Bright Lights, Big Christmas(53)

“Nah. I, uh, listen, Kere, maybe I could use some help with figuring out what to wear Friday night.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“I went through my clothes a little while ago. They’re, uh, kind of raggedy.”

“Understatement of the year. Look, Murph. You’re gonna need a decent pair of slacks, and a shirt, and probably some kind of sport coat.”

“A sport coat?” he whined.

“You want my help or not?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “Whatever. Danny hooked me up with reservations at a little French place here in the neighborhood, so we’re all set on that end.”

“That’s great,” Kerry said. “Way to show some initiative. Now, are you going shopping, or am I?”

He recoiled as though she’d asked him to stick his hand in the fire. “Oh, hell no. I ain’t shopping.”

“Okay, fine. I already know your sizes. I’ve been helping Mom buy you clothes you hate since you were sixteen. But you’ll have to buy your own big-boy shoes. Real leather. Think you can do that by yourself?”

“No problem,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Just one thing. No pocket squares, and no ties.”



* * *



Two hours later, Kerry returned to Spammy with a blue-gray Harris tweed sport coat and cashmere scarf from her now favorite vintage clothes dealer, and charcoal-gray slacks and a white dress shirt bought on sale at Bloomingdale’s.

She unpacked her shopping bags for Murphy’s inspection. He gingerly touched the fabric of the sport coat. “Not terrible,” he said.

“Can I make one more teensy suggestion?” she asked.

“Hell no,” he retorted. “I got trees to deliver. Mind the store while I’m gone.”

As soon as Murphy pedaled the bike back into the stand, she pounced.

“You need a haircut,” she said flatly. “The whole ‘work up front, party in the back’ mullet look is history.”

“I was gonna cut my hair before Friday. I even sharpened my scissors.”

“I’m talking about a real haircut. Also, your beard needs trimming. You look like a wooly mammoth.”

Murphy recoiled in genuine horror. “You want me to let a stranger cut my hair and trim my beard?”

“News flash, big bro. There are professionals who do that for a living. And they don’t use pruning shears.”

“Nuh-uh. That’s a slippery slope. Next thing I know, you’ll be wanting me to get a manicure or something. There’s no going back after that.”

Kerry caught his big paw in hers. The skin was dry and calloused, the nails grimy, the cuticles cracked. “These look like the hands of a serial killer,” she said.

He snatched his hand back. “Don’t start.”

She started anyway. “Get a haircut, dude.”

“Fine,” he said, with an exaggerated sigh. “I won’t like it, but I’ll do it.”

She handed him a slip of paper with the name and address of the place Patrick had shared with her.

Murphy read it and scowled. “Salon Stephanie? Is this your idea of a joke? I’m not getting a haircut at some beauty parlor.”

“It’s Salon Stephanè. That’s French for Stephen. Patrick gets his hair cut there. You’ve got an appointment at three Friday, and I pre-paid a deposit, so don’t even think of being a no-show.”





chapter 39





On Thursday, after a mostly sleepless night, Kerry woke up with a sense of dread—cold, gray, damp dread, a reflection of the weather outside the trailer.

Murphy was asleep, facedown in his bunk, but Vic arrived early, eager to make some extra Christmas money. She explained her mission and left him in charge of Queenie and the tree stand, while she set out to look for Heinz.

It had sleeted overnight and partially melted, and within fifteen minutes of sloshing through the melting muck, her shoes were soaked through to the skin.

Her first stop was at a liquor store just down the street. She’d made a sketch of Heinz, and slid it through a slot in the plexiglass window that separated the clerk from the customers.

“Have you seen him lately?”

“Old guy, wears a dusty coat and walks with a cane? Don’t think I seen him lately.”

She ducked into the Red Dragon a few doors down. The girl at the counter had pixie-cut hair and bangs dyed bright blue. She studied the sketch. “I think my grandma knows this man. Hang on.”

The shop’s windows were steamed over with condensation and the place smelled heavenly, like roasting meats, ginger, and garlic.

A moment later, the girl was back with a wizened old woman dressed in a spotless long white apron. She spoke to the woman in what Kerry assumed was Chinese. The woman nodded and answered rapid-fire, finishing with a dramatic miming of coughs.

“She says this is Heinz,” the girl translated. “Always gets the number three combo. Grandma says he was here Saturday, and he coughed a lot. She said you should tell him to come back and she will fix him her special broth.”

Kerry got more discouraged with each stop. Either people didn’t know Heinz, or they recognized him, but hadn’t seen him in at least three days. It was sleeting again, and she pulled the hood of her jacket over her damp hair, shivering and imagining Heinz out in this weather.