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“I really can’t believe it. I was betting the Bulls were going to take the playoffs next year,” one of the customers in the barber shop behind me said, staring up at the screen.
“I’m calling bullshit. Ain’t no way talented fellas like them just up and quit to help people,” another man in the chair farther down from us said.
“What, you think they were forced out?”
“Ha! You man, Jerry. There’s no way anyone could force a Callahan to go if they don’t wanna go. Those people run this place—”
“You heard of the shooting last night? Some people are saying the Callahans were the ones who called them hits,” another one whispered to the group of loud mouths over near the corner window, though it could hardly be called a whisper since I could so clearly hear them.
“Aww, man, you really believe those old rumors? That the Callahan family is part of the mafia? People been saying that since my father was a boy, and yet not a single person has proved it. They’re just stupidly rich.”
Yeah, us mafia? Gasp. Never. I fucking loved barber shops. It was like having an ear in the homes of normal, everyday people.
“Where you think that money came from, Jimmy? Huh? I’m telling you. Drugs. They built this city on drug money and been paying off cops and politicians for decades. That’s why they ain’t never been caught. Everyone is working for them.”
“Okay, Jerry.” Jimmy? I think it was Jimmy who was speaking, but who goddamn knew. “If they got everyone in their pocket, why was it the police commissioner, the mayor, and governor all targeted? If they really wanted them dead, those people would long be dead.”
It’s true, though.
“They probably crossed them, and it was a warning!”
Oh, this Jerry guy is good.
“Ain’t Ethan Callahan lose his wife recently? How’d that happen then, huh? Did they get into drug war at the airport?”
Well…it wasn’t really that far off.
“Who knows. But it’s possible. They are mafia, not gods!”
“Allegedly,” I finally spoke up when my barber, Ailín, moved to the mirror, grabbing the alcohol for my face. It was like everyone but Ailín froze as I spun around in the chair. Looking over the wood paneling at the men at the window. “My family is allegedly part of the mafia, but as you said, Jimmy, the rumors have never been proven.”
They gawked as Ailín handed me a hot towel. I wiped my face with it and then my hands as Ailín took the drape off me. I rose from the black leather chair, handing him a hundred.
“I told y’all, the Callahans come sometimes,” Ailín said, tucking the bill into his back pocket. “But no, all of you called me crazy.”
“In their defense, Ailín, you are a bit crazy,” I teased. He even looked odd. He was short, no taller than 5’4”, but he had a very muscular frame despite his old age. He had this white mustache, which he twisted up at the ends like a late 1900s cowboy Western villain, and underneath that he had a thick snow-white beard, cut perfectly.
“One man’s crazy is another man’s genius,” Ailín said as he gazed up at me. He snapped his fingers like he remembered something. “The clippers you ordered came. I got a new catalogue if you want to see, too.”
I checked my watch before nodding. “Sure. Besides everyone knows we mafia members don’t have to worry about being on time anyway. We have everyone in our pockets. They’ll wait.”
He gave me a look, and I beamed as we walked to the back of the store. He held the door open for me, and without another word, he pulled the key from under his neck. Moving behind the couch, he opened the fake light switch and inserted the key, which caused a spilt in the wall to my right. Without him, I walked down the iron staircase until I reached the basement. There, rows and rows of large scented candles stood in front of dozens of naked women and men. The only things covered was their hands, mouths, and hair as, one by one, they poured the cocaine into the false bottom and melded the glass bottom back together. The biologically engineered scent of the candles masked the scent of the drugs, even from the best dogs. None of them dared speak, and certainly none of them looked up as I walked behind them, looking over their shoulders.
“We’re shipping out tonight,” I told Ailín as I watched.
“How many?”
“All. The others have been notified already.”
“Is your brother aware—” He paused as I turned to look down at him, and he swallowed slowly, nodding. “We’ll be ready.”
“You have no choice,” I reminded him, turning back around toward the stairs.
In light of all the other shit I was dealing with, this part was starting to feel fucking easy.
Back up the stairs, Ailín gave me a box, my “delivery,” before locking the door behind us and opening the door back into the barber shop.
The boys’ press conference appeared to be done. On the screen now stood Governor Orton, a.k.a. The Alp, red-faced, gripping onto the podium.
