“Do you want in?” I asked.
“What the devil,” he roared, “do you suppose I came for?”
“Okay, take it easy. I’ll go see—”
But I didn’t have to go. His first bellow had carried within, and Cramer’s voice came from right behind me. “Well! Dynamite?”
“I’ll be damned,” Purley, there too, growled.
The flatfoot had moved aside, leaving it to the brass, and Wolfe had crossed the sill. “I came to get a haircut,” he stated and marched past the sergeant and inspector to the rack, took off his hat, coat, vest, and tie, hung them up, crossed to Jimmie’s chair, the second in the line, and got his bulk up onto the seat. In the mirrored wall fronting him he had a panorama of the row of barbers and dicks in his rear, and without turning his head he called, “Jimmie! If you please?”
Jimmie’s dancing dark eyes came to Cramer and Purley, there by me. So did others. Cramer stood scowling at Wolfe. We all held our poses while Cramer slowly lifted his right hand and carefully and thoroughly scratched the side of his nose with his forefinger. That attended to, he decided to sit down. He went, not in a hurry, to the first chair in the line, the one Fickler himself used occasionally when there was a rush, turned it to face Wolfe, and mounted. He spoke.
“You want a haircut, huh?”
“Yes, sir. As you can see, I need one.”
“Yeah.” Cramer turned his head. “All right, Kirk. Come and cut his hair.”