Chapter 6 #2
Floy went from the lawyer’s office to Moe’s Barbershop.
He’d skipped breakfast and was thinking about Edison’s Eats as he pulled up in front of the shop, hoping he wouldn’t have to wait long to get in the chair.
He’d solved his own problem about shaving over the cut on his chin, but his hair had grown too long, and now that the stitches were out, he needed Moe to give him a quick trim.
He got out of the truck, patted his hip pocket to make sure his wallet was there, and sauntered slowly into the barbershop. The bell over the door dinged as he entered.
Moe glanced up, pausing on the haircut he was giving to the man seated in the chair.
“Morning, Floy. Take a seat. I’ll be through shortly.”
Floy nodded, eased himself down, stretching his long legs out in front of him, and resting his elbows on the arms of the chair.
At the other end of the shop, Donalda looked up from the shampoo station where she was washing her customer’s hair.
Calico was coming out of the back room with a stack of folded towels for their stations and froze in mid-step.
Farrah Reardon was putting a clear topcoat on a client’s nails when she looked up, and with the slight jerk of her hand, accidentally painted the top knuckle on her client’s thumb.
The client didn’t notice because she’d been watching Floy from the time he’d emerged from his truck to when he’d entered the salon.
The woman waiting in the waiting area glanced up from her phone. Her eyes widened as she slowly let out a soft hiss, then whispered to Calico, standing nearby, “Is that Floy?”
Calico nodded.
“What happened to him?” Donalda whispered.
They looked at each other and then shrugged.
The woman with her head in the shampoo bowl raised up just enough to see what was happening and accidentally swallowed the gum she’d been chewing.
He was six feet worth of wide shoulders, muscles everywhere that mattered, wearing a black form-fitting T-shirt and black Wranglers over long legs, and a butt as tight and fine as they’d ever seen.
But it was the faint shadow of close-cut whiskers and the quick flash of fire in those pale green eyes as he glanced their way that set their girly hearts aflutter.
Somewhere between Elvis’s escape, his jail stint, and his wife’s betrayal, he’d turned into a walking advertisement for sex.
Maybe it was the rage still simmering beneath the surface.
A few minutes later, Moe’s customer left the shop. Moe swept the hair off the floor, pulled a clean cape from a nearby cabinet, and nodded at Floy.
“Take a seat.”
Floy’s short trip from where he’d been sitting to Moe’s styling chair was viewed by the girls at the other end of the room with as much interest as watching a male model in a fashion show sauntering down the catwalk.
“The stitches are out of my head now, but take it easy back there,” Floy said. “I’m done bleeding for a while.”
“You got it,” Moe said. “Same cut as usual?”
Floy nodded. “Yeah, just a trim. No sideburns. No fade.”
Moe nodded as he fastened the clean cape around Floy’s neck and reached for a comb and styling scissors. Moe wasn’t one for chitchat unless a customer wanted to talk, and it was clear Floy had nothing to say, so he kept working.
One customer walked out of the salon as another woman walked in. The woman leaving eyed Floy’s reflection in the mirror over Moe’s station and ran into the woman walking in, who stared in disbelief at the man in the chair.
Both of their purses clattered to the floor. They gasped, then frowned at each other. “My goodness, Shirley. Watch where you’re going.”
“Sorry,” Shirley said, and dropped to her knees to gather up the things that had fallen from her purse, then scurried toward the salon.
Moe grinned to himself. Floy, the Fix-It man, had turned into a heartbreaker, but he knew something those women didn’t. It would be a cold day in hell before Floy Beaudine ever gave another woman a chance to break his heart.
Just as Moe finished up Floy’s cut and had run the clippers over the back of his neck, he thought to ask, “Are you going back to work anytime soon? I ask because I noticed during the last rain that I had a leak in the roof of my apartment upstairs. I don’t know whether I’ll need a new roof or if a patch job would fix it. ”
Floy glanced up in the mirror to meet Moe’s gaze.
“I had a pending appointment with Myra Emory to re-roof her house before my life went to hell. I don’t know if she’s still interested in my services, but my prices have gone up. I’ll have to check with her first before I schedule anything else,” he said.
Moe didn’t blink. “Makes sense,” he said quietly. “There are always consequences when a disaster happens . . . even if the disaster has happened to only one honest man with no family to back him up.”
“Yeah,” Floy said, as Moe removed the cape and shook it out.
