Page 72 of Knox
Knox suspected he might be just as unassuming as the Joneses had been walking through Central Park, buoyant after a theater performance.
They crossed an intersection framed by storefront shops—a carpet place, a deli, a Chinese takeout, a nail salon. More brick houses, many with flower pots hanging from clean front porches, a green fence that cordoned off a vacant lot, Keep Out signs posted, and finally they came to the barbershop, a tiny hole-in-the-wall with a faded red awning imprinted with the words AJ’s Barbershop. Next to it, a small deli featured lotto tickets and a yellow sign that read simply We Sell Beer.
Tate headed straight for the barbershop, something changed in his demeanor. But he stopped right outside the door, his grip on the handle. “I do the talking. Whatever you do, don’t…just don’t be you.”
Huh?
But Tate didn’t wait.
The place smelled of hair tonic and shampoo. An older man in a green apron sat in a chair. Another man with short blond hair, late thirties bent over him with clippers.
He looked up at Tate and Knox. Lifted his chin. “Sit down on the bench. There’s a wait.”
Tate didn’t move. “AJ Russell?”
The man stopped the clipper motor. He held a comb in the other hand. Said nothing for a moment, then a quiet, “Why?”
Knox made to move, but Tate stepped up to AJ. “We need to talk to you about your brother.” No question, just a statement, a sort of easy tone, but a seriousness in it that stilled Knox.
Especially when Tate took the clippers from AJ’s hand. Set them on the counter, apologized to his customer, and pushed AJ into the back room.
AJ turned, a glance over his shoulder.
“We’re just talking, pal. No worries,” Tate said, his voice friendly.
But the tiny hairs raised on Knox’s neck when Tate closed the office door behind them.
“Sit,” Tate said and kicked out the rolling chair from a metal desk.
AJ tightened his jaw, and for the first time, Knox saw the resemblance to his brother, Vince. Square-jawed, the man bore a tattoo on the side of his neck, half covered by his smock, a German two-headed eagle.
He sat. Glared up at Tate, who didn’t change his expression. Tate lowered his voice and leaned over AJ.
AJ moved so fast, Knox hadn’t a clue how he’d picked it up, but in a second, he’d taken a swipe at Tate with an open shaving blade.
Little brother Tate had honed reflexes like Knox had never seen. He stepped back, the knife skimming past his gut, grabbed AJ’s wrist, jerked him forward, and slammed his fist into the man’s face with a cross-hand punch that had AJ’s head snapping back.
Then Tate slammed his wrist against the chair, dislodged the blade, and dumped AJ on the ground with such quick force that Knox had to scramble out of the way.
Tate held the guy down in an arm submission hold, one knee in his spine, his mouth close to AJ’s. “We’re going to forgive that, on account of you don’t know who we are.”
Who we are?
Knox just stared at Tate. Apparently, his brother had learned a few tricks in Vegas.
He wasn’t sure if he should help him or get out of his way.
Tate didn’t look like he needed any help.
“We’re friends of Kelsey Jones. That name should be familiar to you because your brother raped her and murdered her parents. Nod if you recollect this.”
AJ’s cheek was smashed on his grimy floor, but he nodded.
“Your brother is out of jail and gone missing, and my guess is that you know where he is.”
“No, I don’t! I don’t know where Vince is!”
Tate considered him a moment. “He hasn’t come by here once in the last three weeks? I find that hard to believe.”