Page 10

Don’t Be Afraid

Hector Chavez’s favorite part of his day was wiping down his barber chair while he waited for his next customer. He loved the smell of Barbicide and the way one pass of a white paper towel across the smoothness of the red leather erased the day’s grime.

He wished all his jobs were as easy to clean up.

Hector lifted the no smoking sign off the counter, passed the cloth underneath, and then picked up the desktop calendar, catching a glimpse of the year.

More than a decade had passed since Hector had left Ilopango, El Salvador, after the gang truce fell apart.

The two years of peace a Catholic bishop and a former guerrilla soldier had negotiated among the local gang leaders had given Hector a taste of the life he had loved to watch on American television, sitting on his mother’s battered sofa: dads working in bakeries, auto shops, or barbershops and going home at the end of their workday to happy wives and children.

Toasters on the kitchen counter, ice cream in the freezer, curtains on the windows.

So when the truce had fallen apart and gang tags had begun reappearing on buildings and bodies showing up in alleys, some young men had started looking for better options.

Hector was one of the lucky ones.

He got out.

He had headed for the nearby resort town, used his good looks to warm a lonely American’s heart, and had married his way to a new life.

Coming from the country with the world’s highest murder rate, Hector had developed some habits early in life that he’d never shake, like checking if doors locked behind him and if strange people lurked outside.

That’s why, when he was giving the high school kid a number-one fade on the sides, the van cruising the strip plaza’s parking lot caught his eye.

As he moved to the kid’s left, he watched the vehicle in the mirror as it slowed and passed by his storefront, circled back to the far end of the parking lot, and reversed into a space.

Periodically, Hector checked to find the van still there.

The plaza was a two-story strip of eight storefronts with apartments above.

Half the structure was occupied by Hector’s shop, a bakery, a dry cleaner, and a nail salon.

The other half housed a bowling alley that was a popular destination for birthday parties.

Hector was used to seeing minivans in the parking lot.

They regularly pulled up, and kids poured out carrying brightly wrapped presents.

But this was different. There were no kids tumbling from this van. It remained parked while Hector moved on to the next customer and clipped away at the young dad’s fringe.

The barber liked doing those kinds of styles best.

Anyone can drag clippers over someone’s scalp, but to separate and hold strands of hair between your fingers and snip away at your own discretion—that required skill.

So when Hector cut one piece too short, his eyes flashed to that van, perturbed by its distraction.

He cashed the dad out, swept his trimmings up from the floor, gathered the garbage, and slipped out the shop’s back door.

As he moved along the rear of the strip plaza, he crouched, peered around the corner of the dumpster, and zeroed in on the van.

He watched for a few moments, then, satisfied, quietly tossed his trash and returned to his shop.

Hector gave one more buzz cut, a two on the side, three on the top, wiped down his red leather chair, and was locking up when he heard the van’s motor turn over.

As he closed the shop’s door he pretended to fumble with his key, giving himself time to watch the vehicle’s approach in the door’s reflection.

This would be interesting.

He turned to face the parking lot.

The van slowed to a stop in front of him, and its side door slid open.

“Hector, don’t be afraid,”

the dark-haired woman said from the backseat as she pushed her glasses up her nose.

* * *

From his vantage point behind the dumpster, Hector had recognized the van’s driver, the skinny one with the blond bob, as Hank’s wife—he recalled her periodically popping her head in to pass on some message to her husband as he sat in the chair.

Hector had hugged the brick wall and watched as one of the other women had passed her a box.

She’d selected a donut, licked the white powder off her fingers, and had brushed away the sprinkles dusting her T-shirt.

He’d thought the dark-haired woman in the back looked like Larry’s wife.

He doubted she was Dave’s wife, as Hector recalled someone saying she was moving to Florida.

Too bad about Dave.

Not many guys that age could pull off a pompadour like he had.

Virtually no recession at the hairline or thinning on the crown, and he’d been over sixty.

So if those were Hank and Larry’s wives, and Dave’s was moving away, then the woman in the passenger seat, with the braids, was most likely their buddy Andre’s wife.

A big, friendly guy, Andre had his own barber but would occasionally come in to collect one of his pals on their way fishing.

When the van door slid open, the woman added, “We’d like to talk to you. Privately. Would you mind joining us?”

She scooted across the bench to sit behind the driver.

As Hector hopped in, he smiled at the women and asked, “Got any donuts left?”

Their gasps of surprise rolled into titters of laughter.

“Oh, you’re good,”

Hank’s wife said. “I told you guys he’d be good.” She put the van in gear and pulled ahead to park in a spot on the other side of the lot. She lifted her driver’s seat arm and pivoted to face him.

The woman on the passenger side released her seat and spun it around, as if she were about to pull out a deck of cards and deal a hand of euchre. She passed him the almost empty box of donuts, and he studied the selection, giving himself time to think. He decided on the sour cream–glazed and to say as little as possible. Did they know Hank had already hired him? Is that why they were here? Were they worried about their husbands’ safety and wanted to check that things were on track? His smartest move was to listen. He took a bite and accepted the offered bottle of water.

Hank’s wife started. “I think you might have a sense of who we are, but we don’t think we should get into that yet.”

