The feet had been bad since about two this afternoon. Now at three-thirty they felt like they were on fire -- and itching again in the middle of the soles. And the pain had moved into the ankles and was starting up the calves. He was working on a guy with three-alarm dandruff. It was all over the guy's sky-blue buttondown, all over the dropcloth (Denny's term for the bib), under Denny's fingernails. Why don't these guys do something about this mess? he thought with disgust. Get a good shampoo couple times a week. See a dermatologist. No, leave it to me to deal with it. Cutting hair in a blizzard. Schmucks like this lousy tippers usually. My own place I'd throw the bum out. Earl says, "Cut their hair and wash your hands. Dandruff ain't no crime. Wanna see beautiful hair get a job in Hollywood." 'Cept I'm not no hairdresser . . . a barber . . . honorable profession.

Denny definitely had no plans to leave San Diego. Or to leave Earl for that matter, even if he thought he could get a job in another shop. Took enough energy to get to the job every day and hope the feet lasted until closing time. He only had himself now but he planned to work as long as Earl would have him. Earl never got any complaints over Denny's work. And he was popular with the regulars -- well, most of them. Been standing behind this chair and number four to the right fourteen, fifteen years now, two thousand hours a year he'd figured once, times fifteen is . . . thirty thousand hours standing here in this same shabby room making men look presentable, under the same faded hair-styles photos a good twenty years old above the mirrors. Thirty-nine, forty years of barbering all told . . . started out just a stopgap while he perfected his golf game and worked up to the tour. Consistently driving to 250 yards back in the days of wood drivers. Denny smiled at the thought. He'd have nothing but Social Security when he quit and he was far from sure he could stay out of the poorhouse.

All six chairs working now, unusual for a Tuesday p.m. Denny a fixture now at chair three. First Earl, the boss, the hot chair because he was owner. Everybody thought the owner was the best. Not true at North City Barber Shop. Art, the tow-headed Swede in number four, was the artist of the crowd; everybody got the best cut they could get anywhere, unless they were into weird. Denny would break his ass for nice guys who tipped well. Jerks, kids, loudmouths, B.O. cases, the occasional dyke would get a presentable cut but without the perfectionist tapering, the efforts to obscure strange head shape or make up for shortcomings.

Spike in chair two was over the hill, even used a high stool now and then -- not good form, Denny thought. Had once worked in the Waldorf Astoria and still had the uptown manners. Working here at something like sixty-eight to stay out of the poorhouse. Harlan, the substitute, was filling in for him today after he called in sick yet another time. Earl felt sorry for Spike. But too many customers when Spike called "Next" said they were waiting. Spike'd just reach into the back cabinet and take out one of the Penthouses Earl kept there out of reach of the kids and sit down in his chair and look. Earl had to realize it cut profits. Harlan was competent but a little bit that way, turned some guys off. Was a quick worker except when he got a good-looking kid in the chair and hated to let go of him. Margie at five was a good gal, a late-thirties hennaed redhead -- took all the guff and cracks the boys would hand out but was sometimes sloppy with the scissors, especially after a fight with her boyfriend, hands shook. Couldn't do a flattop or a razorcut. Forget about a shave. But who'd ask? Great with the old guys with more vanity than hair, who loved her cooing shoulder rubs, her soft chatter and a smile that could make hearts flutter. Eugenio from the Philippines in chair six had only been in the shop six months or so, had been a Navy barber, same as Denny, and had lots of talent. Could do the funny stuff for the ethnics, who always gravitated down the line to his slot. And great on steps, flattops, punk styles, Elvis pompadours.

The comb-over Jewish guy who operates vending machines and a twelve-year-old were waiting. Tuesdays and Wednesdays sometimes Earl sent a couple of the crew home early. Lord, let it be today, Denny implored. A big older guy, well-dressed sporty, came in the door. Shoulders, gray mustache and goatee, the look the ballplayers were into a few years back, heavy, but not fat. Take-charge stride but affable looking. Gives a smile and a general wave as he walks in and takes a chair. Not a regular. Denny's maybe seen him before. Somewhere. Years, years ago. Barber sees so many guys over a forty-year career. Couldn't have been in the Navy. After that. Santee? Not here in the north city. Long time ago, probably when we were living in Santee when we were first married. Who cares?

