OMMY’S HAIR EMPORIUM was situated off Charleston near 10th Street, sandwiched between Quality Tattoo and Roxane’s Exotic Gifts & Chapel of Love. Its windows, like those of every other business on the street, were protected by heavy metal bars. In that part of town, protection meant the difference between staying in business and going belly up.
Sound lurked in the doorway of the hair salon, while Greg waited in the Yellow Cab out front, staring at the leather straps and chains dangling from the life-size, almost nude cardboard model in the window of the neighboring business. Bold block letters beneath the tantalizing cutout advertised “Roxane’s Weekly Special.” His mind harkened back to the first time he’d ever considered cheating on his wife. In fact, his eyes had begun to stray months earlier, captured in the web of pornography. His clergy had offered council on porn’s dangers, how it eventually destroys self-esteem, relationships, careers . . . but he hadn’t listened. Month after month of visits to increasingly explicit and exotic web sites soon lost its luster. Before he knew what had hit him, the most common, everyday incident could turn his thoughts inside out; the most innocent notion could exist side by side in his head with the most vile fantasy, each mingling with the other in a swirling, dark pool. Even at the time, he’d marveled at the remarkable swiftness of the transformation. And soon he discovered that the love and tenderness he felt in his marriage had slipped, replaced by the lure of an illicit, flesh-and-blood relationship with another woman.
Sound called from the doorway. “She’s almost finished.” His eyes continued to twitch nervously back and forth, darting from the cab to the salon and out to the street.
Greg checked his wristwatch, now back where it belonged. In fact, a lot of things were finally back to normal. While staying at the T-bird, he’d been restored to the world of bathing, using deodorant, shaving, intentionally “dressing down,” once again enjoying all the simple pleasures. Now there he sat, victim of a fresh, too-short haircut, dressed in a new pair of dark green chinos and a casual golf shirt, looking like a businessman on his day off rather than the homeless bum he’d been only the day before. Fingering the watch, he couldn’t help thinking about Reverend Keller returning the gift, while at the same time tricking him into admitting to himself that he needed help if he hoped to resolve the issues of his failed marriage.
He peered out to where Sound stood. Finally he’d waited long enough. “We’re going to be late,” he called out as he opened the door and climbed from the cab.
Sound shrieked and danced from the shop, his arms waving in the air like an excited school girl’s. “Wait a minute–you’ll ruin the surprise!” he fussed.
Greg peered down the street. On the corner three young black men stood, holding skateboards in their hands. They were chatting with a woman in her early 20s, dressed in tight clothing and wearing ultrahigh heels. Distracted by Sound’s squeals of delight, their attention was drawn to the ridiculous scene.
Slightly shamed by the ruckus, Greg slunk back to the partial shelter of the cab, insulating himself from their glares. Then it hit him: he’d been embarrassed by Sound. Here he was, back amongst the living, and he was ashamed. Had the change somehow influenced his feelings about respect and acceptance of others? He bowed his head. Sound was his friend, someone who was willing to risk his own life for others, a man who was unafraid to be himself, regardless of the way others saw him.
“Don’t be mad at me,” Sound smiled, resting his hand on Greg’s as he gripped the cab’s door frame. “I just don’t want you to ruin the fun.”
Greg looked down at Sound’s slender fingers, then across the sidewalk at the tall black man who stepped from the salon. Dressed in tight black stretch pants, cut below the knee, a sleeveless, shimmering purple shirt that exposed his midriff halfway up his stomach and a tall pair of blacksuede platform dress shoes, he folded at the waist and fluttered his arm in a flourish. “Presenting the lovely Ms. Lambert,” his voice thundered in the manner of a vaudeville act. He stepped aside, continuing to roll his wrist in less pronounced flourishes as if trying to coax someone into the street.
From the shadows of the room appeared Nurse, a southern-belle wild flower, dressed in a light-blue outfit that fell below her knees and buttoned at the neck. Her stringy, gray hair no longer lay flat against her head. Instead it was precisely gathered into an old-fashioned yet stylish bun at the back of her head. Layers of carefully applied make-up covered years of harsh exposure to the elements, and a small, matching handbag hung at her wrist.
Sound, placing a hand to his mouth, gasped, “Oh my . . .” The words were cut short by a muffle. He turned to see Greg’s reaction. “Isn’t she the most beautiful thing you ever saw?”
Greg came to his feet as the old woman strolled out onto the sidewalk, reached to her waist and grabbed a large handful of dress. Then she hiked it up and wiggled her hips from side to side. “Mercy be,” she groused. “Never did like ‘em as a girl and don’t think much a’ ‘em now. An’ you two stop starin’ like you ain’t never seen a woman in a new dress ‘fore.”
