know. Shootings ... cuttings ... beatings ... but this one, it's the first nailing/"
He could hardly keep his face straight until he got it out, a kind of staccato throat laugh followed by, "Shit!" Haydon guessed he had pulled that on every customer he had wrapped his apron around that morning.
Behind him, Haydon heard Mooney say sarcastically, "Oh, that's apisser."
"When do you close?" Haydon asked.
"Close? Six. Nine on Thursdays, but this ain't Thursday."
"I can find your brother here until six?"
"Oh, sure, sure. You can catch him later. Ernesto will be happy to talk to you about it."
"I hope he's got a better feel for comedy than his 'brawther,' " Mooney said, standing, and preceding Haydon out the door.
Another customer was coming in as they were going out. "Hey, Javier," Herrera said brightly, "Que dice?" The striped apron popped twice.
They stood on the edge of the sidewalk and looked across to the gates. There was nothing along the wall to indicate what had happened there earlier that morning. They crossed the street and approached the iron gates. Haydon looked through at the dead undergrowth that surrounded the house.
"Lock's on the inside," Mooney said. He reached in and lifted it, looked at its bottom, and dropped it quickly, shaking his hand. "Shit!" He licked his burned fingers. "Brass facing's scratched around the keyhole."
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