Swordfish and Shave
By ralph
- 552 reads
The second-hand flicked past the fingers of midnight and the 'Swordfish and Shave' was emptying for the night. There were just a few whining actors and overworked stagehands from the theatre festival remaining. They were drinking the summer dregs and talking the autumn bullshit. A mist was rolling in from the Pacific, pulling a tarp over the day.
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 and this morning was no exception.
Steve sat and waited for John Fuller in the red leather barber chair. The antique that unexplainably lived in the back room ever since he viewed the wind beaten failed fish cannery that became 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 buddy. Here’s your dough plus a little extra. We’ve had a night. Yes siree”
' 'Tomorrow Steve.'
John Fuller left through the back door and into the grey outside. He ambled down to the shoreline, sat and lit a bent, filtered, stale Marlboro. He waited and watched. He had things to attend to in a little while. The salt air chilled his sweat. Calmed him.
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 fifteen 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 for the Modern Man'. It was an odd but engaging menagerie. An unofficial Santa Cruz landmark of sorts.
It would be nothing without the Margarita Man though. Steve knew that and was always relieved. He had got through another day, his business still intact. It wasn’t a ritual at all to keep him working, but a nightly prayer. There had aleays been offers from others up the coast for his services, but John was loyal. Yes siriee he was. A rare thing.
Steve 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 safe.
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. Steve attempted to grab Frankie's balls but stopped at the crucial point, winked, clicked his fingers, pointed and whispered,
“I love you Walshy honey and don't you ever forget it.”
“I love you too. You crazy man.”
*
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 shit brown Mustang, guilt rising in him, 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 in the freezer.
“It's a long drive to Mexico City honey and the air cons bust. Might need a hit of that tequila back there and some radio music to keep the conversation going.”
“Call me Angel Cakes Johnny please. I love it when you call me that.”
“Of course. 46. Click. 62 Click. 309. Click. Of course Angel Cakes.”
“Living it up at the Hotel California. Such a lovely place, such a lovely place..”
“That’s right Angel Cakes, that’s right. You sing your little heart out.”
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