“This is what you brought me down here for?” Philip Coleman asked Munsen. He was about Munsen’s height, but in better shape with a slimmer waist and harder upper body. He looked like an FBI agent: short hair, jacket and tie, firm and businesslike. The two of them gazed at the cross painted in red on the window.
“It’s a crazy situation, gotten out of hand, Phil. Henry Deutch is Sandburg’s biggest landlord. He had this woman and her mother evicted when he refused to give them a lease on their tailor shop and they tried to resist. The old lady attempted to keep Deutch away by putting some kind of a magic doll in the window.”
“Magic doll? You’re shittin’ me.”
“Deutch got a court order and I had to serve the damn papers!”
“So? That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”
“Yeah. Very funny. The woman’s mother had a stroke and a heart attack and died soon afterward and the woman, Anna Young, blamed Deutch. She claims he was on the Devil’s side, trying to stop her and her mother from helping good overcome evil.”
“As tailors? What were they sewing, vestments for the church? Yarmulkes and prayer shawls?”
“No.” Munsen looked away, rubbed his stomach, and took off his hat. “Not their work as seamstresses. Some people here believe Anna and her mother were good witches. They still think that’s what Anna is.”
“Good witches? What the hell is that?”
“This guy in town, Charles Trustman, had his wife do research on it at the library. They call them white witches, sort of good voodoo doctors or somethin’. People believe in it,” Munsen stressed, while Phil scowled. “They went to her mother and now they go to Anna for remedies to help with their children and their husbands and wives, to help her get curses off them or put curses on their enemies, to get people to fall in love, even, I recently found out, to talk to their dead.”
Coleman stared.
“Is this some fuckin’ joke, Munsen, because if it is—”
“Look, I gotta lot of older people here and I gotta lot of people who are superstitious, man. More and more people believe in this stuff nowadays. It’s not much different from those thousands of people who come up here to have that guru touch them with a peacock feather and bless their eternal spirits, is it?” he asked.
Munsen was referring to a transcendental meditation organization that had bought out one of the bigger hotels and turned it into an ashram. Many residents were upset because that property and others the quasi-religious organization had purchased were taken off the tax rolls and everyone else had to pick up the burden.
“Munsen,” Coleman began, letting his shoulders sink, “do you know how high the pile of work is on my desk? People talk about doing away with the township’s police department, but we don’t lack for things to do.”
“I know, I know,” Munsen said quickly, his hands up. “But Deutch wants to press charges against her. He says she’s harassing him, leaving all sorts of black magic on and around his house, like this red cross on the window. He’s really starting to believe she can hurt him, I think, and he wants her to stop.”
Coleman stared at him again.
“He believes she can hurt him by painting crosses on his window and sticking dolls in his face?”
“Well, he’s had a stroke of bad luck lately, I gotta admit. His oil burner blew in the house. One of his buildings was nearly lost in a fire, and I found out from George Echert that earlier this week, a bird flew into Deutch’s car wind-shield and drove him into a ditch.”
“What sort of black magic?” Coleman asked as if he was impressed.
“I don’t know . . . dead animals’ parts, weird drawings in the sand, circles or shapes with sticks and bones. The day of his car accident, he claimed she had left the skull of a cat on his porch steps, but when I got up here, there was nothing.”
“So he’s crazier than she is. What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know what the hell to do, man. I came up here today and there was a pile of dog shit on his step and this,” he said, gesturing at the window. “If she’s doing it, I guess it is a form of harassment, ain’t it? The guy’s got a heart problem, too, and even though no one loses any sleep over the bastard, he is the hamlet’s biggest tax payer, Phil. What am I supposed to do?” Munsen whined. “I can’t just ignore him forever. He wants you to tie Anna Young to this and then he’ll have her arrested. We got to do something, don’t we?”
“All right, all right. Jesus, what a job this is getting to be. Witches and curses,” Coleman mumbled, and began his examination of the window.
Munsen retreated to his car. He saw Wolf emerge from the house and go over to watch Coleman. After a while he sauntered over to Munsen.
“I have my father resting comfortably, but this is a very bad situation. You’ve got to end it. He’s not a well man.”
“I’m doing what I can,” Munsen said sullenly. “You don’t go and arrest people without some sort of evidence or witnesses to a crime.”
“I swear, if something happens to him because of that woman, I’ll sue the police department.”
“Get in line,” Munsen muttered.
