Nash Girls: The Call

Frank stood across the street looking at what remained of his barbershop.
There wasn’t much to see.
The fire had completely destroyed the entire row of commercial buildings. His three-chair barbershop, the restaurant next door, and the shoemaker’s shop were all gone. Firefighters had managed to contain the blaze before it reached the houses farther down the street or jumped the alley behind the commercial properties.
The investigation was still underway. Authorities believed the fire had been deliberately set, possibly with a bottle of alcohol that had been ignited and thrown through a window.
Frank had his own suspicions about who might have been responsible.
But there was another problem, one he couldn’t put off any longer.
He didn’t actually own the property where his barbershop had stood.
Three years earlier, Frank had purchased the business and property on a fifteen-year land contract from Arthur Hensley, a retired barber he had worked alongside for a couple of years.
Arthur’s father had operated the shop before him. When Arthur decided to retire, Frank had jumped at the opportunity to take over an established business directly across from the automobile factory.
It had seemed like an excellent investment.
Frank would make monthly payments for fifteen years, and eventually the building and land would belong to him outright.
He had completed only three years of those payments.
Twelve years remained.
And now the building was gone.
Frank walked several blocks until he found a public telephone. He reached into his pocket, counted out his coins, and deposited the money.
He gave the operator Arthur’s number.
After a short wait, someone answered.
“Hello?”
“Arthur? This is Frank.”
There was a pause.
“Frank.”
“I’ve got some news for you.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been waiting for your call.”
“You have?”
“I already heard from other people that my shop burned down because of you.”
Frank frowned.
“Arthur, the shop burned down. That’s true. The whole row of buildings is gone. But they’re still investigating. They’re leaning toward arson.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Then you know about as much as I do.”
“No, Frank. I think I know a little more than you realize.”
Frank said nothing.
“I should have never sold that place to you.”
“Arthur—”
“No, you listen to me. I knew when I sold you that shop that you had too many extra activities going on. Too many things that didn’t have anything to do with cutting hair. I told myself you were ambitious, and maybe you’d settle down once you were running the business yourself.”
“I was running a business.”
“You were running something, all right. And I had a feeling we’d never get through those fifteen years without some kind of drama.”
Frank looked down at the sidewalk.
He knew Arthur wasn’t entirely wrong.
Arthur had known about some of Frank’s activities even before retiring. He hadn’t known everything, but he knew enough to have concerns.
Still, Frank wasn’t going to accept responsibility for a fire nobody had proven he caused.
“Arthur, let’s talk about the contract.”
“What about it?”
“You agreed to carry insurance on the building. That was part of our arrangement.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, the insurance ought to cover the demolition costs and most, if not all, of what I still owe you.”
Arthur paused.
“That’s probably true, assuming the insurance company pays the claim.”
“Then I’ve got a proposition.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Turn the land over to me.”
“What?”
“Let me have the land. I’ve made three years of payments. You’ve got the insurance coming. I’d be happy taking the empty lot for what I’ve already paid.”
Arthur gave a short laugh.
“Absolutely not.”
“Arthur, hear me out.”
“No. You’re not getting anything.”
“I’ve paid you for three years!”
“And you agreed to pay me for fifteen. That’s what the contract says. If you can’t continue meeting your obligations, you don’t get to keep the property.”
Frank tightened his grip on the receiver.
“I’m trying to get another shop going. That’s what I’m telling you. If you’d turn the land over to me, I could use it as collateral for a loan. I could build a better barbershop than the one that was there.”
“With what money?”
“That’s what the loan would be for.”
“And who’s going to lend you money after your last building burned down?”
“Arthur, that location is worth something. It’s right across from Nash. You know how many people go through there every day.”
“I know exactly what that location is worth. My family owned it long before you ever walked through the door.”
“Then you ought to understand why I want to rebuild.”
“What I understand is that somebody apparently threw a burning bottle of alcohol through the window of what used to be a respectable barbershop.”
Frank drew a breath.
