The Murderous Haircut of the Mayor of Bel Air, page 1
The Murderous Haircut of the Mayor of Bel Air
a psychic barber mystery
Phillip Mottaz
Not As Bad Books
Copyright © 2021 by Phillip Mottaz
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Not As Bad Books.
ISBN: 978-1-7372384-0-9
Cover art by Stefan Lawrence.
The following is a work of fiction. That means it’s made up, and any resemblance to real people — alive or dead — is strictly coincidental.
Special recognition to everyone who loaned their names, whether they realized it or not. Many yearbooks, phonebooks and old conversations were scoured to pull authentic sounding names. If a name sounds familiar, please know it only happened because it sounded great, and not as any comment on your personal lives.
Names are hard.
An Ask and a Warning…
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* * *
Furthermore, I’d like to provide a trigger warning: this book contains scenes of racism and homophobia, as well as one of violence.
* * *
While I try to be a co-conspirator in the fight for equity and justice, I recognize that I make mistakes due to my personal biases. Please feel free to reach out and hold me accountable, and I promise to do better in the future.
To my friends, supporters, spell-checkers, Beta readers, ethical shoppers and all the otherwise good looking people I’m lucky to have in my life, thank you.
* * *
To my Rachel and Henry, an extra thank you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
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About the Author
Chapter One
"My barber's so good, it's like she's psychic."
* * *
Danica Luman's customers often spoke about her with such exaggeration, and it never sat well with her.
First, she only had her stylist's license, and though she'd been cutting hair since her mom taught her at fourteen, she had not yet become a licensed barber.
And second, she considered herself a channeler, not a psychic.
A big difference.
Psychics predicted the future, read palms, used crystal balls and scammed people. As far as she could tell — based on her experience since getting her first visions in her teen years — channelers like Danica received glimpses into the thoughts of people they touched, particularly when they touched the back of their heads. The better the grip on the back of a skull, the more vivid the images seemed to flow. At least, that's how it worked for her. She hadn't been clinically diagnosed by a doctor or anything. Her assessment came more through trial and error.
That same trial and error led her to her mild levels of success. Her mom had helped her develop a technique of always asking customers some form of "What type of cut are we doing today?" while casually touching the backs of their heads. Most times, customers took the bait; while their mouths droned on about "a little off" here and "this needs to foomff" there, their brains responded with clear images of their dream hairstyles.
Only three people knew about Danica's secret ability: her roommate Gabby, her manager Carla, and her late mother. Scared her daughter would become a lab rat if word got out, her mother made Danica promise to keep her ability a secret. Danica stuck to it, even after her mom died. It felt like a low-key secret to keep, and one that could easily be chalked up to "natural ability." She hated to think of it as a "power." That made it sound like she belonged among the B-level X-Men characters. She thought of it as a skill, one with little practical use besides picturing exactly how to taper someone's sideburns.
Danica kept her life in low-cost order, partly by design, partly because she had no other choice. She wore T-shirts and tank tops, with her ex-boyfriend's hoodie for the cool mornings. She never wore shorts, choosing straight-legged cargo pants or jeans for their durability and because they looked cool with her off-brand Doc Martins.
She kept her own hair short in a number-one buzz. No mess and low cost, her peach fuzz look served as a litmus test for prospective acquaintances: anyone not cool with a woman in short hair could (and would) screw right off. She could see people making this decision in real time, even without touching their heads. Most times these people were not the kinds she wanted to be friends with anyway. Such were the types of lies introverts like Danica told themselves to justify why they spent so much time alone. Despite living in an enormous, left-leaning city like Los Angeles where like-minded people could be found, she kept mostly to her small circle, reading and working and thinking. Besides, big groups of friends ended up becoming a herd, fueled on group think and echo-chamber ideas, none of which was her style.
She smoked for five years before stopping on June 6, 2007, and she thought about it every day after.
Monday, August 25, 2008. 8:46AM. Van Nuys, California.
* * *
The longer Danica’s 1995 Honda Accord sat watching red lights, the greater the chance the old car would completely and finally break down into a million rusty pieces. Her car was thirteen years old, the AC didn't work, the dashboard dimmed when she made a right turn, and the odometer stopped working years prior. Other than that, it ran great.