Wolf turned as Coleman approached.
“First, it’s paint, not blood. It was put on with a stick. I found it off to the side,” he said, holding up a stick in a plastic bag. “I powdered the window and the frame for prints, but there’s nothing there.”
“No fingerprints? There has to be some prints,” Wolf said. “Someone touched that window some time. I know that much,” he said, nodding his head at Munsen. Munsen looked at Coleman.
“He’s right, only there aren’t any prints, man. Someone must have wiped it clean.”
“Ha! See,” Wolf cried. “My father’s not nuts. Who would wipe a window clean?”
“Look, Mr. . . .”
“Deutch.”
“Deutch,” Coleman said. “We’re in the business of gathering evidence to give to the district attorney who then decides if she wants to seek an indictment for a crime based on what we have given her. It has to be enough to justify the time and expense, and at least present the possibility there would be a conviction. The fact that I can’t find any discernable fingerprints on that window is not any sort of evidence. It’s actually the absence of evidence. I’ll have our people send this stick to the lab to see if there’s anything we can use. Otherwise, don’t go making any rash statements. People can sue you for that kind of thing,” Coleman warned.
“Did you tell him what this woman has been doing to my father?” Wolf asked Munsen.
“I told him all I know and what your father told me,” Munsen replied in a tired voice. “And what I heard people gossip. You heard him. That’s not evidence.”
“If something happens to him, someone’s going to pay,” Wolf vowed, turned, and marched back into the house.
“Well?” Munsen asked Coleman. “You see what’s going on here, what I have to deal with?”
The detective shrugged.
“I told you. That’s why you’re getting paid these big wages, Munsen. Just grin and bear it,” he said. Munsen watched him get into his car. He nodded and backed out.
For a moment the hamlet’s policeman stood gazing at Deutch’s house. Then he got into his patrol car and drove off as he tossed antacid drops into his mouth.
Inside, Wolf told his father what the detective had said.
“They don’t believe you, Dad,” he concluded. “It’s not serious to them.”
Henry nodded.
“No prints on the windows . . . paint, not blood, huh? I’ll get her yet,” he vowed. “She’ll do something she can’t hide and I’ll nail her.”
“You’re letting her drive you out of your mind, Dad. You should see yourself.”
“I’m letting her? Letting her?” His eyes were wide and bulging like large marbles.
“You want some tea, something to eat?” Wolf asked.
Henry gazed up at him.
“So how long do I wait before you tell me why you really came here, Wolf?” he asked.
“I told you, when I heard—”
“I’m tired. I need a nap. If you have anything to ask, ask it quickly,” Henry ordered.
Wolf swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he sat on the sofa and began his pitch. Henry listened with his fingers around his chin. When Wolf was finished, Henry rose with great effort and turned. It looked like he was just going to walk off without a word.
“Dad?”
“First, the idea of getting into another restaurant is stupid, especially for you. From what you’re telling me, you’ve failed at that already. This microbrew pub is just another gimmick and it’s still in that little town. Go find a job and stop with the easy outs. Your mother spoiled you rotten. You need to know what it’s like to struggle hard for a dollar. Then you’ll be more careful about wasting my money.”
“But Dad—”
“I’m tired. I gotta get some rest. If you leave, be sure the door is locked,” Henry said, and shuffled off to the bedroom.
Wolf sat there staring after him until he heard the bedroom door close. Then he got up, poured himself a glass of water, drank it and left the glass in the sink without rinsing it. He checked the door lock and walked out, pausing on the steps as if he had come up with a new presentation and wanted to go back to talk to his father. Instead, he went around the side of the house and looked at the red cross painted on the glass. He stepped up to it and touched it, shook his head, and went to his jeep.
As he had feared and anticipated, he had left empty-handed.
Dennis Rotterman brushed the hair off Stuart Levy’s shoulders and stepped back to get the hand mirror so he could show him the back of his head. Levy studied the cut and nodded as Dennis explained.
“I think you always have to have it cut closer here, Stu. The way a head sweats, it just grows faster on the back. Now you look ten years younger.”
“You’re an artist, Dennis, a regular sculptor of heads,” Stuart said.
Charles Trustman, sitting across from them, lowered the paper and smirked.
“What’dya fillin’ his head with all those compliments? You think it’s easy bein’ around him as it is?”
Stuart laughed as he rose from the barber’s chair. He pulled his pants up and patted his stomach.