“That doesn’t mean I was doing anything wrong.”
“Frank, people don’t generally throw burning bottles through the windows of legitimate businesses.”
“I was running a legitimate business!”
“Then explain why somebody wanted to burn it down.”
Frank hesitated.
“There’s a soldier I suspect.”
“A soldier?”
“Yes. A fellow who came back from the war. His girl had been coming into my shop while he was overseas. When he returned, he wasn’t happy about what she’d been doing.”
“What had she been doing?”
“Getting her hair cut.”
Arthur sounded irritated.
“Frank, men don’t go around burning down barbershops because their girls get a haircut.”
“This wasn’t an ordinary haircut.”
“Then what was it?”
Frank shifted his weight.
“She’d gotten addicted to the razor.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Addicted to the what?”
“The razor.”
“What in God’s name does that mean?”
“She liked having her head shaved.”
Arthur didn’t answer immediately.
Frank continued.
“She started coming in every couple of days. Wanted the whole thing shaved smooth. Not just the back of her neck. Her entire head.”
Arthur finally spoke.
“You’re telling me you were shaving women’s heads?”
“Yes.”
“Completely bald?”
“That’s what they wanted.”
“Women?”
“Yes, Arthur. Women.”
“And you were doing this in my father’s barbershop?”
Frank’s patience was beginning to disappear.
“It wasn’t your father’s business anymore. You sold it to me.”
“On a land contract, Frank! You haven’t finished paying for the property!”
“That doesn’t mean you get to tell me how to cut somebody’s hair!”
Arthur’s voice rose.
“I spent forty years building a respectable clientele in that place. My father spent years before me doing the same thing. And you’re telling me you had women coming in every couple of days to have their heads scraped bald?”
“Not all of them. Some wanted bobs. Some wanted their hair cut short around the ears. Some wanted the clippers taken right up the back. And yes, some wanted their heads shaved.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Arthur, you weren’t there in 1917. You don’t know what it was like.”
“I know perfectly well what happened in 1917.”
“No, you don’t. All those men went off to war. The women went into Nash. The factory was hiring them by the hundreds. They were working twelve-hour shifts. They didn’t want to spend half their day fooling around with long hair.”
“Then they could have gone to a beauty parlor.”
“Some did. Some couldn’t find one willing to cut it that short. And some of those beauty parlors couldn’t keep their employees because the girls were going to work at Nash for better money.”
Arthur made a disgusted sound.
“So you decided to turn a respectable men’s barbershop into some kind of circus.”
“I decided to stay in business.”
“And look where that got you.”
Frank clenched his jaw.
“Arthur, I struggled to make your payments in 1917. You remember that.”
“I certainly do.”
“Well, I did what I had to do.”
Arthur’s tone softened slightly.
“Frank, I’ll give you that much. I understood why you had trouble making payments that year. With the barber strike and everything else going on, I knew you couldn’t have been making much money with the shop closed.”
Frank looked up sharply.
“Closed?”
“Yes, closed. During the strike.”
“Arthur, I never closed.”
Another silence.
“What did you just say?”
“I kept the shop open.”
“You worked during the strike?”
“Yes.”
“While the other barbers were standing together, you were cutting hair?”
“I had bills to pay.”
Arthur’s voice became considerably louder.
“You crossed the strike?”
“I wasn’t going to lose my business because somebody else decided I shouldn’t be working!”
“Frank, I would have stood with those men!”
“Well, you were retired. You didn’t have a land contract hanging over your head!”
“I had that shop for decades! I knew those barbers! Some of those men were my friends!”
“And I had to make payments to you!”
Arthur was nearly shouting now.
“So while respectable barbers were standing together trying to improve their conditions, you were in there shaving women’s heads and taking their money?”
“I was keeping the doors open!”
“And you were making your payments with money from those other activities of yours, too, weren’t you?”
Frank didn’t answer immediately.
Arthur continued.
“I knew there was extra money coming in. I didn’t ask too many questions because you kept making the payments. Maybe that was my mistake.”
