Song of the Firebird

Twenty Four

With no luck from changing the colour of the hair, Kirk decided that the time for a better make-over had finally arrived. Getting rid of the orange dye, he looked at the mirror and studied his ageing skin, fading blond locks under a Crew cut. Satisfied, he moved to the reception of the posh salon and settled his bill. He looked around the salon interiors and made crude, irrelevant points in his mind.

By the end of the next hour, he stopped his car along a shabby salon tending to one of its last customers in the broad daylight. One of the men noticed the recently parked car and shooed away the incoming customers, eventually, flipping the door sign to 'Closed'.

Upon entering the dull salon, Kirk occupied the corner seat and let his vision hover over the old fashioned tools on the table. Even the hair dryer that had been used was of a cheap brand that didn't come with enough warranty. He looked at their choice of hair gels and aftershave. The state of their old leather chairs made him rethink his choice of choosing the right seat. His mind shuddered at the sight of the dirty yet dusted wrapping sheets.

The state of the salon made him wonder where all his money had gone? - to beer? to gambling? He fumed when the manager of the premises edged closer to the drug lord. Both the men did not seem to incite any form of communication.

When the last customer exited through the doors, the staff locked the shop from inside and assembled before him.

'I gave you one job, Theo. What is the store not properly dressed up?'

'Boss, I- '

With a wave of hand, he dismissed Theo and said, 'Are all the boys here?'

'No one has come back since 6 am. The guys had a late-night pool game and left today early this morning before the sunrise.'

Kirk nodded and told the men, 'I do not like to be disturbed from my work unless there is a food delivery.' As soon as Kirk's shadow disappeared behind the trap door, Theo flipped the sign back that read 'Open'.

Underneath the trap door, Kirk took a flight of wooden stairs and switched on the lights for a better view at his second home. He smirked at his office of ten years. Three couches were laid where the stairs ended. He remembered the days the men crashed in them after giving a tough chase. There was a big fridge with a glass door in the corner. He got himself a can of Asahi and moved to the glass cubicle seated in the centre of the hall. Empty, black metal chairs lined up the cubicle on one side, whereas a boxing ring was situated on the other. A lone punching bag was suspended on the other corner of he room, along with few dumb bells. Making sure again that no one was in the vicinity, Kirk unlocked the cubicle and banged the glass doors shut.

Sitting in his wooden armchair behind a large oak table, he studies his workplace from his point of view - sometimes, his perspective. It took him two years to get himself a permanent hideout and two more to buy the entire street that housed his team's headquarters. It has been one of the very few days without his boys, in this hall. Men were always present. They celebrated their victorious deals, their escape from cops during arson and very rarely, their kill. They smoked weed and told stories from their deepest vaults of heart. Revenge and obsession were the two ever present scents in the hall.

Kirk looked at the contents at the top of his desk. A laptop, set of pens in a case, a printer, a wi-fi router and a stack of documents differentiated by solid black plastic paper clips. Before he opened his laptop, he decided to check all the possible places for audio transmitters in his office. Most of the time, men did that to gain information on a particular deal of their interest. Kirk had to confiscate audio recording devices and throw them out. Glad that no devices came out his quick search, he resumed to do his tasks.