Floy stood up to pull out his wallet, handed Moe the money, then took a slow breath, as if deciding something on the spot.
“After I check in with Myra, I’ll fix your roof.
Is it okay if I check the apartment to locate the leak before I leave? ”
“Absolutely,” Moe said. “I don’t have a customer right now. How about I give you a personal tour? There’s even an attic window with access to the roof.”
“Excellent,” Floy said, waiting for Moe to lead the way.
Moe stepped out from behind the lattice wall of fake ivy separating the two shops.
“Hey, Calico. If anyone comes in for me, tell them to take a seat. I’m going to show Floy where my roof has been leaking, and then I’ll be right back.”
“Will do,” Calico said, silently wishing she had a leaky roof.
Moe led Floy down a small hall, then up the stairs to his apartment. Floy’s focus went immediately to the huge flat-screen TV on the living room wall and grinned.
“Do you have to lean back to get the whole view?”
Moe laughed. “I did jump up once trying to catch a ball during a football playoff when the angle of the shot made it look like it was about to land in my lap.”
Floy grinned. “You need to play darts sometime down at the Beers and Cues with Beau and Razor Langley.”
“Why?” Moe asked.
“Because they don’t use the darts. They use a nail gun.”
Moe burst out laughing.
The women downstairs heard the laughter and sighed.
“Moe never laughs,” Donalda muttered.
Farrah Reardon, the manicurist, sighed. “Whatever Floy said to him must have been classic.”
“He wouldn’t have to say a dang word to turn me on,” Calico muttered.
“Might as well wish for the moon as to hope Floy ever looks at a woman again. Mayrene did him dirty. Big time, dirty,” Donalda said, then quietly added, “Bless his heart.”
Unaware he was the topic of conversation downstairs, Floy saw the big water stain inside, reached up to test the Sheetrock, then pulled down the folding stairs in the ceiling and went up into the attic.
He crawled out the dormer window onto the roof, and spent a few minutes of careful inspection, before coming back down into the living room where Moe was waiting.
“What’s the verdict?” Moe asked.
“You don’t need a new roof. Just a good patch.
I will need to find a place with matching shingles, then get them ordered.
But this water stain in the ceiling is severe.
When I tested the Sheetrock, it felt mushy.
I think we can remove just that damaged area, put up a couple of new sheets, paint to match what’s there, and you’ll be good to go. ”
“That’s actually good news,” Moe said. “As for matching paint, just repaint the whole ceiling some shade of white, and I’ll be grateful.”
Floy nodded. “I’ll source the shingles and supplies and give you an estimate within a few days. Then we’ll schedule the repair, working around Myra’s decision, if that’s okay with you.”
Moe held out his hand, and Floy shook it.
There was a time when Floy had been locked up in that cell, believing he’d never regain what he’d had or who he’d been, but here he was, and it was his first job in this new life, which meant everything.
“Is it okay if I put out the word that you’re well enough to start taking jobs again?” Moe asked after they went back downstairs.
Floy shrugged. “You can if you want, with the added caveat about the increase in service costs.”
“Will do, and if you ever want to watch any sports in living color, come on over. I don’t know shit about British soccer, but I watch it, too.”
Floy shook his head. “I think you just like to watch guys beat the hell out of each other.”
Moe belly-laughed again. “That’s what Judge says. Thanks for taking the job before my ceiling falls in.”
Floy nodded and left. Moe motioned for the man waiting his turn.
“That was Floy Beaudine, right?” the man said as he sat down.
Moe nodded. “Yes. Sorry for the wait. I took him upstairs to check out some repairs I needed. I have a leak in my roof.”
“So, he’s well enough to work now?” the man asked.
“I guess. He took my job,” Moe said, “with the understanding that his prices have gone up . . . due to sourcing materials and such.”
The man frowned. “People aren’t going to like that,” he muttered.
Moe shrugged. “I think Floy is over caring about what people think. People didn’t give a shit about him when he needed someone to believe him.
If they don’t like his pricing, then they’re free to call someone else.
Any number of businesses offer the same services Floy does, but they’re scattered all over the state, and they charge big fees just for showing up before they even begin to add the cost of parts and labor to the job.
Personally, I backed that man from day one, and I’m still fine with paying what he feels like he needs.
He’s bonded and licensed in a half dozen skill sets.
He has two full-time employees, so there’s nothing unfair about any of this, except the way he was treated by people who’d known him his entire life.
” Then Moe smiled at the man. “Same cut as always?”