A smile plastered across his face, Greg shook his head and mumbled something to Sound. “Just like an old barn. No matter how nice you paint the outside, if you open the doors and don’t get out the pitchfork the inside’s still full of the same old crap.”
“I heard that,” carped Nurse. “I might be half blind but I ain’t deaf. ‘Sides, what d’ you know ‘bout barns?”
Sound raised his arms in frustration. “I finished my part, now it’s up to you, Sunny.”
Nurse shuffled across the walk and plowed Greg aside as she dragged herself into the cab and plopped down in the rear seat. “Now let’s get the lead out ‘fore I go an’ change my mind.”
Greg slammed the door shut and placed one hand on Sound’s shoulder as he led him around the back of the cab. “You did a good job, Sound. A real good job. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
Sound took a deep breath and stood a bit straighter. “I watched real close while Tommy fixed her up. I should be able to get her ready every morning.”
“Good,” said Greg. “Mitch will meet you at the T-Bird by four.” He paused and removed a slip of paper from his pocket. “Call us at the doctor’s office by five and tell me our new address. Here’s the number.”
“He found a condo?”
“I sure hope so.”
“Me too.”
“I’ll hear from you by five then?”
“You can count on it. . . .” Sound hesitated. “By the way. You look real nice in the new clothes. . . . And I’m not trying to make a pass at you.”
Greg smiled, opened the door to the cab and said, “You cleanup pretty good yourself. Let’s just hope Cap’n and Ritter look just as sharp.”
He’d already climbed into the rear seat and pulled the door closed, when Sound rapped on the glass, his fretting face peering inside. “Have we heard from Ritter?”
Greg rolled down the window. “Nobody’s seen him.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Me neither,” Nurse chimed in. “‘At boy’s always had a mind a’ his own. . . .”
“You think he’d turn on us?” Greg asked.
“Don’t think so, but it wouldn’t be a bad thing you watch your backside a leavin’ the T-bird now, ya’ hear?” Nurse administered her mild scolding while shaking her crooked finger at Sound and blowing air through her loose lips in a soft whistle. Sound agreed and watched the cab pull from the curb, still speculating about what Ritter might do if given the chance.
Indeed, Ritter stood in front of a Federal judge, chained hand and foot, his young court-appointed defense attorney–only 15 minutes familiar with his case–at his side. Two Federal security agents were stationed close at hand.
The judge scrolled up and down the charges through his bifocals as the green lawyer advised his new client. “This is a preliminary hearing,” he whispered. “Just keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.”
Ritter bristled. “What you thinkin’, mate, I ain’t never been in a bloomin’ courtroom before?”
Annoyed by the murmurings coming from below his bench, the judge looked up over his glasses. “Mr. Ritter, do you know why you’re in my court this afternoon?” he growled.
“Sure do, mate. Popped a guard in the mouth wit’ me broken hand, I did. And wit’ good reason.” He turned smugly and stared over at the prosecuting attorney. “I had important information for the FBI.”
“Oh?” queried the judge, “and what might that information be?”
Ritter opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it.
“Objection, your honor,” both defender and prosecutor said in unison.
The judge looked back and forth between the lawyers, as if something was awry. The file was distinctly vague. The man had assaulted a Federal agent early in the morning, yet hadn’t been booked into Federal lockup until late in the afternoon.
“Approach the bench, counsel.” Both came forward, staring up apprehensively at the seasoned magistrate. “What’s going on here?” he asked, holding his hand over the microphone. “We’ve got the FBI’s best prosecutor assigned to keep this man behind bars, and the court’s newest defender trying to keep him from getting fried.” The judge stole a brief glance at the appointed prosecution.
“Nothing’s going on Your Honor,” he said. “This is just a preliminary hearing, not a trial. The man admitted to assaulting the security guard. All we need to do is decide bail.”
A hint of a scoff erupted from the judge’s lips. “I’m aware of the protocol in my own courtroom, counsel.” He turned from the more seasoned attorney to the less. “And why did you object?” “Your Honor, I’ve barely had fifteen minutes to examine this case, and you’re asking questions that could convict my client before I’ve had time to get answers.”
The judge nodded. “It appears to me the man has something he wants to say. I think the court will allow him to say it. Take your seats.” Both men returned to their places. “Mr. Ritter, you may continue.” Ritter gave the prosecutor his patented ‘told you so!’ smirk. “Like I was sayin’, your Honor, I had a fine good reason t’ pop ‘im.” Ritter paused to get every mile out of the drop of fuel for which he was about to pay. “The bloke woke me from a fine dream,” Ritter continued. “See, this beautiful blonde was kissin’ on me face. . .”