As she crawled up Hazeltine to the left-turn lane, she bumped out a quick "running late" text to Carla, then noticed the flashing lights in the intersection. With one notable exception, she didn't like cops. They made her nervous. She took a breath and tried to look patient, and hoped these were not the types of cops who would see a shaved head on a woman as 'trouble.'
She looked past the row of NO TO PROP 8 posters preaching the benefits of equal rights to focus on the storefronts on the corner. The yellow-ish office park on Sherman Way had always grabbed her curiosity. It held a collection of odd mom-and-pop businesses begging to be transformed into Subway shops. Of all the offices, only one held evidence of anything resembling life: the private investigator's office. Its window framed a neon sign that promised "RESULTS" in bright letters.
The boldness of the sign made Danica laugh every time. The whole building seemed to be hiding from the world, yet RESULTS appeared so hopeful. She wondered who could possibly work there, how hard they worked, how successful they were at delivering any favorable outcomes, and what kind of customers would procure their services.
The cops in the intersection waved a few more cars through, but stopped Danica's Accord at the line. The wreck ahead became clear: someone's nice-looking car had hit someone's not-so-nice looking car, and spilled itself across three lanes. The screams and swears from one of the drivers rang through more clearly as well, and Danica assumed that the man in the suit with slick hair and designer sunglasses owned the formerly-nice-looking Lexus.
Her phone buzzed, then buzzed again. Danica tucked her phone under her leg and glanced at the cop in the intersection. He had flinched. He probably heard her phone. He must have. She tried to stay calm. Receiving texts wasn't against the law, but Danica's financial situation meant that she got nervous getting in its proximity.
Another message buzzed into her thigh. Three quick text messages in a row meant Gabby. Danica's roommate believed that three sequential messages were more helpful than one. She hadn't seen Gabby this morning, and Danica assumed there was an audition or early call or some other actor thing going on across town. If an emergency had come up, Gabby would have phoned; that was basic mobile phone manners.
RESULTS flickered again. She wondered at the requirements of becoming a private investigator. Were they all just failed cops? Were they failed cops who — sick of working traffic duty — rented a space and bought a sign that over-promised? And if they were mostly failed cops who had trained at a dogmatic process, would an outsider's perspective be helpful? Perhaps someone with absolutely no formal investigative training, but who had seen mystery shows on TV and considered herself, perhaps, insightful?
Her special skill
The cop in the intersection finally gave her the go. The rain held off until the last leg of her work journey. She pushed the windows up, as their motors had given out years ago, and the Accord instantly felt sweaty.
The grey walls of the strip mall on Saticoy and Sepulveda seemed even more drab in the rain. Every door had a faded red awning, and they all needed attention, especially the one above Earl's World of Curls. Earl's did just well enough to stay afloat, to fight off selling the business to a corporation, or to hiring awful people. Carla took over the business years ago from someone she would not name, and ran a tight, friendly ship, valuing word of mouth and customer loyalty. Danica was a white girl who could cut Black people's hair, and her sulky realism charmed her way into the position. The fact that she could nail a customer's style through supplemental means helped in her demonstration and she got hired quick.
Danica parked in her spot at the end of the lot, locked her door and jogged past the tax preparer's and the tarot card reader's to the Earl's entrance.
The smell of shampoo and hairspray baked into the linoleum floor welcomed her with a smack in the face. KOST 103.5 FM played low from the one working speaker hanging above the door. Beyond the cash register counter were the two stations against the mirror wall. One station had a customer (an older woman) and Carla Velez stood behind her.
Danica expected a barrage of motherly questions from her manager. "Where've you been?" "How massive was this accident?" "You can't find another route?" "Don't you know I got customers?" Carla cared about her, but she still had a business to run. Add to that the stress of trying to refinance her house while searching, and her mood was wholly understandable.
Yet as Carla's eyes stared over her blue plastic glasses, no such barrage arrived. Instead, a strange smile brightened her face, and her dusty curls might have even had a bounce to them.
"Danica, girl!" she said. "We were just talking about you."
She followed Carla's nudging head and recognized the customer in the chair. Mrs. Roosevelt had been an Earl's regular, and was known in the professional haircutting world as a Handful. She often asked for dye jobs, and usually had big dreams for new styles every time she returned. The desperate smile on Carla's face made more sense.