The guy in Denny's chair had little black scabs over the top of his head. Scratching. Dandruff like a crust, almost whole top of his head. Probably hasn't shampooed for more'n a week, Denny thought. Earl says never tell 'em they need one, "Ain't good customer relations. We serve them. They don't serve us." Be willing to give the guy seven dollars to go to another shop. Crummy bastard. Talking about some half-assed TV show; Denny's not listening. Nine bucks a cut. Seven for Denny -- and maybe a tip, ages twenty-five to sixty-five, that is. Denny would give him short shrift for sure but had to be fifteen minutes. Well, that's twenty-eight bucks an hour at that rate -- can't complain, if the business is there. More'n drywallers make. But what about those dead hours in the middle of the day? Swapping stories. Next door for donuts and coffee. Losing money, not making it. Hey, sixty-two crying out loud. Lots of guys younger'n me retired and on their yacht.

The big guy had taken a seat in the middle of the shop, in front of Art's chair. Sort'll go into any chair. Passing through. Just wants a trim before making an insurance call or selling some sap a swamp lot in Florida. Now the kid gave a quick look in the mirror behind him and headed into Margie's chair, full of instructions. The Jewish guy will only go to Earl, who'll cut each of his thirty-seven hairs twenty times while the guy talks about his wife's rheumatism, hip, and bladder and the fact he's not getting as much loving as he'd like. Eugenio's giving a black guy in Highway Department coveralls a shave, trading dialect jokes and tall tales that made Denny wish his chair was closer. Art was in the homestretch with a Chinese waiter from the restaurant two doors down. He'll get the big guy. From his looks could be a good tipper. Harlan -- hell, he's done with that skateboard teen-ager but shooting the crap something fierce and smiling up a storm. "Hey, that's a pretty good bicep you got there, fella," a line Denny's heard more than once. "Two hundred ten pounds, come on!" Harlan exclaimed. Benchpress or what his mother weighs? Harlan could get 'em talking.

Now Art was spieling about his last trip to Vegas. Chinese guy all smiles. Good for five minutes easy. Gotta hustle with the snowman. Maybe can finish ahead of Art and get the guy. Snowman ain't getting no shoulder rub, for sure.

That big guy. A television reporter, an actor or something. I seen him in a tux somewhere. And seen him like was it laying down, like on the beach or something? But maybe twenty-five, thirty years ago, before he was gray and so heavy. On a stage, bright lights, yeah, a microphone? -- no. Gold-lined tooth near the front. Face redder now. Same broad nose with the slight arch, cold blue eyes, car-salesman sweet-talk-and-intimidate rolled into one. Expensive wristwatch. Gotta be a one-hundred-dollar designer shirt -- for a haircut! -- and (mock sigh) tasseled loafers. Denny swung to the other side on his aching feet, aching calves, to razor the other sideburn. Dunno. Ain't no movie star. Probably a Knights banquet or one of them Friendly Sons do's used to go to in the Seventies. But why do I see him like with his eyes closed or sleeping or something?

Denny moved back to the other side where he could see the guy over his customer's head. He was maybe fifteen feet away, looking the shop over, not reading. Picking up the scene, little local color to pass on to the guys at the country club or what. "Those neighborhood barber shops they never change -- clods and bullshitters, same as in that Ring Lardner story." Snowman is still cracking up over the TV show but Denny isn't hearing a word. Aw-aw, here's one of the rummies and there's his brown bag with the bottle of wine. Disability retirement from civil service faking a back injury -- loves to brag about it. Breath can wilt flowers at six feet, not to mention the flatcherlence. Better hurry and get the Rolex guy. Seen him somewhere . . . don't look like nobody from Santee . . . can't see him in no pickup with an engine in back. The guy lifts his chin up and takes a deep breath like he's thinking . . . and pulls on his right ear lobe. Now where've I seen that?

