B: THE SWORDFISH AND SHAVE

The second-hand flicked past the fingers of midnight, the virgin
moments of a new day. The 'Swordfish and Shave' was emptying for the
night. There were just a few camp actors and overworked stagehands from
the theatre festival remaining. A ragamuffin mist was rolling in from
the Pacific and haunting the harbour like a hungry ghost.

John Fuller, the 'Margarita King of Northern California' opened his
till and checked that the CCTV was pointing west. He took his baseball
cap off, filled it with five hundred dollars and replaced it on his
tightly cropped cue ball head. For the first time in his life he was a
thief. There was no guilt. It was time to go.

*

Steve Mill, the beloved father and flawed long-time owner of 'Swordfish
and Shave' would always wait for John Fuller at the end of the night
and butter him up with outlandish compliments. It was a nightly ritual.
Steve wanted to protect his investment of the greatest cocktail man
he'd ever had. The over cooked and sometimes under fresh fish was
average at this Santa Cruz establishment and treated with little
imagination. The guy who could perform miracles with tequila
compensated for it though. John Fuller was crucial to everything.

This early Monday morning was no exception.

Steve sat and waited for John Fuller in the red leather barber's chair
that unexplainably lived in the back room ever since he viewed the wind
beaten failed fish cannery that became the Swordfish and Shave in
1983.

'You're the man Johnny Fuller baby, the best there ever was.'
'Thanks Steve.'
'Everything alright angel cakes?'
'Cool Steve'
'See you tomorrow then, King of the Margarita, here's your dough plus a
little extra'
'Tomorrow Steve.'

John Fuller left through the back door and into the heavy grey
outside.
He had business to attend to.

The air chilled his sweat.

He ain't ever coming back

Steve joyfully pumped himself up and then let himself down a few times
in the chair, he winked at the photo of his little girl, a six-year-old
freckled child holding the bones of a baby shark jaw and laughing
wildly on a summer's morning thirteen summers ago.

The barber's chair had become a symbol, a motif of a joint that had
opened with nothing but a few rods and a couple of combs. Over the
years these peculiar bedfellows spread throughout the whole wooden
building to museum proportions. There were cutthroats, scissors,
lobsters and tuna in polished glass cases. The faded mustard shampoo
adverts in heavy frames on the walls were at odds with the giant
fishhooks and stuffed marlin. Photographs of joyous out of towners with
big catches vied with 'Bills Brilliantine! Hair grooming for the modern
man'. It was an odd but engaging menagerie, an unofficial Santa Cruz
landmark.

It would be nothing without John Fuller though. Steve knew that and was
relieved; he had got through another day, his main man intact. He ran
his manicured hands through his bleached blonde mullet that stopped at
his shoulders, skipped over to the coat hook, slipped on his battered
snakeskin jacket.

He passed Frankie Walsh, the limping night porter on the stairs on his
way down to his red Oldsmobile; he attempted to grab Frankie's balls
but stopped at the crucial point, winked, clicked his fingers, pointed
and exclaimed 'I love you Walshy honey and don't you ever forget
it'.

Frankie laughed as he did every night and went through the squeaky
door. Steve was the greatest boss he had ever known. A man who would
give you the shirt of his back if asked. A man who was loved and
demanded love in return. Frankie owed him everything, including his
life one time.

*

Pulling away with each passing second was a tall-dignified man and a
girl wearing a shark tooth necklace and too much mascara. They cut
through the Santa Cruz city limits in a hired brown Mustang, a rusty
sickle on a mercy mission, guilt rising in him and a tiny life growing
inside her.

The entire contents of her beloved fathers safe stuffed in the
boot.

'It's a long drive to Portland Oregon and the radios bust; might need a
swig of tequila to keep the conversation going baby cakes'.