“You look good, Stu. Stay on your diet this time,” Dennis advised. “Goin’ up and down with your weight like that ain’t good for the heart.”
“Now he’s a doctor,” Charles quipped.
Stuart Levy laughed, handed Dennis a twenty and told him to keep the change. Dennis brushed him down a little more as the phone rang.
“See you guys,” Stuart Levy said, heading for the door.
Charles watched him leave and then turned to Rotterman as he put down the receiver.
“Guess who’s decided it’s time for a haircut?”
“Larry Spizer’s son, the rock star?”
“No, Henry Deutch. He’s on his way. I guess I’m still a bargain,” Dennis said, laughing.
He grabbed his vacuum and cleaned the floor around the chair and then brushed it down.
“Got to get it looking good for Henry Deutch,” he muttered, “or he’ll have Munsen after me.”
Charles laughed.
“When’s he coming?”
“Half hour.”
“Just enough time for me to beat your ass at another game of checkers,” Charles said.
Henry Deutch had woken out of a terrible nightmare, sleeping later into the morning than usual. He imagined the nightmare had been caused by the sight of his disheveled looking son. In his dark dream, he saw his own hair growing and growing while he slept until it was down over his eyes and below his chin. He saw himself suck in some strands and begin to choke to death on it. That was when he woke, coughing and spitting. His chest felt as if the engine of his car had been placed on it
His car, he thought, and immediately called George Echert. To Henry’s surprise, Echert claimed there was no severe damage.
“I cleaned it up and greased it, Henry,” he said. “Some bad scratches underneath, but you were lucky.”
“Lucky?” He muttered some obscenities under his breath and told Echert he would be down soon to get the car.
That was when he looked into the mirror and decided that as long as he was going to the village, he might as well get a haircut, too. The nightmare was still flashing ugly images. He even had trouble drinking a glass of water, much less eating any breakfast.
He dressed and left the house after calling Rotterman for a haircut appointment even though he thought the price of a haircut was ridiculous these days. People were so caught up in their coiffures and their complexions, they were willing to pay outrageous prices for the simplest things. A haircut wasn’t a haircut anymore. It was a styling. And barbers were hairstylists, not barbers. God forbid you called them barbers. All it meant to Henry was they would double what they charged for the same things.
When Rose was alive, she used to cut his hair. He even told her she should do it for other people and get paid.
“Just call yourself a stylist,” he said. “I’ll find an old barber’s chair someplace and set it up in one of the rooms.”
She just laughed at him. He was dead serious and she just laughed. Sometimes, Henry believed his wife thought he was one big joke, that everything he did or said was not real or not intended to sound and be what it was.
“Oh, come on, Henry, you really don’t mean that,” she would always say. It was embarrassing when he was trying to negotiate with someone or be stern with a tenant. No matter how often he asked her not to interfere, she would.
She was the only person who could dip deeply enough into the anemic well of compassion at the base of his soul and come up with enough of it to have him compromise or grant someone a little mercy. When she died, the little humanity he had seemed to have had died with her. He buried the best part of himself and he knew it. That made him even more bitter. The soft skin, the grace, and the beauty that had covered his anger was stripped off, leaving his nerves like bare wire. He was left growling at the world, spinning around with his fingers turned into knives, keeping the wolves, the buzzards, and the parasites at bay. It seemed to be the only purpose left to life.
Filling with some of that rage as he walked, he strutted through the village toward the garage, past his properties, mentally calculating the rent monies coming due at the end of this month. The barber shop was a walk of some distance, so he had plenty of time to think and he reminded himself again that Doctor Bloom had advised him to get in more exercise, but he wasn’t much for exercise. He was never much of an athlete, never really caring about anything that didn’t look to be in some way profitable.
George Echert would have quickly volunteered to pick up any other customer and bring him or her to the garage to get his or her car, but the mechanic knew Henry Deutch would aggravate him over the bill, even though it was more than fair. Why spend any more time or money on such a person? He didn’t appreciate anything. He treated any merchant, service person, professional the same way with the same attitude which began with the assumption, “You’re robbing me.”
What about how he robbed, exploited, and squeezed people? The truth was that when George saw there was no serious damage to Henry’s Mercedes, he moaned with disappointment. Why did the worst people have the best luck? If Anna was after him, why didn’t she do a complete job?
After Henry had arrived, it was just as George had anticipated: he had to defend the charges.
