“I know.” I look at the men. They’ll remember me until the end of time. It’s why I don’t like coming here. It’s not that they’re anything of a threat; even if one pulled out a sidearm I doubt he could hit the sky if he emptied the magazine.
But, each man is a phone call away from every greaser in town who thinks he’s Joe Pesci in Good Fellas. No one left in this city is that kind of guido badass but they think they are. That’s almost worse. All I need is a bunch of mostly inept wannabe gangsters trying to fill me with lead while they eat cannoli. They won’t hit me but they’ll more than likely shoot up everyone around me. It’s better to play this in a reserved manner.
I say, “Let’s talk outside. It’ll only be a minute.”
“Yeah,” Temples says, “let’s.”
“Razor was a good barber. You had no right—” one of the old men shouts.
“Being a barber has nothing to do with killing his wife,” I say.
“She was a cheatin’ whore!”
“So was he. Is he still in prison?” I ask as Temples put a hand to my shoulder and eases me out the door.
“Whaddya think, ya fuckin’ pig?”
“Oh, that’s right,” I say, smirking. “Later, fellas.”
“Okay. Okay,” Temples says. He shuts the door behind us and the bell jingles inside.
Razor worked here for almost a decade. This was a long time ago now. Razor was known for two things: being a quality barber and cheating on his wife. Notorious for both. Razor was cool with his own infidelities; he was not cool when he discovered his wife had an affair of her own. Razor unceremoniously opened his wife’s neck with his best shaving blade. I guess that’s the nickname’s origin.
Clevenger and I caught the case when her body was found on a trash heap in the city dump. It led here. Razor very proudly admitted what he did. He declared he would not be cuckolded. He declared things were square now.
So Razor is cutting hair in prison. Which is where he will die.
Outside Temples says, “They’re still sore about him. I never cared for the adultery, myself.”
“Thanks for talking to me anyways,” I say.
“Sure.” Temples looks around and says to the world around us, “He was a good barber, I guess.”
Oh well. “I need Paulie Torreno,” I say.
“Now that’s one rat bastard you should put in the slammer.”
“I’m not a cop anymore. I don’t have access to the slammer.”
“Well, then. Off the mook.”
“We’ll get there when we get there. Can you get word to him?”
“I can whisper in ears. Yes.”
“Spread the word for tonight at the old Navy pier. I’ll be there at one a.m.”
“Sure. Sure.”
“I’ll wait until one-fifteen.”
“Sure. Sure.”
“This stays between us, right?”
“You need to ask?”
“I guess not,” I say. “Thanks, Temples. Good to see you again.”