Page 7

Whatever Needs Doin’

Hank sat in a row of chairs with his back to the wall, scanning the strip plaza parking lot through the barbershop’s storefront window.

That’s how it was now.

Everywhere he went, Hank checked for suspicious faces or vehicles, in case Dave’s killers were tracking him.

The news reports he’d read about missing executives told tales of the victims abruptly disappearing from the street—being pushed into idling, curbside vehicles or dragged through open doorways.

Never to be seen again.

Well, at least, not seen alive.

Hank had googled how to spot a tail but didn’t feel overly confident he’d absorbed anything useful.

He didn’t know who he was up against.

With the casino ownership’s ties to organized crime in India, he speculated head office could have sent someone from Mumbai.

Or Padma sourced someone locally.

He didn’t know.

What he did know was—he had to stay focused on not becoming their next victim.

If there was one thing anyone said about Hank Montgomery, it was that he doesn’t go down without a fight.

Not that he’d ever really been in a fight.

At least, not since he’d played sports as a kid, and even then, he always wore the proper protective equipment.

But Hank knew, when push came to shove, he would shove.

But Hank also knew he was smarter than the average bear, so really, when push came to shove, he’d look for a way to dodge the push.

He peeled the wrapper off a Three Musketeers chocolate bar and rammed half in his mouth.

And on top of everything else, he had Pam on him about pad thai.

Fucking pad thai.

But she was right, he shouldn’t have eaten it.

He knew it was her favorite.

It was a moment of weakness, and he hadn’t even considered what he was doing.

He’d stood in front of the fridge with a fork in his hand and before he knew it, he’d eaten anything that wasn’t moldy.

He didn’t know when he’d last had a proper meal, and shoveling the noodles in his mouth calmed his nerves, and these days, his nerves were a mess.

He would have preferred a few scotches, but he had to keep his wits about him.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and saw that his daughter had sent him a photo.

He clicked on it and smiled.

Ran his thumb down the curve of Claire’s cheek.

She was holding up a fish.

He couldn’t tell what kind.

Probably snapper.

She was just like her old man.

From the time she was a toddler she loved to join him on the water.

He could hardly wait to take her and Pam fishing in New Zealand. It would be just like the old days. Plus Claire’s husband, Dylan, would join them. He took tourists scuba diving for a living, he’d know where to find the big ones. What could be better?

Hank put his phone away and stuffed the last half of the chocolate bar in his cheek, tossed the wrapper in the trash, and chewed.

After a moment he chased it with a Tums tablet and grabbed a fishing magazine from the dog-eared stack on the barbershop table.

He rolled it and unrolled it.

Normally, he’d dive into an article while he waited, but today he couldn’t even focus on the pictures; they bounced as his leg jiggled.

He looked at the empty chair beside him and wished he could see Dave’s long limbs stretched out in front of him, his scuffed boots crossed at the ankles.

The two of them quietly chatting until they’d split apart if other casino workers happened in.

He missed his pal.

He pushed the heel of his hand against the knot in his chest that had appeared when he had found Dave on his driveway.

Hank wasn’t sure if it was grief, fear, or indigestion; he just wanted it to go away.

Finally, Hector finished with his teenage customer, whipped the kid’s cape off, and shook out the trimmings.

Hank slid into the red leather seat.

“Number two all around, straight at the back.

And hit the eyebrows.”

Hank had been coming to this shop since he and Pam moved to the neighborhood.

He thought back ten years to when Hector had become the new owner.

How the barber had directed Hank into the chair with a nod, then draped the cape around him with a flourish, like a matador waving at a bull.

His dark hair had been slicked back, and his deep-set eyes pitch black.

The absence of typical barber banter had put Hank on edge.

Silently, Hector had inspected his tools before making his selection and then had snapped open his straight razor and stepped toward the chair.

The hairs on Hank’s arms had shot to attention.

Hank had sat perfectly still, barely breathing, while Hector had scraped his sharp blade along the edge of Hank’s hairline above his ears and the nape of his neck.

When the barber came alongside him and lifted his arm, Hank had caught a glimpse inside the sleeve of his guayabera shirt.

He had hoped Hector didn’t notice his quick intake of breath when he’d spotted the scars—parallel, angry, red, puckered lines scored the tender area under Hector’s right arm, as though someone had dragged a rake deeply across his torso.

Or branded him with one.

When Hector had moved to his other side, Hank had peeked again and seen a matching set on his left.

They were so precise that Hank could only imagine what had put them there.

What had this man been through? What had he done?

Hank had cleared his throat.

“Wh-where are you from originally, Hector?”

“El Salvador.”

“You don’t say. What did you do there?”

Hector had paused, then said, “Whatever needs doin’.”

Hector and Hank had locked eyes in the mirror.

Hank had worked to sit still while a chill had slithered down his spine.

Hank had read about eyes like Hector’s.

They called it the thousand-yard stare.

Dead eyes.

Eyes that had seen too much.

After that first visit, Hank had made a point of keeping his own eyes open when he was in Hector’s shop every four weeks or so.

He had noted who came and went through the barber’s front door, and the back.

And while Hector had been discreet, once, when he slid the drawer open in search of a different pair of scissors, Hank had glimpsed a gun.

Going to the restroom, Hank had peeked into the tidy office at the back and noticed a safe, much like he would expect at a jeweler’s, but overkill for what was needed in a barbershop.

In a normal barbershop, at least.

Managing the casino, Hank saw all sorts of people come through those doors.

The posers and the real thing.

Occasionally, he would look up from his desk and spot Hector’s broad shoulders cross the frame of the surveillance monitor while he traversed the casino floor.

Alone.

Not talking to anyone.

With just a touch of swagger.

Always unhurried, relaxed.

And he would exit.

Then invariably, a few minutes later, someone from the casino’s To Watch List would leave by the same door, following the barber out.

The fact that Hector didn’t have his own spot on the casino’s list spoke volumes.

Hank speculated the barber was deep into something, but so good at it he could still live in plain sight.

Hank had decided if he ever had trouble, Hector was his guy.

And now he had trouble.

Hank’s hands trembled as Hector brushed the hair from his shoulders, undid the cape, and patted the Bay Rum aftershave on the pink skin at the back of Hank’s neck. Hank swallowed and locked eyes with Hector in the mirror.

“Hector?”

The barber raised his eyebrows.

“I think I have a job for you.”

“What kind of job?”

“A thing that needs doin’.”

Hector nodded while he slowly reached for his straight razor, flicked it shut with one hand, and tucked it into his front pocket.

Hank swallowed. “Someone is trying to kill me, Larry, and our buddy Andre. We want you to kill them.”

Hector folded his arms. “Tell me more.”