Oh, my Christ. OH, MY CHRIST! Winfield, Winslow, what was it? Denny is staring at the linoleum squares as if to penetrate to their essence. Wingate. Yeah, Wingate. The singer. The director! Oh, my Christ. Wingate. Denny experienced a swoon. His comb fell to the floor. He turned back to his counter to inspect the clipper. Wingate. He took off the clipper head to stall. Wingate. Yeah, Fletcher Wingate. Oh, my sweet Christ.

His old house on Seventeenth in Santee. Seven a.m. Coming home early from the Knights of Columbus convention in San Francisco when his sinuses got to him and he decided not to take the Sunday harbor tour as planned. Upbeat mood because it looked like he was on track finally for the U.S. Amateur after winning two out of four So Cal tournaments that year. Had tried calling Janie to say he'd be home early Sunday instead of after dinner; nine p.m. but no answer -- musta dropped the kids off at Mrs. Leonard's, the babysitter. Lock in the key. Second he walks in the front door: two pairs of shoes side-by-side on the living-room floor. Janie's best black high-heels. Big pair of black wingtip brogues. Size twelve or something. Both in front of the sofa. Denny was a man of twenty-seven and he knew his wife. He knew immediately. Their bedroom was just beyond the living room. He glanced in the bedroom door. Both asleep, looking in opposite directions. Big guy with thick head of sandy hair. Guy hired to direct the fund-raiser "Sound of Music" for Catholic Charities last month. Janie, promising soprano half-dozen years ago, had been just one of the nuns. Introduced him to Denny opening night, all a-twitter because guy had starred in something at San Diego Light Opera. Wearing a tux with a rose in it -- looked like the kind of boutonniere she used to make for Denny. Gold-lined tooth like you see black guys with. Posing deep in thought at some trite remark and pulling on the ear. Denny gaped in shock, pain, instantly knowing a gigantic horrible fact, fatal as a plane crash, is occurring in his life and the lives of those who mattered more than his life, his three children all within no more than thirty feet and his wife, a fact never to be expunged. Pain deeper and wider than he'd ever known, confusion more profound, questions eternity would never answer. The cup placed before him out of the blue.

Knew Janie, always the so-willing victim, never accepting an iota of blame, always so misunderstood. Hadn't heard a word about singing until Angie was born and it was time to get down to creating a household. Self-expression, rather than just getting drunk and talking all night, became urgent. How could Denny, a wanna-be Ben Hogan who cut hair for a living, understand the needs of a true artist, a two-pack-a-day soprano, with one, two, three kids at home, one still in (rarely changed) diapers, growing up on TV dinners and pizzas-to-go?