“Enough!” The judge came to his feet. Here in a court of law, he and two other highly educated men had been made to look foolish–by an uneducated man, no less, a smelly tramp with a smug grin. “The court finds reason to bind this man over for trial. Do you have a recommendation for bail?” He turned to the prosecutor.
“Fifty-thousand dollars, your Honor. We feel . . .”
The judge rapped his mallet on the bench. “Bail’s set at fifty-thousand. Next case.”
As he was led from the courtroom, Ritter, still gloating, peered over his shoulder at the prosecutor. They both knew the information he had kept secret couldn’t remain hidden forever. And Ritter alone knew the aces he kept up his sleeve were about to up the ante.
“I’m sorry to keep you so long, Mrs. Wilson.” Barnes stepped back into the box-like interview room, Horne close in tow. “We’re almost finished. We just have a few more questions. Are you feeling better?” Stephanie nodded. “Can I get you a coffee or soda or something?”
“No, I just want to go home.”“This shouldn’t take much longer, but it’s very personal. Are you sure you want Mrs. Champion to stay with you?”
“Yes.” Stephanie gave a reaffirming squeeze to the motherly hand holding her own.
“Mrs. Wilson,” Barnes continued, taking a notepad from his pocket and sliding out a chair. “Do you know where your husband is?”
Stephanie looked at Maggie, then back at Barnes. “I think he’s in St. Louis at a vocational competition.”
“Have you ever heard of a man named Clint Thurston?”
“No.”
“How about a Vincent Domenico?”
“No.”
“Do you know Mike Hutchings?”
“Sure. He’s Mitch’s boss.”
“He’s also a Federal agent, assigned to our office from Utah, involved in a case that has to do with stolen antique cars.”
Stephanie’s eyes shot back and forth between the two agents, trying to decide if the whole thing was some sort of rotten prank. “What does this have to do with Mitch?”
“We think Mitch is involved. It’s very important we find him as soon as possible. Are you sure he’s in St. Louis?”
Stephanie lowered her head and pulled her hair back with her hands. “I tried to call his hotel. He didn’t check in.”
“We know. He didn’t get on the flight, either.”
Stephanie shook her head. “Are you implying Mitch has been stealing cars? Because if you are, I can prove he’s been fixing up those cars himself . . .”
“No, not at all. As a matter of fact we think one of his cars was stolen.” Barnes motioned toward Horne, who opened the door and waited while someone wheeled a small television and video player into the room and plugged it into the wall. Barnes continued, “This is our video surveillance from Mike’s shop on Friday evening. We’ve had our department put in captions because at times it’s hard to hear what they’re saying.”
The screen went to static, then the tape whirred into motion. The image was of inside Mike’s shop. Stephanie had been there once or twice to see what her husband was working on. Mike was talking on a cell phone, but the audio was mute. Then it came on. “He’s already had his car stolen . . .” The sound went off again. The tape had obviously been edited. The door to the shop opened and Mitch sauntered in. Mike looked toward the door and said, “Hey, I’ll talk to you later. Mitch just walked in.”
“I didn’t know you had a cell phone,” Mitch said.
“Just got it.”
“Cool. Do you mind if I work on my wife’s car for a minute?”
“No problem. How’d it go with the GTO?”
At this point, Mitch paused, blinked hard and swallowed. “Not so good.” He turned toward the bay door.
“What happened?”
“The sucker ripped me off. Planned it for several days.” Mitch’s back still toward the camera, the words appeared across the screen. “The worst part is, I think Bino set me up.”
“How’s that?”
Mitch turned slowly. “Claimed he told Janice to tell me not to let him take it. She says it was the other way around.”
“Look, kid, you’re dealing with some rough men. Did you call the cops?”
“No. The car was running illegal plates.”
“Doesn’t matter. They can still take down a report.”
“I’ve got to see Janice. She knows more about him than anybody else.”
“You want some help? I might make a better snoop than a body man.”
Horne hit the stop button on the video player and turned off the television. “Have you seen Mitch’s GTO the last few days?”
“No . . . but Mitch would have told me about all this,” she replied, a tad surly. “And you’re only showing bits and pieces of the tape. How do I know that what you’re showing isn’t taken out of context?”
Barnes cocked his head. “You saw his face. You tell me, was it for real?”
Stephanie remained tight-lipped.
“We have more,” Horne said as he picked up a legal-size pad from the television cart. “Last Thursday night Mitch was involved in an armed robbery. This is a composite drawing from a witness.” He dropped a computer sketch of Mitch on the table. “A description of the getaway car matches the car in your garage–a car with stolen plates.”