Danica pulled off her wet sweatshirt to hang it up, apologizing for being late, and Carla shuffled over to her.
"I need you over there." Carla spoke in a hush. "Says she wants something like on '24.'"
"Kiefer Sutherland?"
"Her words," said Carla. She looked lost.
Danica nodded and approached Mrs. Roosevelt. The customer waved from under her smock. "Didn't mean to be disloyal. Just couldn't wait. Big plans."
"Sure thing," said Danica.
Normal social situations prohibited people — however familiar they might be with each other — from walking up to one another and playing with their hair. However, normal social rules did not apply in the shop, and Danica took advantage. She twiddled Mrs. Roosevelt's wispy hair and asked, "What are we doing today?"
Mrs. Roosevelt began a rambling babble of gobbledygook as Danica's finger tips found their place. A sullen young woman appeared in her mind, younger than everyone in Earl's by a decade. She had blonde hair in tight waves against her forehead.
Danica released her grip and said to Mrs. Roosevelt, "You're in good hands," then whispered to Carla, "It's that Eliza Cuthbert actress."
"Elisha Kush-berg."
"I think we're both wrong," said Danica. "Doesn't matter. Just look her up. Tight waves to the forehead, but not bangs. Give as much body as possible."
"You're a lifesaver."
"I owed you."
"Yes, you did. Kush…?"
"Cuthbert."
"What?" said Carla.
"Never mind. All fine. You're welcome," said Danica, and she shooed her boss back to the customer. Only then did she notice the man sitting in the waiting area.
She held up a finger to ask for a minute and hustled to her station. She shared it with Gene, the drama queen who worked nights and told everyone else why they sucked. He and Danica had worked out a system to tell what stuff was whose: Gene kept his things in tidy order, and Danica did not. Despite owning fewer items than anyone on the Earl's staff, her things found a way to be chaotic. Old bottles of shampoo lined the area by her half of the mirror, and her sink held wet towels from the night before. Gene's towels, on the other hand, sat folded in a nice pile on top of his polished tool kit. Danica's tool kit doubled as a rack for dirty aprons.
She flattened an apron against her gray tank top. She hung her last working water bottle on the loop of her cargos and motioned for the customer to join her.
Even after seeing him take only a few steps, it seemed obvious this guy was athletic. Danica's bare arms felt even thinner when she glanced at his poking out of his nerdy polo. His face was new to her, and it held a stiffness in the jaw. He wore jeans that looked like they were ironed, and not in any way remotely cool. The man eased his way into her chair like he had entered an especially hot jacuzzi. Danica took care to spin him slowly toward the mirror for fear he might barf from all the excitement.
Just as she got him facing the mirror, the front door swung open and a tall woman shuffled inside, her impractical vest with the hood down, rain be damned. She held her purse over her hair with one hand, and a coffee in the other.
"Got a sec?" said Gabby. The audition must have been quick.
"Not really," said Danica.
Gabby sidled up to the chair and invaded Mr. Uncomfortable's personal space. "It's important."
Danica looked at Carla. She was talking to Mrs. Roosevelt, but she must have noticed Gabby make herself at home, and couldn't have been thrilled about it.
"I'm busy, Gab," said Danica.
"I got the gig. And I brought you a mocha."
Danica's antennae went up and she looked out the window. Even with the distance and drizzle, she could see Gabby's car. The recent model Prius, a gift from her parents when she moved to LA, parked right in front of the shop doors. The backseat filled with junk. A trash bag pressed against the window, next to a couple of suitcases and various shoes.
Prickles ran up Danica's neck. She looked back to her roommate and wondered if, in fact, she still was.
Gabby bit her lip.
"What the hell, man?" said Danica.
"Customer voice," said Gabby, then immediately regretted it. "The shoot starts tomorrow, so I gotta haul to Moab. Freakin' Utah."
"How long's the shoot?"
"Couple weeks."
"Looks like you packed for months."
"Maybe more than a couple," said Gabby. "But not forever."
"Okay, well, that's great. And they're paying you?"
Gabby nodded.
"Very great."
Gabby stopped nodding, and the prickles ran over Danica's neck again.
"Excuse me a second," she said to Mr. Uncomfortable. He winced a nod and Danica pulled Gabby to the reception area.
"When?"
"When what?" said Gabby.
