The Swordfish And Shave

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

John Fuller, the ordained '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 slapped 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, 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, 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.The antique 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 baby, the best there is and 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 ambled down to the shoreline, sat and lit a bent, filtered Marlboro. He waited. He had business to attend to. The salt 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 baby shark jaw and laughing wildly on a summer's morning thirteen years 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 Ror 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, skipped over to the coat hook, slipped on his battered snakeskin jacket and banked the night's takings in the can.

46. Click. 62 Click. 309. Click.

Locked and pretty.

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 yelled 'I love you Walshy honey and don't you ever forget it'.

Walshy laughed as he did every night and went through the squeaky, waxed 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.Walshy owed him everything, including his life one time.

*

Pulling away with each passing second was a tall-dignified man and a sun kissed 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 trunk.

The death rattled night porter with a cracked skull a mile of so back yonder. Now sleeping with the fish.

'It's a long drive to Portland honey and the radios bust. Might need a hit of tequila to keep the conversation going'.

'Call me Angel Cakes Johnny please. I love it when you call me that'.