“Arthur, whatever else I was doing, I never missed a payment.”
“And now the whole building is burned to the ground!”
Frank could hear Arthur breathing heavily through the telephone.
Finally, the older man spoke again.
“Let me tell you what’s going to happen. I’m going to deal with the insurance company. We’ll find out what they’ll pay and what happens with the contract. But I’m not signing that land over to you.”
“Arthur—”
“No. You wanted to run things your way. You wanted to cross strikes, shave women’s heads, and carry on with God knows what else. Well, now you can deal with the consequences.”
“That land is the only chance I’ve got to rebuild where my customers are.”
“Then you should have thought about that before you brought all this trouble down on the place.”
“You don’t know who started that fire!”
“Maybe not. But I know who was running the shop when it happened.”
Frank stared at the telephone.
Arthur’s voice became cold.
“If you can’t fulfill that contract, I’ll take whatever steps I’m entitled to take. The land stays mine. You’re not getting it for three years of payments.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“No, Frank. I made my mistake three years ago when I sold you my family’s barbershop.”
There was a pause.
“I wish I’d never done it.”
The line went dead.
Frank stood there with the receiver pressed against his ear.
Eventually, he hung it up.
For the first time since seeing the burned buildings, he began to understand that he might lose more than the shop.
He might lose the location forever.
The Restaurant Property
Frank wasn’t ready to give up.
There were other parcels of land in that row.
The restaurant had stood beside his barbershop for years, serving factory workers before and after their shifts. Its owners had lost their building, furnishings, and equipment in the fire, just as Frank had lost his.
But unlike Frank, they owned their property outright.
And Frank knew they had insurance.
He located the restaurant’s owners, Walter and Elsie Brenner, at their home.
Walter answered the door.
“Frank. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to talk about your property.”
Walter frowned.
“What about it?”
“I was wondering whether you might consider selling.”
Walter looked surprised.
“Selling? We haven’t even settled with the insurance company yet.”
“I understand that.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because I want to rebuild my barbershop. Arthur Hensley isn’t going to let me have the land where mine stood.”
Walter folded his arms.
“That’s unfortunate, Frank, but we’re planning to rebuild the restaurant.”
“I thought maybe I could offer you something.”
“What have you got?”
“My motorcycle.”
Walter stared at him.
“Your motorcycle?”
“The Excelsior.”
Frank had owned the powerful motorcycle for years. He had raced it before the war, and it was one of the few valuable possessions he still had.
“It’s a good machine,” Frank continued. “Fast, too. I’ve run it on the board tracks.”
Walter shook his head.
“Frank, what in the world would I do with a racing motorcycle?”
“You could sell it. Or race it yourself.”
“Where?”
“Milwaukee had the Motordrome.”
“Had, Frank. That place is closed.”
“Chicago had Riverview.”
“That’s closed, too, isn’t it?”
Frank nodded reluctantly.
“Yes.”
Elsie, who had been listening from the adjoining room, stepped into the doorway.
“Walter, what’s he offering?”
“His motorcycle for the restaurant property.”
Elsie looked at Frank in disbelief.
“Frank, we can’t run a restaurant on a motorcycle.”
“I know that. I’m saying you could sell it.”
Walter shook his head.
“And who would buy it? There isn’t even a nearby track to run it on anymore.”
Frank thought for a moment.
“There’s another place Eddie was telling me about. A big course. Around two miles, with banking around seventeen degrees. He was talking about it before all this happened.”
Walter looked unimpressed.
“Is it running races?”
“Not that I know of right now.”
“Then it doesn’t do me much good.”
Frank persisted.
“Those Excelsiors have a history. Mine isn’t some ordinary road motorcycle.”
“I believe you. But I’m not interested in becoming a motorcycle dealer.”
Elsie stepped closer.
“Frank, we know what you’re trying to do. You want to stay across from the factory.”
“Exactly.”
“And we want to stay there, too.”