Denny went to the kitchen and took out his carving knife with the bone handle and the sharpener. Now his heart was pounding a little. Murder on Seventeenth Street! New role for a guy had maybe two minor scuffles in his life, guy more or less believed in getting along. There was no question what he must do. Certain situations allowed no alternatives. The sun was coming up and the roses twinkled wetly in his garden. He could see the dog was still asleep in his back-yard house. He could hear Angie, his darling, mumbling in her sleep. In God's name how could Janie do a thing like that? And bring the bastard home in a suburban housing tract with good friends living next door. They had their problems, God knows. Both young and had three kids already, kids he thought they both were happy to have. What's better'n a nice family, a home of your own, good health, friends, a terrific town to live in? Ain't that what life's all about crying out loud? He loved Janie and he thought she loved him, never acted like she didn't. But there was the booze -- dago red and martinis in those days. From days in the Navy Denny knew when to stop. Not Janie. And then she'd be ugly. All she was was a slave, cooking, washing, scrubbing (like when did she ever scrub?), diapers while Denny went off to the shop and bullshitted with his buddies all day. Then the dreams of a career singing surfaced -- she'd sung the Star Spangled Banner once at a high-school football game -- and the lessons they couldn't afford started, and the gowns, and the choir rehearsals and the auditions, auditions, and musicals at funky places like Chula Vista and Oceanside and Denny at home taking care of the kids. Denny was no ogre, though he could lose his temper when one performance followed on the heels of another, when the laundry piled up undone, when she refused to get out of bed when he was leaving for work and he knew she wouldn't get Angie to kindergarten again, Angie who'd recently tested for gifted but required tons of TLC. Never hit her, though God knows the provocations. Brought his check home. Did his chores around the house and half of hers. But definitely no arty guy -- not gonna get me to Handel's "Messiah" another time. Bringing this fancy-pants hamburger into our house with the kids at home. Lord, any of them might wake up now and go into Mommy and Daddy's bed! Stomach turning. Filthy! Can even understand hot pants for some singer schmuck. Lemme know and we'll get a lawyer. That gal from La Jolla been giving lessons to would have me over in a blink if I said the word . . . thirties maybe but drives a Jaguar and wears a tennis bracelet costs lot more'n I'll make this year. No, shit no, Janie's my gal . . . in my bed right now with a guy she brought home last night. "That two-bit barber husband of mine's up in Frisco defending the faith; why waste money on a motel? Besides, we can have an omelet to sober up afterwards." Some six-foot-two singer guy . . . yeah, used to have a group of carolers dressed like from Dickens and sing at the mall . . . guy real pleased with hisself . . . yeah, Howard Keel part in "Annie Get Your Gun." Asleep next to my old lady, my bed.

The visions started but Denny fought them off. There was work to do. Sharpening the knife, knife he used for turkey and roasts, was calming him down again. Just business. Nasty but business. Gotta think of this like a Mafia guy would. Just another necessary job to maintain one's respect. He extracted the knife, wiped it on his slacks and walked to the bedroom. Stomach told him he was going to be ill before long. Janie was snoring lightly. The guy was quiet but a ray of light coming through the Venetians was on a hand and would, yeah, be on his face in five minutes or so. Janie's high-school yearbooks were on the floor -- a little pillow entertainment. He could hear her, "Oh, I was such a geek then." Denny sat on the ottoman in front of his reading chair, facing the foot of the bed. Slit the guy's throat first and then Janie's. First wake the guy with the knife at his throat and tell him his fate? Why bother? Tell him the next face he'd see would be old man Beelzebub. Name is Denny Fallon. Welcome to my bedroom. And that's it.

Kill her, the slut? Ninety percent of the men in the world would say yes. Kill her or you kill yourself. And who's the guilty party? Hold it. Hold it. Mother o' my kids. Ruin them, ruin them for sure. Mother murdered for violating the Sixth Commandment and Dad in prison for violating the Fifth. Would destroy them. I could take them and take off. Yeah, get as far as Orange County. I'd be terrific in a shootout. Just the guy then? That'll be punishment enough for her. But the kids wake up with Mom screaming bloody murder and a bloody murdered guy in Dad's bed. Great for a horror movie but not recommended for family audiences.

Okay, what would my Dad do or Grandpa Seamus? Slit the guy's throat and think it over afterwards. In their cell. Let the chips fall where they may. Did Janie worry about all this when she invited Gordon MacRae here to come home? But sporting to slit a guy's throat while he's asleep? I mean Nathan Bedford Forrest would if he's a Fed. But don't a guy get a sporting chance? Flush birds before you shoot them.

The guy sputters a bit and turns over, throwing one arm over Janie, making the bed creak, Denny's old bed from high school. Away from the ray of sunlight. But she's a squirmer. If she turns he's awake for sure. And, yeah, isn't this about the time the Nelsons' dog usually lets loose? He gripped the knife tightly, ready to use it quickly if anybody really stirred.