She cleared her throat. “We know you have a very particular set of skills. Skills you have acquired over a very long career. Skills that can make you a nightmare for some people.”

Was she quoting Taken? Hector took another bite of his donut. He loved Liam Neeson in that movie. Even the sequel. On the periphery he could see the other two women, on the edge of their seats, nodding.

The one beside him, Larry’s wife, jumped in. “We’d like to hire that set of skills.”

“Skills?”

Hector said. His wife had taught him the trick of dealing with people in sticky situations: Repeat their last word. That keeps them talking and they’ll tell you more, but it also gives you time to figure out what the fuck is going on.

“Yes, your skills,”

Hank’s wife said. “We’ll cut to the chase, Hector. It’s just us in this van, and our word against yours if this conversation ever goes any further. Can we speak frankly?”

“Frankly?”

Hector said.

“Yes. Frankly. We’re going to put our cards on the table.”

Hank’s wife looked at Andre’s wife. “You tell him.”

“Me?”

Andre’s wife jumped back a bit.

“Yes. You. It was your idea,”

Hank’s wife said.

“My idea! I don’t think it was my idea. It was Nancy’s idea.”

Andre’s wife looked at the woman beside him on the bench seat.

“I thought we weren’t using names,”

Nancy said. “Shalisa.” She looked at the driver. “And Pam.”

Okay. His wife was right yet again. Now he knew their names. Hector opened his water bottle and took a swig. His wife had three sisters, and he knew enough to keep quiet.

Pam scowled at the other two women, cleared her throat, and looked at Hector. “Okay. We’d like to hire you to do a hit.”

It was a good thing Hector had already swallowed or he might have spurted out his mouthful of water. But he had long ago learned to hold a poker face. Sometimes his wife asked if his facial muscles had died off when he was a teenager. He’d explained to her that a blank face is less likely to get someone stabbed, so Hector had perfected it. And he used it now, but it wasn’t easy. “A hit?”

he repeated.

“Hits,”

Nancy said. Pam and Shalisa nodded.

“Plural.”

Shalisa stared at him intently.

Pam took a deep breath, then exhaled. “We want you to knock off our husbands.”

Of all the things Hector imagined these women could have said to him in this van, that was not one of them. Hector worked to keep his face still and decided he’d better be careful about his swigs of water. What else could come out of these women’s mouths?

Nancy said, “But it has to look like an accident. We don’t want a murder investigation, or suspicion of suicide. And . . . and . . . what else?”

She and the other women exchanged looks. Nancy fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

“You brought notes?” Pam said.

“Good thing I did. Lotta help you two are.”

She unfolded the paper and pushed her glasses to the top of her head. She positioned the page to catch the light and squinted. “Oh yeah. It has to happen all together. Not separate incidents. And bodies.” She looked at Hector. “The bodies have to be found.”

Shalisa explained, “So we don’t have to wait seven years for the insurance money.”

Ah. They wanted to kill their husbands for their insurance money. This was like a Law & Order episode. “How many?”

Hector asked.

“Three,” Pam said.

Hank had been right. Someone was trying to kill them. It had occurred to Hector perhaps his longtime customer was suffering a bit of paranoia, brought on by his buddy’s death. But Hank had never said outright it was their wives. Sometimes the truth is a difficult pill to swallow. And to say out loud. Even to your barber.

Hector learned a long time ago not to ask about motives. Because people lie about that. And sometimes the motives were fucked up. But he had three wives wanting their husbands dead. And three husbands wanting him to kill whoever it was who wanted them dead. Obviously there was a decision to be made here. He’d have to talk it over with his wife.

“How much do you charge?”

Nancy asked.

“Fifty grand.”

The women looked pleased.

“Each,”

Hector added.

“Each!”

Nancy said. “We were hoping we could get a group discount.”

Hector took another swig of water. “You can hope all you want. One-fifty for the three.”

“Maybe we could go to seventy-five,”

Nancy said.

Hector edged forward to leave.

“Okay, okay. One-fifty.”

Nancy raised her palms to the other women and said, “It’s an investment in our future.”

Hector thought for a moment. He should at least try to make them understand what they were getting into. He leaned back in his seat. “Listen. You don’t want to do this.”

“Yes. We do,”

they said, pretty much all at once.

Hector grimaced. “No. You don’t. Once you do this, there’s no turnin’ back.”

They nodded.

“And you gotta pay.”

“We will,”

Nancy said.

Hector looked at Nancy for a long moment. “Because you really don’t want to do this if you’re not able to pay. You understand what I’m saying? Not paying is not an option.”

They nodded.

“If you do this, you’re in another world. And the rules are different there. Comprende?”

They nodded.

“Say it,”

Hector said.

“We understand,”

Nancy said.

Hector looked at Pam, and then Shalisa, and they each said, “We understand.”

Hector shrugged. “Okay. You pay me fifty now and a hundred after. When are you thinkin’?”

He screwed the cap back on his water bottle while the women considered his question.

Nancy spoke. “We were thinking soon.”

She shrugged at the other women. “Why not? Might as well get on with our lives.” She turned back to Hector. “This weekend.”

Hector nodded and stepped out of the van. Before he slid the door closed, he looked directly at each of the women one last time, then said, “Don’t make me make you regret this.”