Frank looked from one to the other.
Walter continued.
“We’ve got insurance. We’re going to collect what we’re entitled to, get the remains of the building cleared away, and eventually put another restaurant there.”
“You don’t know how long that’ll take.”
“No, we don’t. But the land is ours, and we’re keeping it.”
Frank lowered his eyes.
“So there’s no deal?”
“No deal, Frank.”
Walter extended his hand.
“I’m sorry about your shop. I really am. But we’re not selling our property.”
Frank shook his hand.
“All right. I appreciate you hearing me out.”
As he walked away, Frank realized that his Excelsior, once one of his proudest possessions, wasn’t nearly as useful as he had imagined.
The Milwaukee Motordrome was closed. So was the Chicago track. The war had disrupted motorcycle racing, and the future of the big wooden tracks was uncertain.
A racing motorcycle might be valuable to the right man.
But it wasn’t going to buy him a piece of land across from Nash.
The Shoemaker’s Accusation
There was one more possibility.
Otto Krueger, the shoemaker.
Otto owned the building and land where his shoemaking business had operated for years, directly beside Frank’s barbershop.
The fire had destroyed Otto’s building just as completely as the others. His equipment, tools, leather, and inventory were gone.
But the land was still his.
Frank knew where Otto lived and decided to pay him a visit.
When Otto opened the door, his expression changed immediately.
“What do you want, Frank?”
“I wanted to talk to you about your property.”
Otto stared at him.
“What property?”
“The land where your shop stood.”
Otto’s face hardened.
“My land?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“I was wondering whether you’d consider selling.”
Otto looked at him for several seconds.
“You’re asking me to sell you my property?”
“Yes. I’d like to rebuild my barbershop there.”
Otto stepped outside and pulled the door nearly shut behind him.
“Let me get this straight. Your barbershop burns down, my building burns down, the restaurant burns down, and now you’re going around trying to buy up the land?”
Frank frowned.
“I’m trying to find somewhere to rebuild.”
“And you’ve already talked to the restaurant people?”
“Yes.”
“What did they tell you?”
“They’re not interested in selling.”
“And Arthur?”
“He won’t turn over the land where my shop stood.”
Otto shook his head.
“So now you’ve come to me.”
“Otto, I thought we could make some kind of arrangement. You might decide to open your shoemaking business somewhere else. If you’re interested in selling, we could talk about a price.”
Otto gave a short, bitter laugh.
“You’ve got some nerve.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.”
“No, Otto, I don’t.”
Otto stepped closer.
“I think you burned those buildings down yourself.”
Frank recoiled.
“What?”
“I think you were the one who threw that bottle.”
Frank stared at him.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it.”
“Otto, I lost everything in that fire!”
“Did you?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Otto pointed toward the direction of the factory.
“That land is worth more every year. Nash keeps growing. More workers, more business, more people coming through. You knew that.”
“Of course I knew that. That’s why I bought the barbershop!”
“And maybe you decided one little barbershop wasn’t enough.”
Frank shook his head.
“Otto, I never said anything about wanting your property before the fire.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“You’re accusing me of burning down my own business just so I could buy yours?”
“I’m saying it’s mighty convenient that the buildings are gone and you’re already going around trying to buy the land.”
Frank’s expression darkened.
“Convenient? I’ve lost my livelihood! I’ve still got twelve years left on a land contract, and Arthur won’t even consider letting me have the empty lot!”
Otto folded his arms.
“And now you want mine.”
“I want to buy it, Otto. I’m not asking you to give it to me.”
“And what makes you think I’d sell?”
“I don’t know whether you would. That’s why I came here to ask.”
Otto shook his head.
“Well, the answer is no.”
“Can we at least talk about what it’s worth?”
“No, Frank. We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because that land is going to keep increasing in value. Everybody knows it. Nash isn’t getting any smaller. Every year that factory brings more people into the neighborhood.”
“I know that.”
“Then you know why I’m keeping it.”
