Page 6 of Hollywood

“Ed’s been down in the dumps for a while,” Clint said.

That surprised me. “Really?”

“You wouldn’t know it today,” Clint said. “That’s because of you. You drew him out and got him talking about fishing, his grandson, all the good things in his life.”

“Is there something bad?”

“He lost his wife last year,” Clint said. “I was starting to worry he might give up on his own, you know? He’s been depressed off and on ever since.”

“Oh, damn. I had no idea.”

He nodded. “It was before your time here.”

I finished sweeping up and put the broom away, then returned some of my hair products to a semblance of order. Clint continued to rest in the chair while I worked. I moved on to straightening his station. He made a half-heartedattempt to get up, and I waved him back. “I got it. This is supposed to be your day off.”

“You’re right.” He chuckled. “Old habits die hard, but I’m getting too old. Gonna have to slow down soon.”

My gut clenched. “You’re not that old.”

He chuckled. “You’re just flattering me now. I’m ancient. But don’t worry, I’ve got a few miles left on the odometer.” He finally pushed out of the chair. “Let’s get out of here. Go have a cold one for me.”

“Will do.” I grabbed my wallet and keys and headed for the door.

“And Hendrix?”

I turned back. “Yeah?”

“When my motor does give out, you’ll still have a place here if you want it.”

I blinked, thrown for a minute. “You mean…”

“Well, hell, I’ve got no one else to pass it on to. I’ll just let you keep running the place, like you practically are now,” he said with a rusty laugh. “Maybe we’ll work out something, huh? Long-term, I mean.”

I nodded, throat tight. “I’d like that.”

“All right. Go on and get out of here, then.”

I pushed out the door and headed for my car, mind spinning. Being a barber wasn’t what I’d ever imagined for myself. I’d been a straight-A student, top of my class in business school. I’d gone into finance, like my mother, though I’d have preferred to work in computer science.

I’d always had a knack for computer programs, writing code, hacking into shit I should leave well enough alone.

Going to prison put an end to all that. And I wasn’t even really sad about it. I liked the relaxed pace of cutting hair and making small talk, of listening to people’s stories, of getting home before 10 p.m. and having time for beers with friends.

My nights had gotten a little lonelier when Tex left—and thanks to my ex’s bitterness, I still had no time with my daughter—but the guys of Redemption Road were there week after week.

The trailer park was just outside town, so it took fifteen minutes to drive there. I pulled in behind Joyride’s ugly-ass Hummer and crossed the empty lot next to Ghost’s toaster-sized trailer we’d claimed as our go-to spot. Lawn chairs sat around a firepit flickering with orange flames. Ghost worked the grill, probably so he could talk less, and Joyride dug in the cooler for a beer.

Knight sat staring into the flames, long legs extended and crossed at the ankles, a bottle loosely dangling from two fingers.

Joyride turned as I walked up. “Hey! Want a beer?”

“You know it.”

He dug through the ice and came up empty. “Sorry, man, we don’t have any of that fancy yuppie shit you like to drink.”

I flipped him off. “Just give me a cold one, punk.”

He pulled out a bottle that matched Knight’s and handed it to me. I used the bottom corner of my button-down to twist off the lid. I glimpsed the label. Miller Lite. And they gave me shit about my taste in beer? This was barely a step above piss.