Cut to the Bone(28)

“What song?”

Now that’s sad! “You’re awfully young to work this late, aren’t you?”

“Hah! I wish! I’m twenty-two,” the barber said, snipping away. “Dad and Grandpa work days. I’m still going to school, so I take the night shifts.”

“Three generations of cutters?”

The barber smiled. “Four, I hope. My wife’s expecting.”

“Congratulations,” the Executioner said. “Hoping for a son?”

“Doesn’t matter, as long as he’s healthy.”

“Gotcha.”

The barber smiled. He finished the top, then moved to the sides. “Congratulations, by the way. You’re my very last customer of the night.”

“Explains why you put out the closed sign and pulled the blinds,” the Executioner said, knowing very well the shop schedule. “I thought it was me.”

“Nah. I’ve been on my feet all day,” the barber said. “School, then work. The governor himself could ask for a trim, and I’d still close up at nine.” He squared the left sideburn, scooted over to the right. “You enjoying the drive?”

“Very much. Tons of scenery. Restaurants along the way have been good.”

“Got some great ones here in Holbrook. Tell them I sent you, and they’ll knock off ten percent,” the barber said, naming several. “I’m Frank Mahoney, by the way.”

“As in Three Franks Barber Shop?” the Executioner said, pointing to the backward lettering on the picture window.

“That’s right,” Mahoney said. “Grandpa, Dad, and Roman numeral.”

“Glad to meet you, Frank the Third.” The Executioner stuck his hand from under the cotton bib, the stripes of which matched the pole out front. They shook.

“Why are you wearing gloves?” Mahoney asked, going back to the scissors.

“Burned my hands while barbecuing,” the Executioner lied. “Doctor says the gloves make it heal faster.” He raised an eyebrow. “Hey, do I detect a Midwest accent?”

“You’ve got a good ear,” Mahoney said. “Grandpa’s from Illinois and still talks funny. Guess I picked up a little.”

“We don’t talk funny,” the Executioner said. “You do.”

Mahoney laughed. “That’s what Grandpa says. He loves Illinois.”

“Why’d he move to Holbrook, then?”

“Says all that snow got to him. He was a dentist in Springfield. That’s near Chicago, right?”

“Three hours south.”

Mahoney’s shrug said, Close enough. “Anyway, Dad says Grandpa liked winters till 1972, then all of a sudden had enough. He pulled up stakes and moved the family here.”

“Why a barber shop when he was a dentist?”

“Holbrook already had two dentists,” Mahoney explained. “Plus he was tired of putting his fingers in everybody’s mouth. The shop was successful right off, and Dad joined him. Then me.”

“The family business.”

“For longer than I’ve been alive,” Mahoney said. “What do you do?”

“Food service executive,” the Executioner said.

“Cool.”

“Keeps me busy,” he said, nodding toward the window. “Do you like Holbrook?”

“Well, it’s the gateway to the Painted Desert,” Mahoney said artfully.

“And hours from Phoenix, Vegas, or any other big city,” the Executioner said. “I’d think it’d get pretty lonely sometimes for a young man going places.”

Mahoney smiled. “You’re never lonely in a small town. Everyone stops by to stick their nose in your business.”

“Touché,” the Executioner said, laughing.

“Where are you staying tonight?” Mahoney asked as he rubbed steaming white lather onto neck, cheeks, and chin. “Best Western? Holiday Inn? Or out at the Wigwam?” He grinned at the perplexed look. “It’s a motel. Concrete wigwams with beds, bathrooms, and air-conditioning. I know it sounds touristy, but it’s actually cool.”

“Sounds fun,” the Executioner said. “But I can’t. I’m pushing through to Los Angeles.”

“Tonight?”

“Soon as I’m done with you.”

Mahoney frowned. “That’s an awfully long drive. Nine hours, at least. Hotter’n hell crossing the Mojave Desert in August - even at midnight it’s over a hundred. Your car breaks down, you’ll fry like bacon before the highway patrol shows up.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You sure you need to push that hard?” Mahoney pressed. “Especially on vacation and all? I’d be glad to call the Wigwam, get you the Three Franks discount.”