Frank stood silently.
Otto continued.
“My father always told me that a man could lose his business and still have something if he owned the land underneath it. Well, my building is gone, but I still own that lot.”
“And you intend to rebuild?”
“I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. Maybe I’ll rebuild the shoemaking shop. Maybe I’ll put up something else. Maybe I’ll hold onto the land for a few years. But whatever I do, it’ll be my decision.”
Frank nodded reluctantly.
“That’s your right.”
“And I’ll tell you something else. I wouldn’t sell it to you even if you offered me twice what it’s worth.”
Frank looked up.
“Because you think I started the fire?”
“That’s exactly why.”
“Otto, I didn’t start that fire.”
“Then let the investigators prove it.”
“They’re investigating it right now.”
“Good. I hope they find out who did it.”
“So do I.”
Otto looked directly at him.
“And if they find out it was you, I hope they put you away for a long time.”
Frank’s face reddened.
“That’s a hell of a thing to say to a man who’s lost everything.”
Otto didn’t back down.
“I’ve lost everything I had inside that building, Frank. Every machine, every tool, every piece of leather. And now you’re standing on my doorstep asking to buy the land before the ashes are even cleared away.”
“I’m trying to save my business!”
“Well, you’re not going to save it with my property.”
Frank stared at the shoemaker for several seconds.
Finally, he spoke.
“I guess there’s nothing more to discuss.”
“No, Frank. There isn’t.”
Otto turned toward the door.
“And don’t come back asking again. My land isn’t for sale.”
He went inside and closed the door.
Frank stood on the porch for a moment before turning away.
He had known Otto for years. They had operated neighboring businesses, greeted many of the same factory workers, and watched the neighborhood change as the automobile factory expanded.
Now Otto believed Frank had deliberately burned down the entire commercial block.
And there was nothing Frank could say to convince him otherwise.
No Place Left Across From Nash
By the time Frank returned to the street where the barbershop had stood, the afternoon was getting late.
He stopped across from the ruined block.
Beyond the remains of the buildings, he could see the automobile factory.
Workers were coming and going. Cars moved along the street. Men and women passed the burned properties on their way home.
Business was still there.
The customers were still there.
The location was still perfect.
But Frank no longer had a way to remain there.
Arthur Hensley wouldn’t turn over the land. The restaurant owners intended to rebuild. And Otto Krueger not only refused to sell but believed Frank had deliberately destroyed the entire block.
Frank thought about the fifteen-year contract.
He had been proud when he signed it.
He had worked in that shop under Arthur, learned the business, and eventually taken over the chairs himself. When Arthur retired, Frank believed he was buying something that would provide him with a living for the rest of his life.
He’d made three years of payments.
He had twelve years left.
And now he didn’t even have a building.
He thought about the women who had started coming into the shop during the war. He remembered the first ones who had asked him to cut their hair short when other shops refused. He remembered how quickly word had spread among the women working at Nash.
He had changed his business to survive.
He had worked through the barber strike when other shops closed.
He had kept making his payments.
And now Arthur despised him for the very things that had helped keep the shop alive.
Frank looked at the empty space where his three barber chairs had stood.
There would be no morning rush from the factory.
No women coming in after twelve-hour shifts.
No Eddie talking about motorcycles and racing.
No familiar customers sitting around waiting for a haircut.
At least not here.
For the first time, Frank seriously considered the possibility that he would have to start over somewhere else.
He had his barbering skills.
He still had his Excelsior.
He had a few connections around town.
But he didn’t have the one thing that had made his business successful.
A location directly across from the automobile factory.
And after the conversations he’d had that day, he understood something that was almost harder to accept than the fire itself.
The buildings were gone, but the land was still valuable. Everybody who owned a piece of that block intended to keep it.
Frank took one last look across the street at Nash.
“I’ll never find another spot like this,” he said quietly.
Then he turned and walked away.
For the first time since becoming a barber, Frank had no shop to open the next morning.
And no clear way to get one.

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