There were at least three dozen more people in the shop than needed to be. A rumble of conversation echoed through the warehouse-sized room. The rolling tables and racks had been wheeled away. In their place, a single chair sat centered under the cleanest skylight.
St. George sat in the chair. His leather jacket had been tossed aside on one of the tables, revealing the cherry-red tank top that still made summer in Los Angeles feel too hot. He looked at the crowd, then at the handful of people who stood around his chair.
Jarvis tucked a sturdy hacksaw under his arm and clapped his hands. “All y’all quiet down,” he said. “No reason to turn this into more of a circus than it already is.” He paused to scratch his chin beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. “We all know this ain’t a one person job. We drew lots last week and each of the winners are going to get a chance at him.”
To St. George’s left, Andy held a pair of well-worn bolt cutters, and by his shoulder a woman clutched a pair of bright blue tin snips. Billie Carter stood on the other side of the chair with a pair of wire cutters. Mike Turner had another set of bolt cutters. Right in front was a little Latina girl with a black set of wire cutters. She was bouncing up and down. St. George smiled at her and she blushed.
Jarvis turned to the hero in the chair. “Last chance to back out, chief.”
The hero smiled. “I’m good,” he said. “This is long overdue.”
The older man shook his head and let his own hair settle past his shoulders. “Personally, I think it makes you look distinguished.”
“Maybe,” said St. George, “but it’s too damned hot in the summer.”
“You let it grow any longer we’d all start calling you St. Fabio,” said Mike.
“St. Hippy is more like it,” said Billie. She squeezed her wire cutters a few times for emphasis and a round of chuckles echoed in the room. She still wore her hair cropped military-short.
Andy stepped forward and held up the bolt cutters. He moved behind St. George and began to gather the golden hair into a ponytail.
“Et tu, Andy?” St. George said with a grin.
“How could I pass up the chance to cut the hair off a legendary strong man?” Andy said with a smile. “If I ever get ordained, I could tell that story every Sunday to a rapt congregation.” He settled the ponytail into the mouth of the bolt cutters, took a deep breath, and levered the handles together.
The hair resisted. Andy took another breath, threw his weight into it, and there was a crackle of sharp pops, like breaking spaghetti. It echoed through the shop and the ponytail dropped to the floor. The crowd hollered and applauded. Andy looked at the gouged blades of his bolt cutters and shook his head.
Mike wobbled forward. It had been eight months since an ex had tried to bite through his shoe and cracked half the bones in his foot. Doctor Connolly still wasn’t sure if he’d ever walk without a limp. “Little off the top, boss?” he said with a wicked grin.
Over the course of the hour, they sawed and clipped and chopped at the hero’s hair. In the end the tools were chipped and pitted, but the floor was covered with hair. There was a final burst of applause from the crowd as St. George looked at himself with a hand mirror.
“Reminds me of a haircut I got in college once.” He set down the mirror. “Hope everyone had fun,” he said, and gave Andrea a wink. “Time to get back to work. The day’s wasting.”
The crowd funneled away as he shrugged into the jacket. A few moments later he was alone with Billie and Jarvis. “We ready?” he asked.
She gave him a sharp nod. “Luke’s got the extra fuel tanks loaded in Road Warrior. We’ve got overnight gear if we need it. Stealth’s even letting us take three extra cases of ammunition. One nine millimeter, two of three-oh-eight.” She glanced at her watch. “Team assembles in thirty-nine minutes.”
The hero glanced at Jarvis. “What’s the armor situation? Did Rocky get those last three sets of sleeves done?”
“He did not,” said the bearded man. “He says it’s an art and it takes as long as it takes. I told him y’all wouldn’t be pleased.”
“Crap. What’s that give us, thirteen full suits?”
“Yup.”
“Not a great number,” said Billie.
“No,” agreed the hero.
“Half the folks just want to wear their leathers anyway,” said Jarvis. “This whole armor idea still ain’t going over that well.”
“It’s too damned hot for leather,” said Billie. “Either people don’t wear it or get heat exhaustion from it.”
“Tell Rocky he gets chicken for dinner tonight if he can finish one more set before we leave,” said St. George. “He’s got my word on it.”
“Hell,” said Jarvis, “for a whole chicken I’ll make the damned sleeves myself.”
“What if he doesn’t?” asked Billie.
“Then we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.”
“Does that mean cutting three people or having three people go without armor?”