(A/N): I don't know how to sell you this - It's definitely a Crocodile x Shivs ficlet, but also he isn't in it?! He's mentioned one (1) time.
It's the bad old days prior to the Team Triassic's story line. It's the period between the hushed up Jurassic Park drama (in the aftermath of which Crocodile's accounts got frozen) and the infamous San Diego incident that saw him maimed in the way we all know him to be. That's right, it's 1996 and they're living in San Diego. And not the bella vita.
Tag(s): Suspense. Not-so-veiled threats of violence. Mafia shenanigans. Devil Fruit, whomst? Nothing graphic, this time.
It had been an typical Monday until just before closing time, when it took an abrupt turn for the worse.
Alfonso had immigrated to San Diego from Marsala three years ago and set up shop near the main street of Little Italy. An excellent spot for a skilled craftsman, and soon people knew where to find him. There had been several regulars today, in for their weekly or biweekly appointment. Some fresh faces, too. He was just wiping his hands on a towel while seeing off his last customer when she entered.
Dressed as she was in slacks and a vest situation, her face in the shade of a Coppola cap, he’d at first assumed she was a man. After all, all his customers were.
“Lady,” Alfonso said, his surprise evident in his tone. “This is a barbershop.”
Her long fingers lingered on the olive corduroy before she removed her cap to reveal a narrow face and hawkish eyes. Eye, he should say, as a neat leather eyepatch covered the left. She tilted her head like a bird. Or a cat. Perhaps, a cat casing a bird.
Her Italian was fluent, but he could not place her accent. She didn’t seem from the neighborhood to him with her red hair and pale skin. Unsure what to make of her, he slipped into the false comfort of his daily routine. She did have her hair cut in a short, flamboyant sort of quiff that had clearly outgrown its ideal length.
“You need a trim, donna?”
“Yes.” She smiled - a self-satisfied, toothy thing more a threat than a reassurance. “Unless you are closed, Alfonso?”
Alfonso frowned and looked her over again. No, he’d remember if he’d met a woman like her. How did she know his name? He shrugged off the unpleasant feeling. Word of mouth, no doubt. If her purpose was a trim, he would provide a trim.
“If there are customers, my doors are open,” he said as he gestured her to his salon chair. He pulled it out for her, but when she sat down, a metallic ‘clang’ rang against the frame. The source was a worn prosthetic, replacing the lower half of her left leg. It was just visible above the neat, two-tone derby when she sat. He busied himself with fashioning his barber cape about her neck and shoulders. If she’d been a man, he’d have assumed she’d lost it in a war, perhaps a severe work accident. What harms threaten a woman’s leg?
The color of her hair was remarkable - lustrous, as copper, and red as spilled wine. And her own, rather than painted as he had first thought. Her roots were as crimson as the rest of it. Yet its texture was rough and stiff as he inspected the grown out quiff. The culprit was hairspray, used amply and regularly, so it would bounce back when she removed her cap. He could determine this because he felt and remedied it on the daily.
“A wax is easier on the hair than a spray,” he said, conversationally, and not for the first time that day. “It holds just as well.” He gauged the length of the now drooping forelock, considering how to prune it into shape. Such an unusual hair shade. A wax would do it good, strengthen its natural shine. If she let it grow, it would be a sight to behold.
“I’ll swipe some from mio capo.”
Not the cavalier mention of theft, but whose mouths that particular noun tended to frequent. Then again, their thing, too, was men’s business. He caught her observing him in the mirror. She seemed amused.
He’d never cut a woman’s hair before. He supposed it shouldn’t be any different. Wondered if she would have other expectations of this masculine cut. “Signorina Chiara down the street can cut it proper.”
“Signorina Chiara has paid her protection.”
For the past three years, he had made the payment every month on the precise time and day specified. He’d never heard anything, never seen anyone. He gave the envelope with cash to the Mexican girl chewing bubblegum at the corner store, and that was that.
Last week, the day after it was due this month, he realized he forgot to hand over the usual third of his income. He’d been worried, but no one had come. Not the day after that, either. He’d started thinking maybe they hadn’t noticed? His was but a small business. Surely, his few crumpled bills didn’t matter all that much.
She glanced up from the corner of her good eye. “I suggest you don’t ruin it.”
“I’d never, donna.” His hand shook as he combed her hair and lined up his scissors to refresh her haircut. He cut in silence for a while, and she observed him in the mirror. He could sense her gaze on him as snippets of red hair fell to the floor, collecting there like red autumn leaves or spilled blood about a drain.
“Leave the bangs a tad longer,” she said when he was almost done, and he obliged. “Full plate, today?”
“Usual, I would say,” he said as he cut. He’d helped customers all day, but no one had to be turned down.
“Lookin’ after your own, I see,” she surmised, and he noticed the snare around his ankle the moment it closed. “Friend of ours wouldn’t leave us out in the cold.”
He could have suggested that business had slowed down, should have said that income had been scarce.
“Listen Alfonso.” She rolled her shoulders beneath the barber cape and caught his gaze in the mirror, a flick at their surroundings with her long fingers. “I was told to remind you who got you on solid ground when you arrived here, who helped you set up this little shop.”
For as he watched the last snip of red hair drift to the tiled floor, he realized who sat in his salon chair.
Quello rosso - the red one.
Never had he imagined the Crocodile’s infamous enforcer might be a woman. No one had ever? He’d assumed - expected? He supposed it didn’t matter, now.
“This neighborhood can be rough,” she said as he cautiously tilted her head to trim up the sides. “You wouldn’t want to be without protection.”
“No, signora,” he hastily agreed as he touched the straight razor to the short hair just behind her ear. Unintentionally, his gaze lingered on the slow pulse of veins at the crease of her jaw.
“You seem a smart man, Alfonso.” Her tone was soft and deliberate. “Don’t think stupid thoughts, now.”
Alfonso frowned and coughed, putting the razor down as the fit’s intensity brought fluid up from his lungs. It left as quickly as it had started.
“Scuse,” he managed as he recovered, and rinsed and dried his hands before returning to the task at hand.
He glimpsed her sly smile in the mirror. “It’s been going around.”
He finished the cut, and she seemed well enough pleased with it as she rose and inspected it. “Listen, you bring the missing dough and a little extra for this hassle come Thursday, and I won’t be bringing this suit to the dry-cleaner.” She returned her cap to its proper place and turned to him. “That sound fair to you?”
She tilted her head, and he felt another coughing fit come on.
“Si, signora,” he agreed in between coughs and his throat cleared. “Thursday, subito.”
She smiled and he hurried to open the door for her.
He didn’t release the breath he’d been holding until she’d crossed the street and disappeared into the alley behind Gino’s. He flipped the sign to ‘closed’ and sank to the ground with his back against the glass door.
‘A little extra for this hassle.’
How much money did they expect?
He’d assume all of it. If that wasn’t sufficient… The magnitude of what had happened hit him, and he broke down in sobs. He knew he was lucky if this was all he ever saw of her.
Never would he have suspected… he marshaled his nerves.
He would not make that mistake again.
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