than even Hemingway would have been able to tolerate.
I made myself a pot of my special blend and took it outside, hoping that the caffeine and a stroll in the fresh breeze off the ocean would clear my brain. Twinkles joined me, tail held aloft, queen of all she surveyed.
“Howdy, neighbour!” As I rounded the corner of the cottage, I saw Kevin and a stranger sloping across the road towards me. Twinkles, in her usual way, melted into the shrubbery. It was only nine a.m. I couldn’t imagine what would bring Kevin out of his bed at such an early hour. “Someone here wants to meet you.”
I took in every detail of the stranger now standing on my patio and felt my heart lurch. Short and powerfully built, with a thick mustache and several days growth of whiskers obscuring most of his face, he had black, wiry hair that sprouted from under a greasy ball cap. I could see several gold chains entangled in the dark mat of hair on his barrel chest. Even the backs of his powerful hands and forearms were covered in hair. Aside from the hair, his short stature and massive shoulders gave him the appearance of a gorilla. His face sported a broken nose and one eye that wandered off to the left, so that I couldn’t tell where he was looking.
I had seen his type before. Everything about him screamed “Mafia goon”. Heaven knows, there’d been enough of them in the courtroom to recognize the species. He favoured me with a twisted smirk that revealed he’d lost a front tooth, no doubt in some previous life-and-death battle. I wondered how he’d latched onto Kevin Jollimore, and even more, how he’d found me.
I wanted to run, but where would I go? High tide covered the shingle beach. The stranger stood between me and the road. I thought about fleeing to my little cottage, but no door would be a barrier to him. If only I’d opted for a dog as my animal companion. A rottweiler or German shepherd might leap to my defense. With shaking hands, I put my coffee cup on the patio table, took a deep breath and resigned myself to whatever would happen next.
“This here’s Arleen’s brother, Clarence.” Kevin introduced him with a proud grin. “Used to be a prize fighter. Good, too, until his last couple of bouts. Up from Lower Cormorant to give us a hand. I was tellin’ him all about you. Says he’s never met a computer whiz before.”
I tried to cope with the sudden surge of relief that flooded my body. Not a hitman. Not a mobster. Not even a goon. Not here to do me harm. I swallowed hard and managed a weak smile. “How do you do . . . Mr . . . er . . . Clarence.” A huge, hairy paw closed over my trembling fingers.
I disentangled my hand and tried once more to explain to Kevin my occupation. “Not a computer whiz, Kevin. I just use the computer for my writing.”
“Whatever.” Kevin dismissed my explanation. “Like I was saying, Clarence here is gonna give us a hand. Arleen wants to do a bit of redecorating, so we got to get stuff outta the house.”
I drew a blank at the idea of Arleen redecorating, but if she did wish to give rein to some unsuspected Martha Steward tendencies, I couldn’t for the life of me see what it had to do with me.
“So, we was wonderin’ whether we could use your shed for storin’ stuff. Just for a couple of weeks, eh?” Kevin looked hopeful.
I felt so relieved to realize that my worst nightmare of being discovered by my former adversaries had not materialized, that I would have agreed to anything.
“Oh, yes, well, of course. Why not? There’s nothing much in there at the moment. It’s all yours. Go right ahead.”
“C’mon, old son, let’s get the stuff shifted. Arleen’ll want to get going on her redecorating, eh?” I saw Kevin give Clarence a broad wink. A private joke, I decided.
I left them to it and headed inside to the kitchen to pour myself a fresh cup of coffee.
For the next hour, I watched Kevin and Clarence ferrying various items from the Jollimore residence to my shed. The eclectic nature of their burdens surprised me. Not the contents of a room as one might imagine for a redecorating project, but rather, a miscellany of esoteric items such as clothing, a television set, a microwave oven, various components of a VCR and CD system, a collection of hunting rifles and fishing equipment, some plates, a couple of pictures, a large family Bible and a photo album.
At last their labours ceased. They took their well-earned rest on the discarded freezer that graced the end of the Jollimore driveway, where they lounged bare-chested in the sun to enjoy a couple of bottles of beer. The sight fascinated me, and I found myself unable to decide which looked more repulsive: Clarence’s furry front or the grey pudge of Kevin. An ear-shattering, “Kevin! Where the hell are you?” ended their idyll.
After the morning’s excitement, the muse had left me, so I packed up my writing for the day. I decided my hair and beard needed a trim. Although the new beard had developed very well, I felt it now required professional attention. In Toronto, I had frequented Quentin’s, a rather upscale salon in the downtown core that catered to business professionals. I knew I was vain about my hair, but unlike most men of my age who were battling receding hairlines, I still had the thick, wavy mane of my youth. I thought that the few silver strands in it gave me an air of distinction.
I had looked for a barber shop in Cormorant Harbour, and having seen none, resigned myself to a monthly trip to Halifax. However, St. Grimbald’s organist, Boris Monk, a large, flamboyant individual given to hairy ties and baggy corduroy trousers, a man with an endless supply of local information, had recommended a woman called Sherri.
“All the local ladies go to her, but Sherri caters to the guys, too. Sets ’em up in a little room in back. Does a good job, too. I’d go to Sherri any time. Although,” he continued as he fingered his thick, black beard, “nobody touches this baby but me.”
Following Boris’s instructions, I ventured into one of the small side streets in Cormorant Harbour. As he had said it would be, I found the large house trailer set back from the road. If Boris hadn’t told me what to expect, I would never have assumed this to be a place of business. I hesitated before climbing the rickety wooden steps. I found it hard to imagine a man like Boris frequenting such an establishment. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open an old screen door, which screeched and slammed with a bang behind me. Inside, someone had transformed the narrow living room of the trailer into a hairdressing salon by painting everything in a most virulent shade of strawberry pink. Photos of various models with outrageous hair styles adorned the walls. Every horizontal surface was strewn with the paraphernalia of the beautician’s art.
The small room was crowded. On my entrance, all activity ceased. A very large lady sat under one of the dryers against the wall. Another occupied the styling chair, her head bristling with brush rollers. The third, her head a mass of curls, sat in a wicker chair in the corner. Their eyes assessed me with curious stares.
“Hello.” A younger woman, very pretty, with blonde hair teased into an impossible pouf on top of her head, turned off a small blow dryer as she came towards me. “You must be Mr. Trenchant. Boris said you might drop in. I’m Sherri.”
I had a moment of shock as she spoke my name, then realized it wasn’t a sign of possible danger. Of course she’d know me, since I was the only new face in Cormorant Harbour. “I’ll just show you through to the back,” she continued. “It’s the bingo tonight, so I’m busy this morning, but it won’t take long.” The three customers continued to stare. I thought I recognized a couple of them from the church services at St. Grimbald’s, but no names came to mind. I allowed Sherri to lead me through the main area, redolent of hair spray and shampoo, into a small cubbyhole off to one side.
This area, barely big enough to hold a styling chair, had been designed with the male customer in mind. The beige walls were soothing after the strident pink of the main salon, and here were adorned with masculine pictures of yachts, antique cars and horses. Sherri seated me in the styling chair, poured me a cup of coffee, then handed me a magazine to read. I felt trapped, but I didn’t think I could bear to walk back through the assembled company and return another day. I cast a desultory glance at the magazine, Body Builder. My eyes were assailed with numerous semi-nude male bodies of unbelievable brawn and girth. I didn’t need