IN THE CHEVY, Active pulled a scrawny Chukchi phone book from the console, looked up the number, and dialed his cell phone.
“Arctic Hair,” said an exhausted voice.
“I was wondering if I could get a haircut today?”
“I was just about to close up—”
“Maybe just a trim?”
“You could come over, I guess. Maybe I could do a trim.”
The connection went dead before Active could ask how to get there. Should he call back? Maybe not. He barely had his foot in the door, judging from the sound of Milton Sipary’s voice.
But where was Arctic Hair? He’d driven past it a hundred times, he could see it in his mind’s eye, but it was sunk in his memory as part of the Chukchiscape, undifferentiated as the rest of it. Maybe he’d been around too long. Maybe he’d missed too many planes to ever get out now.
He opened the phone book again. “Third Avenue,” the listing said. No number, just the street, but that was enough. His memory brought it up—a little old cottage, the kind of place some people still called an Eskimo house.
He drove to the spot, parked the Chevy in front, and studied Arctic Hair. It was well kept for a Chukchi house. No broken windows, no missing shingles, no dead snowgos in front, and the paint was still a deep red, not blasted down to a dull rust by wind and snow. Two rooms, he guessed, with a tiny kunnichuk in front. A wooden sign on the front identified it as the Arctic Hair, illustrated by a painting of an Arctic hare stretched out in full sprint.
Active smiled a little at the pun as he noticed another thing: Arctic Hair had trees in front—two spruces, two cottonwoods, all healthy and tall by Arctic standards. He couldn’t recall ever seeing anything bigger than alders and dwarf willows on the spit of gravel and tundra where Chukchi stood. How had Milton Sipary coaxed trees to grow so large in front of his house?
He went through the kunnichuk and knocked on the inner door. There was a stir inside, then the door opened to reveal a lean Inupiaq with an angular face.
“I’m Milton,” he said. “Come on in.”
He was in his late fifties, maybe, silver hair in a kind of crew cut, a ring in one ear. He looked healthier than Active had expected. Also straighter, which made Active wonder what he thought a gay man should look like, and why?
“Nathan Active.”
“I know who you are.” The hairdresser studied him without offering a hand. “Your hair’s not that long.”
Active took off his parka and hung it on a hook by the door. “It’s kind of a special occasion.”
“And you’re the new police chief. And you’ve never been here before.”
He brushed a hand over his hair again. “I could use a trim.”
“You said that on the phone. Am I in trouble?”
“Of course not.”
Sipary tipped his head toward the barber chair in the middle of the room. Active settled in and noticed a slight smell of cat box mixed with the aroma of hair spray. Little dishes of food and water were set against a wall. There was no sign of the cat, though. All Things Considered played from a radio that shared a shelf with a cigar box, spray bottles, gel tubes, and hairdressing gear. Next to it were framed certificates that looked military, including one with a medal on a ribbon.
Sipary spotted him checking out the lineup on the shelf. “I guessing you won’t be wanting any product?”
“Probably not.”
“Mm-hmm.” Sipary draped the cape around Active’s shoulders. “Just a trim?”
“Just a trim.”
Sipary took scissors from the shelf and Active watched him work in the mirror above it. His hand was light and sure, the same delicate touch as a house dog sniffing the cuffs of a new arrival. Sipary seemed to relax, and hummed little snatches of melody as he worked.
How to get into it? “They say people tell hair stylists everything,” Active said at last.
“That’s somewhat true,” Sipary said. “At least I find out how the kids are doing and who’s sleeping with who, if it’s women.”
“And if it’s men?”
“How’s fishin’, how’s huntin’, how’s the weather?” Sipary said with a little chuckle. “I like the women better.”
“Who doesn’t?” Active said.
Sipary seemed to tense a little, and Active wondered how to walk back what he’d said. But it was Sipary who eased the moment.
“I’m sick, you know.”
“I heard that.”
“Mm-hmm. But not what you might be thinking. It’s nothing you can catch.”
“Mm-hmm. That’s why I didn’t want to cut your hair. I’m tired all the time. I’m only going to cut hair one more month.”
“Are you on chemo or anything?”
In the mirror, Sipary shook his head. “I was and it went away. But it came back. So now I’m done with all that.”
“You’ll stay in Chukchi after you quit cutting hair?”
Sipary lifted his eyebrows in the mirror. “Mm-hmm. I’ve got relatives in Anchorage, all right, but most of my family and friends are here, so this is more home.”
“I’m sorry for your trouble, Mr. Sipary.”
“I don’t complain. My life’s been all right.”
Sipary snipped away as Active tried again to come at his question.
“I like your trees,” he said finally. “Nobody else in Chukchi has trees in front of their house.”
Sipary smiled in the mirror. “My mother had a secret.”
Active lifted his eyebrows in the Anchorage expression of inquiry.
“You plant them on the east wall. That way, they’re protected from the west wind, and they get the light of the rising sun in the coldest part of the day. It bounces off the wall and they get it twice.”
“Ah,” Active said. “I think my house has a pretty good east wall, all right.”
“Then you should plant some trees over there.” Sipary pulled the cape off Active’s shoulders and shook it free of clippings. “But that’s not why you’re here, ah?”
“No, it’s not,” Active said.
“And you’re not like me.”
“Ah, no, that’s not it. I’m…I’m with Grace Palmer.”
“A beautiful woman. If I wasn’t like me, I’d like to be with her, I think.”
“I’m very lucky,” Active said.
“So why are you here, then?”
“Did you know Pete Wise?”
“The guy who was run over? A little, not very well.”
“Was he, ah…”
“Like me? No.”
“You sound sure.”
“Pretty sure, all right. My naluaqmiut friends call it gaydar. It’s almost always right.”
“And Pete didn’t trip yours or anyone else’s?”
“Not that I ever heard of.” Sipary paused. “But I could check around. People tell their stylists everything, all right.”
“Thank you.” Active handed him a business card. “How much for the trim?”
“It’s twenty-five.”
Active found two twenties in his wallet and passed them over. Sipary put them in the cigar box and returned with a ten and a five.
“No, you keep it.”
“I probably won’t need it,” Sipary said. “But it can’t hurt.” He put the bills back in the box.
Active put out his hand. Sipary hesitated, then took it.
“Good luck on your journey,” Active said.
Sipary lifted his eyebrows, yes, and studied the business card. “I’ll call you if I hear something.”