“Mitch would never rob anybody.”
“Mrs. Wilson, are you aware that your husband has a criminal record?”
“Yes, but . . .” Stephanie bit her lip and turned to Maggie. “Maybe I need an attorney.”
Barnes lifted a hand. “Mrs. Wilson, you’re not being charged with anything. However, Mitch will need a good attorney–unless he can explain several of his actions. Please hear me out. We need your help. A Federal warrant’s been issued for the arrest of your husband.” Horne slid a copy of the warrant in front of the woman.
Stephanie skimmed through the charges. “Suspected Murder? . . .” Once again her lips tightened in concern, but she kept her composure. Her tears had all been spent earlier in the day. Finally she said, “I can’t listen to any more of this. This isn’t the Mitch I know; this can’t all be happening. . . .”
“I know this is hard, Mrs. Wilson, but there’s more, please . . .”
“No, no.” She stood. “We need to talk about this later. I can’t listen to anymore.”
Barnes’ voice became more insistent. “You have to listen to me. Someone may be after you . . .”
Stephanie edged toward the door. “No!” she sobbed, a tearless cry as if her heart had burst. “I c-can’t . . .” She fled from the room and down the hallway.
Maggie also stood to leave, but Barnes blocked her exit. “We’ll send a unit to watch your place tonight. Will you bring her back in the morning?”
“If she’ll come.” Maggie eased Barnes to the side and went to catch up with her friend.
Nurse’s body had become one rigid, bony bundle of nerves. Her foot twitching, her knobby knuckles bone-white, she sat coiled in Dr. Clark’s examination chair. The ophthalmologist smiled reassuringly. “Mrs. Lambert, this is a pretty simple procedure. We do it a half-dozen times each day.”
Brooding like a rankled robot, Nurse shot back, “I ain’t never had no doctor look in my eyes ‘fore.”
The doctor lowered his overhead light and rolled back in his chair. “It wasn’t so bad then, was it?”
“You finished–‘at’s it?”
“I’ve seen enough to know you’ve gone without your sight too long. The procedure to make you see again takes about forty minutes per eye. It’s almost painless, and in a few days you’ll be seeing like you did ten or fifteen years ago. You may not even need glasses when we’re finished.”
“You gotta cut my eyes?”
“We use an ultrasound to break up the deposits, then we suck out the broken pieces and sew on a new lens.”
“Doc,” pressed Nurse, “you’s been avoidin’ my question. You’ll be puttin’ a knife in my eyes, won’t you?”
Doctor Clark glanced over at Greg, sitting quietly against the wall, then back at Nurse. “Yes,” he answered, a deliberateness to his voice, “I’ll need to cut the old lens off to remove the cataract.”
“Will I be a’sleepin’ or awake while’s this whole thing’s goin’ on?”
“You’ll be awake. We’ll put some drops in your eyes to deaden the pain.”
A series of grumblings came from her mouth. “Feel like an ol’ heifer ten months pregnant . . . hurt if I do, more if I don’t . . .”
“I beg your pardon?” Dr. Clark sat staring at the strange old woman, clearly puzzled.
Nurse stared back. “You best stop flappin’ your gums and get after it then, ‘fore I go an’ change my mind.”
Realizing the patient had given permission to proceed, Dr. Clark left the room to instruct his staff to prepare for surgery. Greg walked over and gave Nurse’s arm a pat, her hands still clutching tightly the arms of the chair.
Her cloudy eyes rested on her friend. She’d never felt so vulnerable, so utterly helpless. “What if somethin’ goes wrong an’ I never see again? Been one a’ my nightmares since th’ first day I knew I was losin’ my sight.”
Greg’s hand kept up its calming caress. “Dr. Clark’s done hundreds of these procedures.”
“But what if somethin’ happens . . .”
“Well. . . since we’ve already slept together, I guess I’d have to marry you. I’d be your eyes, and we’d live happily ever after, you holding onto my arm wherever we went.”
Nurse lifted one skeletal hand and rested it on the younger man’s, the corners of her mouth creasing into a soft smile. “That’s a fine offer, Sunny. But there’s only one thing wrong. Couldn’t never marry a man still carryin’ a flame for ‘nother woman.” The room took on an awkward silence, as both reflected on their own weighty problems. “One thing you better do since you got me in this mess,” Nurse finally added. “Sit with me an’ hold my hand ‘til it’s over.”
Greg’s tender smile, which he riveted directly in front of the old woman’s weary eyes, conveyed much more than mere words. “I won’t leave you–I promise.”