Hootan pulled his hand out of sweatshirt pocket. He seemed pleased to be bringing the pistol into the open, and even happier to be aiming it at me.
“Fayza would like to see you,” he said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We rode in silence. Hootan didn’t talk to me, didn’t even turn on the Honda’s Real Engine Sound™. Every time a light flashed through the rear windshield, I thought: Gloria. But no. And no Ollie, either. Back in the apartment, Hootan had pointed to her and Bobby and said, “If you follow, I will shoot her.” Ollie growled. I’d never heard her make a sound like that, and never seen that kind of hate on her face.
Hootan drove toward the Millie neighborhood. I’d started to sweat. Couldn’t help it. The human palm has three thousand sweat glands per square inch, and every one of them has a mind of its own. I’d told Fayza I would have the results by Saturday—two days ago. She’d clearly run out of patience.
A few blocks before Tyndall Avenue, Hootan pulled in at a flat-roofed, one-story building. The wooden sign out front said “Elegant Lady Salon” in pink script. The windows and front door were protected by iron grates.
Hootan drove around back and parked next to a late model Garand S3. “Go in,” he said.
His headlights illuminated the back door of the shop. The windows facing the back lot were shuttered.
My body went into Full Norepinephrine Clench: tight chest, closed throat, cinched asshole. I couldn’t move.
“Fine,” Hootan said. He got out of the car, moved around to my door, and yanked it open.
“Okay, okay,” I said. I pulled myself out of his Honda, then made my way up the short steps to the door. My stomach and knees felt like glass. Images flashed in my brain: Pastor Rudy, hogtied on the floor with a metal spike in his neck. Skinny Luke, with a garbage bag over his head.
“For Christ’s sake,” I said under my breath. “Get your ass over here.”
Dr. Gloria, however, refused to appear. I looked back, and Hootan was watching me. He made a shooing gesture.
The door was unlocked. I pushed inside and slammed the door shut behind me. If I couldn’t have calm, I thought, at least I could use anger.
The back room was dark and narrow, crowded with dimly seen supplies. A short hallway led to the front of the salon, where the lights were on. I stood for a long moment, listening, but I heard nothing but a faint mechanical sound. I walked forward.
The salon proper looked as garish and migraine-inducing as a Bollywood set: pink swivel chairs, lime green tile floors, neon orange trim. Every stylist station was done up like a Hollywood makeup table, with a big mirror surrounded by lights. Fayza sat in one of the swivel chairs, reading a magazine. Behind her, snipping at the back of Fayza’s head with a pair of narrow scissors, was a dark-haired girl who looked to be in her twenties. She wore a beaded emerald dress that looked like traditional Afghan costume, but on her feet were chunky black combat boots. Her glittery head scarf and bangle earrings looked more Gypsy than Muslim to me, but what did I know?
Fayza looked up from her magazine and saw me in the mirror. “Lyda, thank you for meeting me at such a late hour.”
I forced a smile that felt like a crack in my skull. “Odd time for a haircut.”
“You wouldn’t believe my schedule,” she said. She turned to face me, and the stylist stepped back. Fayza frowned at me. “I cannot decide if you die.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it.
“You have such lovely red hair,” she continued. “It looks natural, but you know what tricks women can play.”
Oh. If you dye. I choked out a reply. “I used to get highlights. Not lately.”
She nodded. “When you get older you have to hide the gray with lowlights—a sad reversal. Look at Aaqila’s hair. So dark.”
The girl, Aaqila, didn’t answer. Her head was slightly bowed, and she looked at me through black bangs. She was tall, well over six feet in those boots, with pale skin, full lips, a pointed chin. She was beautiful, but her strong, narrow nose pushed her out of TV-pretty-land into more interesting territory.
“You have too much volume,” Fayza said to me. “You look like a wild woman. When was the last time you were in a decent salon?”
It had been years since I’d been in a decent salon. I hadn’t cut my hair at all since before entering the hospital. “Is it that bad?” I asked.
“Aaqila, do you have time for a walk-in?”
The girl shrugged as if to say, Why not? She gestured toward an alcove where two shampoo stations were set up.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m good.”
Aaqila took me by the elbow. When I didn’t move, the girl slid her hand down to my wrist and pressed; the pain was sharp, as if small bones were ready to snap, and I dropped to one knee. Good God she was strong. And she still held the scissors in her other hand.
“Please,” Fayza said to me. “You need this.”
I lowered myself into the shampoo chair. The back reclined so that my head hung over the sink. I was acutely aware of each step of this simple process: the tightness in my hips; the creak of the vinyl padding as my ass settled into the seat; the cold ceramic against my neck. I stared at the ceiling, my throat bared.
The girl did something behind me, then returned with hot towels. “To open the pores,” she said. She placed the towels over my face, covering my eyes, nose, and mouth. My heart thumped in panic, but I tried to steady myself.
The sink thrummed loudly as she turned on the water, but the sprayer had not been aimed at me yet.
“You haven’t been answering the phone I gave you,” Fayza said from somewhere close.
I started to lift my head but Aaqila pushed it back down. “Hold still,” she said in a soft voice.
“Yeah, about that…,” I said, my voice muffled.
I felt a palm against my forehead. Hot water—very hot water—struck the crown of my head, ran down my hair, the weight tugging me back. I smelled mint shampoo.
“The wafers were just wafers,” Fayza said.
“Right,” I said. My original plan was to play dumb. Really, the wafers were substance-free? Huh! I decided to abandon that scheme.
“Do you have the sample?” Fayza asked.
“No,” I said truthfully. I’d had the sample—but that was in Rovil’s hands now.
The hand on my forehead pressed down, forcing my skull back. The rim of the sink knifed into the back of my neck, directly on the C4 vertebra. I clenched the armrests. If I moved fast I might be able to grab one of the girl’s arms, but then what? In an instant she could bring her full weight down on my neck. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me. Maybe I’d only be paralyzed from the arms down.
“Please…,” I said. I wasn’t talking to Aaqila or Fayza.
Fayza said, “Who are you working for, Lyda?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not working for anyone,” I said. “I swear it.”
“You are too convenient,” Fayza said. “A week after I discover a new drug in the city, you appear. The creator herself, propositioning one of my employees. I direct you to a location where this drug is sold, and a day later—a single day—two men are dead. One of them my customer. I think you were trying to plug a leak.”
“You didn’t kill them?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself; I tried to raise my head. Quickly it was shoved back and I cried out.
“Why would I kill them?” Fayza asked.
“Competition?”
“How can I compete with these people? I don’t even know who they are.”
“Mafia,” I said. “Mexican Mafia.”
A moment of silence. God how I wished I could see her face. Aaqila continued to comb my hair with her fingers.
Fayza asked, “How do you know this?”
“The pastor,” I said. “He had gang tattoos.”