“The nachos?” Royce asked, Don returning to work, lathering up the old man’s neck and pulling out a straight razor. “Ain’t but one dang color.”

“No, the goddamn rat,” Luther said.

“I don’t know,” Royce said. “Fucking rat-colored. I didn’t take no Kodachrome.”

Don stopped with the razor and pointed over to the plywood walls. Nestled among the deer heads and mounted bass was a small sign saying NO PROFANITY OR TRASHY TALK OF ANY KIND.

“Son of a bitch,” Royce said. “Coming in here is worse than going to a Kool-Aid and cookie social. Then you and all these women you done hired to work at a man’s barbershop sit around watching these harlots on TV with their damn titties pressed out, jumping from bed to bed. How’s that any different?”

Luther Varner looked over at Quinn, ashing his cigarette in a Styrofoam cup, and shook his head.

“Would y’all please shut up,” Don the barber said. “Today’s the day we find out about Eric’s baby. I do think Jennifer is the right woman for him. He should get up and marry her.”

“Y’all have been neutered,” Royce said, Don scraping across his thick red neck. “I knew it the minute Mr. Jim kicked the bucket and y’all started hiring hairdressers. What in the hell is the world coming to?”

Miss Gayle and Miss Tammy looked up from the spinning chairs where they sat without clients, watching the soap opera. They just leveled a hard look at the little man and then turned their attention back to the TV perched on top of the Coke machine. Before Don had even finished cleaning the shaving cream from his neck, Royce pulled off the barber’s cape and stood up, reaching into his pocket and fishing out two five-dollar bills. No tip.

He handed it to Don and then walked toward the rack to retrieve his red MAGA ball cap. Quinn stood up.

“What the hell do you want?” Royce said. “You don’t need no haircut. You always look like I did right out of boot camp.”

“Came to talk to you, Royce,” Quinn said. “Fellas at the VFW said I could find you here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Royce said, screwing up his face like he might spit. “’Course they did. If you’re coming to make some kind of trouble about them parking tickets, you can just stick it, Quinn. I worked my damn ass off in this county as a lawman before you ever popped out of your momma’s coot.”