Free Nameless Night by G.M. Ford Page A

anywhere, anytime soon.
    “Have a seat, gentlemen.” Ramirez gestured to the battered collection of chairs lining the room. “Nobody’s going anywhere until we get this thing sorted out.”
    Gray suit’s face was the color of oatmeal. His voice was a whisper as he began to protest, “We are federal officers and pursuant to the Patriot Act of—” “Have a seat,” Ramirez repeated, louder this time. “I’m calling for an A.D.A. We’ll let the D.A.’s office work their magic on this thing.”
    “I had an officer shot this afternoon. At this moment we are—” Ramirez stiffened his spine. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Was one of them the shooter?” he asked.
    “No.”
    The cop waved disgustedly. “Then have a goddamn seat.”
    “ME AND MY MOTHER never got along,” she said. She caromed a gaze off the mirror and caught Paul’s eyes. “Two strong personalities, I guess,” she added with a wan smile. “That’s probably how come Mona and I always get in each other’s faces.” She waved a safety razor in the air. “Mona owns the shop. Her daughter, Sue, and I . . . we run the place. Mona just comes in every afternoon to collect the cash and bitch about anything she can think of.” She waved the razor again. “Her and me go at it like cats and dogs. Good thing I’ve got some vacation time coming. It’s been getting bad lately. Another week or so and I’d be telling her where she could put her shop and then I’d need to find another job, which wouldn’t be easy since I wouldn’t have a reference from my last job.” She pretended to check the room. “I use Mona’s certificate number,” she said in a low voice, and then stepped back to admire her work. “Soon as I close up tonight, I’m out of here. Gonna go back home and try to recon-nect with my parents. Already got the car packed and ready to roll. Good-bye.”
    Paul watched her from the corner of his eye. Her hair was three separate shades of red, none of which existed in nature. She was dressed like a cartoon character, something between Raggedy Ann and the Cat in the Hat. All kinds of multicolored beads all over her, some of which looked like they might be made of candy, an impossibly short denim skirt over red-and-white-striped leggings, kneelength boots laced up the front. She bent close again, working her way slowly around Paul’s left ear. “I never shaved a guy’s face before,” she said. “I’ve like, you know, shaved myself in all the . . . you know, all the places where girls do that kind of thing.” She wiped a spot of shaving cream from his cheek with a small pink towel. “Hell . . . I even shaved my head once back in high school . . . back when Sinéad O’Connor was all the rage, but . . .” She rinsed off the razor and stepped back again. Satisfied, she pulled a larger pink towel from a shelf beneath the counter, wet one corner in the sink, and used it to remove the remaining daubs of white foam.
    “Okay now,” she said. “Gonna turn you round here and we’ll see how your hair came out.”
    She swung the chair in a one-eighty, then pumped one of the chair’s handles several times, lowering the chair until Paul’s neck slid into the indentation in the sink.
    “Your neck was any bigger we’d have to wash your hair in the back room, like we do with some of the real big girls.” She pulled his hair out from beneath his head. “You’re gonna need to slide down a little.”
    Paul grabbed the arms of the chair and pushed. When he opened his eyes she was looking down at him. “You’re not much of a talker, now, are you?” She smiled and turned on the water in the sink.
    “Depends,” Paul said.
    “On what?”
    “On who I’m talking to, I guess.”
    “I’m Brittany.”
    Paul closed his eyes. The silence rose above the rush of water. She put her hand on her hip, waited a moment, and then leaned in close.
    “This is the part in the conversation where you tell me your name,” she whispered in his