"That’s the single dumbest idea I’ve ever heard,” the barber snapped. “Why would you send him in like that!?”
Through the phone, Dr. Palmiotti didn’t answer.
“I asked you a question!” the barber added.
“And I heard you. Now hear me: Be careful of your tone,” Palmiotti warned through the receiver.
“There’s no reason to put him at risk!”
“Be careful of your tone,” Palmiotti warned again.
Taking a breath, the barber stared up at the brick walls of the narrow alleyway that was used as a breakroom behind the barbershop. An unkind wind shoved the rotting stench from the nearby garbage cans into his face.
“I’m just saying, he didn’t have to go there,” the barber said, far more calmly. He knew he was already out of bounds by making the phone call. But he never forgot the rules-especially after what they think happened. Not once did he refer to the President by name.
“I appreciate your concern,” Palmiotti shot back, doing a poor job at hiding his sarcasm. “But we know what we’re doing.”
“I don’t think you do. By bringing him in like that-”
“We know what we’re doing, okay? He’s not at risk. He’s not in danger. And right now, he’s in the best possible position to find out exactly who’s holding the tin can on the other end of the string. So thank you for the concern, but this time, why don’t you go back to doing what you do best, and we’ll go back to doing what we do best?”
Before the barber could say a word, there was a click. Dr. Palmiotti was gone.
Even when he was little, he was a prick, Laurent thought as he shoved his way through the back door of the barbershop, anxious to refocus his attention on his next haircut.