“I towed her in, Henry. That’s a standard price, and I spent time pulling things off and putting them back on. You wanted it properly checked out, didn’t you?”
In the end, Henry Deutch paid, but he wrote out the check as if he was giving George his last few dollars, and even then, even as he was leaving, he turned to say, “If something’s wrong, you’ll fix it at no charge now since I’m taking your word for it.”
“Take it to another mechanic if you doubt me, Henry,” George muttered.
He had begun his day feeling good and now he wanted to drive the sledgehammer through metal. That man could tie your insides into knots in minutes, he thought as he watched him drive off. His gaze panned right and he saw Anna Young standing across the way. She started after Henry Deutch’s car, walking with her head up, that posture firm, moving gracefully over the sidewalk, her long skirt rippling around her legs as she floated along like some spirit assigned to follow Henry Deutch to his grave.
George watched her until she disappeared around the corner. The breeze picked up, blew some debris over the streets and sidewalk, and then died down. A cloud moved over the sun draping the village in a blanket of gray for a few minutes. Some light traffic went by and then the sleepy village turned, stretched, and continued to chug along at its nearly somnambulist’s pace.
Henry was no conversationalist. For a barber that was depressing, especially a loquacious man like Dennis Rotterman. Henry planted himself in the chair and stared ahead with a look that resembled an expression of defiance or challenge. Go on, he seemed to say, try to do a good job and see if I appreciate it.
Rotterman truly hated long moments of silence while he worked. Chatter didn’t detract from his concentration. On the contrary, it helped him settle into his work with ease. He had to be loose, relaxed himself, to do a good job. He despised being mechanical. Henry’s hair was like thin wire: dull, dead, and split at the ends. His scalp was scaly and dry, and he kept his neck tight, the folds of skin forming tight little crevices.
Fortunately, Charles Trustman had remained to finish the paper after their game of checkers.
“This all you have to do with your time now?” Henry asked him.
Charles lowered the paper and stared as if he was giving the question great thought.
“The day seems to pass quickly. I don’t mind not having problems to solve, people to please, deadlines to meet, Henry. You shouldn’t knock retirement. Making money has no point if you don’t enjoy your life, if all you want to do is keep your nose to the grindstone.”
Henry scowled.
“There’s plenty of time to rest in the grave,” he said. Charles shrugged.
“To each his own, I guess. Whatever makes you happy.”
“That’s why this town is dying, why there’s no economy here anymore. People are dead and buried here before they died. It’s harder to make a good dollar. My properties are all losing value. No one wants to live here anymore except parasites sucking on the welfare tit.”
Dennis Rotterman nodded at his friend as if to say “That takes care of you, Trustman.”
Charles shook his head and went back to the newspaper. A deadly silence fell over the shop with only the click of the scissors and then the electric shaver offering any sound. When Rotterman finished, he brushed Henry down and Henry stood up and nodded at his image.
“That do it, Henry?” Rotterman asked.
“Fine. What’s it cost?”
“Same as last time, Henry, fifteen dollars.”
“Fifteen dollars,” Henry said through tight lips.
“Need some money, Henry?” Charles Trustman asked, lowering the paper.
“No, not yet, but at the way prices are going up around here, it won’t be long,” Henry Deutch said, and reluctantly counted out the fifteen and put it into Dennis Rotterman’s open palm. Then he brushed down the front of his shirt and marched to the door.
“See you again. Henry,” Dennis called as he left.
Henry didn’t respond.
Charles shook his head and the two laughed. As Dennis went for the vacuum cleaner, the door opened and Anna Young stepped in. Both men froze.
“I need something,” she said.
“Sure, Anna. What can I get you?” Dennis Rotterman asked.
“Nothing. I’11 get it myself,” she said. She had a small cloth purse in her hand. She opened it and then she knelt down and carefully plucked some of Henry Deutch’s cut strands off the floor. She put them into the cloth purse, pulled the draw string tight, gazed at the two men, and then left as quickly as she entered.
“Jeezes,” Dennis said.
Charles Trustman shook his head.
“What the hell’s all that about?” Dennis asked.
“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” Charles said. He looked at Dennis.
“Henry Deutch better watch his ass,” Dennis said.
Charles Trustman nodded. He rose and went to the window to gaze out after Anna, but she was already gone. Dennis joined him and then they looked at each other.
It was as if the two of them had dreamed it.