Sporting? What would Thomas Jefferson or Abe Lincoln do? Challenge to a duel. Shit, I can't duel. Maybe he can't either. Five irons at twenty paces maybe? But he'd choose the weapons. Maybe he can handle a gun. Never even owned one but learned to use a forty-five in the Navy. Big joke, Denny in a duel. Never used a knife for anything but buttering bread or carving. But sporting to kill a guy when you've got the drop on him? He's too big for me mano a mano. All's fair in love and war, they say. Sonofabitch has it coming, for sure. Knows Janie's married -- met her husband, for Chrissake. Three kids in the house in the name of God. Tears in my eyes, goddam it. Could never ride with Forrest. Gotta strike while the iron is hot, 'specially where duty's involved. Tears for Chrissake. My whole family's fucked for good. Janie, me, Angie, Bud and Theresa. Goddam broad. Goddam selfish, me-first, self-expression slut. Married six years haven't so much as looked at 'nother broad -- had chances. Tears everywhere. Knife pointed toward the bed, knife of justice, retribution, self-respect, decency. Kill the sonofabitch and get it over! Now. May never get another chance. Crime of passion, they call it. I'll get, what? -- five years. And my personal decency, my self-respect, and that of my son. Can't walk away from it.

Denny looked at the early rays of sun coming through the window. Denny loved sunshine, warmed to it like a cat. Was going to be a beautiful day. Beautiful day at the beach, day like he loved taking the kids to the beach and breathing in the chowdery salt air.

Denny suddenly knew he wasn't going to kill anybody. A moment ago he might have if the guy had stirred awake. Knew now he wasn't. He was not a murderer. He wasn't even angry, he realized with amazement. He was hurt like he'd never been hurt in his life. Bottomless sadness was not a foundation for murder.

The hand holding the knife was wet with tears. He walked back into the kitchen and replaced the knife in its drawer. He walked out the front door, past the two pairs of shoes, and got back into his car. He found a bar open in downtown San Diego and stayed there till past noon. Then he took a room at the YMCA.

He came home Monday morning, barely in time to make it to the shop, and said nothing. Janie was especially affectionate but when she drew near his flesh felt like it was covered with bugs or something. It was three months before he could bring himself to touch her and then only if he pictured her in his mind as a whore. He turned back to the customer, who was looking at his watch.

Goddam Art still talking about the terrific slots at New York, New York. Harlan still dallying the boy.

"I gotta get rolling," the dandruff guy said as Denny combed his hair the third time. He pulled down the bib and said, "That'll do."

"Sure, sure," Denny said, an air of panic creeping into his voice. Dandruff was up and taking out his wallet. And the big guy was standing, glancing into the mirror with satisfaction and easing Denny's way. Lord, God of Hosts, no, Denny implored. Don't put that rotten bastard in my chair, no.

Denny handed Dandruff his chit for Nadine, who handled the register. And Wingate had one loafered toe on the footrest already.

"Slight trim," he said, though Denny hadn't acknowledged him yet. "You do razor cuts here, right?"

"Razor cuts, sure," Denny said, not looking at him. Guy's in my chair. Guy diddled my wife thirty-some years ago. What's he doin' here? I can't cut this guy's hair. A guy gets facials and stuff . . . cologne, yet . . . well-manicured nails. A man spent a night in my bed while I'm on a Catholic convention in Frisco. Knew I was away and moved in on my gal, mother my kids. Singer guy, telling her she should be at the Met, no doubt. Hell, he sings on the Channel Eight Christmas special and I cut hair in Santee, claim to fame I'm a scratch golfer who's, sure, gonna make it to the U.S. Amateur some day and then maybe PGA. Shot that horrible eighty-six, triple-putted four holes first round at Riviera three weeks later and failed to make the cut. Goddam short game went to pieces, never recovered till that day threw my effing clubs into the Pacific over the cliff at Torrey Pines.

Denny still had the dandruff-covered bib in his hand. He gave it a slight shake and whipped it over Wingate, who settled in comfortably. "Not too high on the sideburns." Deep, sonorous, "radio" voice, sweet-tinged like a carriage-trade minister. "Jesus, I got it cut down at the Marriott downtown and fellow left me looking like a Gyrene. Just a little off top and sides. Get it cut every two weeks or so and so don't need much off."

With his scissors in his hand, Denny gathered up a thin clump of gray hair stiff with hair spray. Right through the temple right here in the shop and the bastard is dead. No crime of passion this time. Just plain murder. Janie dead now . . . her years, years of ugly alcoholism, destroyed liver. He snipped here and there aimlessly. Wingate was admiring himself in the mirror against the far wall. Never found another woman. Me and my cigarettes and the tube and the poodle. Not enough left to wager the nags any more. Kids all gone and ain't heard from nunna them 'cept a card last Christmas from Bud in Phoenix sellin' cars. Angie doin' some kind of garbage in Vegas -- cut back from dealin' when she passed thirty and started getting heavy. Theresa divorced from her Marine pothead and livin' with a guy owns a bar someplace like Beaumont, Texas. Two kids, one boy autistic and in a special school.

Wingate here caught us when things were still pretty good. Janie told me later he said in a rehearsal she had a voice like an angel, she never knowing I'd seen what I seen. That was a cheap ticket. Heard he left town not long afterward, lookin' over his shoulder I hope. Wonderful if he'd opened an eye and seen me sittin' there with the carver. Once saw sticking outta her purse a letter addressed to him in L.A. Doubt he gave her the time of day after that -- hot merchandise . . . and he'd added the hashmark to his overnight bag.

Denny noticed he was taking large hunks out of Wingate's hair. He'll be praising the barb at the Marriott when he gets a look at this.

"What's that on the radio, Barry Manilow? What kinda customers you get in here?" Wingate asked with a chuckle.

"The best," Denny said. The radio was always tuned to Earl's beloved oldies station and Denny had no problem with that.

"Song before was whatshisname, Frankie Vale or was it that guy sings 'Mack the Knife' -- you know . . . Bobbie Darin. Get those kinda guys all mixed up. That's a song gives me the creeps, what's that line: 'lies a body oozing life'? Gad, and a popular song. For the popular song, though, Crosby was the best."

Denny took a deep hack in response.

"Hey, you takin' off a lot or somethin'?"

"Doin' what you said. Trim."

"Could fool me."

"Thick up here on top -- ain't layin' good."

"Well, be careful. Don't like look skinned."

"Check."

Straight razor would be better . . . right across the jugular . . . blood'll pour out . . . like in a horror flick . . . blood everywhere. Make the evening news for sure. No reason not to kill him now. Kids grown and gone. Let them send me to prison. With this heart of mine and this prostate I only got a few years left anyway.

"My name's Fletcher Wingate, by the way." In the opposite mirror Denny could see the smile of satisfaction at hearing the all-conquering name. "Professor of music at Charlton College up in Orange County." Yeah, and all them coed music babes in thick glasses squirming their buttery virgin butts to get professor's attention -- no doubt succeeding. "Wife and I got a beach house in Del Mar for the summer . . . terrific little town and great for the races. Lived down Dago years ago, before all these ethnics started flooding in, and traffic and the beaner tagging bad as goddam L.A. You may have seen me on the Celestial Cathedral TV show Sundays. I'm their lead baritone soloist. May've seen our album, 'All-Time Sacred Favorites.'"

"I'm Denny. Live in an apartment down in the warehouse district."

"Down where they're putting in the new ballpark?"

"Sort of."

"May move you out?"

"Who knows? If I'm still around."

Denny was giving him the clippers in the back now, way high, crooked. He took a hard shot right up the middle, almost to the skin.

Art in the next chair was looking over with his eyes wide. Denny was conscious of nothing but this hateful Size Eight head under his hands, this head which had coveted his young wife for one night in . . . sixty-five, wasn't it? . . . this head which has given no thought to the agonies that night caused for the owner of these hands, these hands now holding a lethal weapon, this superbly powdered and moisturized baritone soloist in the Celestial Cathedral's "All-Time Sacred Favorites," whose one-night conquest was maybe page seventeen of eighty-three, just a few more lives fucked by his carefully protected, Brute-scented member. Now he was scissoring the sides, a hunk here, nothing there. Then it's the lather, slopping over ears, temples, neck, stopping to strop the razor, just like he sharpened the carving knife thirty-some years ago on a never-to-be-forgotten morning, a sunny dew-wet morning when his life was torpedoed amidships. Denny takes the razor and goes an inch over each ear, then does an angled, zigzag line at the base of the skull. No -- scissors at the temple best, penetrating into the brain, brain thought Janie sang like an angel when she'd already lost ninety percent of her voice to martinis, cigarettes and screaming at Denny and the kids.

"Jesus Christ, what're you doin'?" Wingate shouted. "You're hacking me like a sheep. Lemme see the mirror."

"Ain't got no mirror. Bet you got one at home."

"Hey, I'm done. Brush me off."

Now Earl had turned away from his customer and was watching intently, as was everyone who had an angle toward Denny's chair.

Denny removed the bib and took the blower from the counter and blew Wingate's hair over his Polo golf shirt.

"That'll do," Denny said.

Wingate stepped quickly to the mirror opposite. "Christ, you've made a mess of me. What the . . . ?"

"Here's your chit," Denny said straight-faced, walking to Wingate and placing it in his breast pocket.

Wingate was sputtering and blowing flecks of saliva, waving both arms and shouting, "You just get your license, you nitwit? Or are you drunk?"

"My name's Denny Fallon. I'm a master barber . . . Next!"

"You S.O.B. What did you say your name was? I think I'm going to report you and this shop . . . "

Earl was starting to move closer. "Hey, what's going on here . . . ?" he started to say.

"Denny Fallon," Denny answered Wingate loudly, "formerly of Santee."

Wingate stared at him. Denny stared back, across thirty years of scar tissue. "You got your chit, buster," Denny said.

Wingate was still staring, his body frozen, his eyes widening like those of a man face to face with a fact both loathsome and horrible. He grimaced hard and shook his head as if to say, "Okay." He took out his wallet and moved glass-eyed toward Nadine at her manicure stand near the door, his hair looking as though a maniac had cut it. "He musta had it comin'," Art said quietly to Denny. Earl was shaking his head and returning to the vending-machine operator. He'd investigate all this later.

"Next," Denny said, taking a deep, deep breath and exhaling slowly, calmly. A teen-ager was gingerly heading toward his chair.

"What'll it be, son?" Denny asked cheerfully.

"Flattop, but keep the little tail there in back."

"Sure, sure. Looks sharp that way."

Denny wet down the boy's hair and started working.

"CHICKENSHIT!" The word appeared as though carved by laser across his mind. It repeated, louder, then thunderously, echoing through deep canyons of his mind where only silence had reigned for decades, reverberating with an irresistible force through mind and muscle inured to acceptance. Needles and pins, fiery hot, were jabbing his trodden consciousness to vigor, upward from the supine to armed, rampant willfulness, his body shivering with an ancient ardor, fierce with resolve.

"Yes!" Denny said aloud, joyously. He whipped around, grabbed the straight razor from its disinfectant jar and strode out the shop door.

"I'll kill the sonofabitch," he snarled. "I'll kill him."

He saw Wingate at the driveway entrance into the shopping-center parking lot. He was walking hurriedly toward a waiting yellow Cadillac, a woman at the wheel. Denny started running toward the car, the razor held aloft.

Unaware of Denny's pursuit, Wingate stepped into the passenger side and closed the door and the car drove off the lot into traffic.

Denny stopped and violently shook the razor in his hand, the skin of his face so taut he already felt like a corpse, the stiff remains of what had once been a human being, a man who had loved gently and received love in return, so many years ago. A sense of ultimate loss was dissolving his focus on the receding car and his awareness of the growing clusters of staring, murmuring people.

"Bastard!" he shouted once, slowly lowering the razor to his side. He stood and gaped vacantly as the Cadillac disappeared beyond the Burger King at the corner.

 

Read J.C. Frampton's
other work in TPR:

Believe It! (1.3)