John placed his white mask over his mouth and nose. He was an ex-boxer from Korea, who turned to the tanning business after a young retirement. He left his old life behind in Korea to start his U.S. business.  He had enough command of English to communicate with employees and clients.

 

 “Mrs. Connors, we give you this manicure free because tanning room not ready,” he said.  He wore a crispy white shirt that looked like a chef’s uniform.  The sleeves were rolled up, showing tattoos.

 

“Thanks, but not necessary, I was planning to do this after tanning anyway,” said Mary, a valued regular customer.  She smiled, he smiled back and began working. “John, the shop looks beautiful with the new carpeting – and those chairs look so inviting.”

 

The shop had been remodeled, with the back wall lined with mirrors, with black leather massage chairs behind each pedicure tub.  Sparkling shelves held bottles of skin lotion, nail polishes and supplies.  Doors lined one wall, leading to tanning rooms.

 

John’s employees multitasked, setting up rooms, keeping them sanitary, giving manicures, airbrush tanning, and seating customers for massages and pedicures.  Many customers were regulars working off their gift certificates and tan-plan cards. The atmosphere was one of luxuriant relaxation.  Voices were soft, but lively.

 

When new customers arrived, John handled them, but his receptionist, Amy Lu, first signed them up, and alerted John when registration was complete. 

 

John and Mary were busy talking, John intent on making her nails shine, when he heard Amy state his name in a low, unusually flat voice.

 

Both John and Mary looked up, as did many others.  Amy stood behind the desk with a rifle barrel touching her head. She had taken her gum out of her mouth and was holding it. She looked at John with pleading, terror-filled eyes. Her tiny frame was shaking from head to foot.

 

“Okay, whose the boss here,” demanded the young intruder.  He was sweating profusely, and rubbed his sweatshirt over his eyes, still holding the rifle. He appeared shaky and nervous. He was tall, but emaciated.

 

“I,” John said. “So let her go, and I give what you want. His accent thickened with fear for Amy.

 

“I can’t understand you, man.  Talk in English!” said the assailant. He pointed the gun at John.  Everyone froze, but John stood slowly with his hands up like a traffic cop’s signal to stop. 

 

“Sorry.  I am not good English speaker.”  He removed his mask.  “What you want?” John said quietly.  “I give money, but please leave.”

 

“Okay, everyone in back – go into that room.”  He pointed at one of the tanning room doors.  They started moving toward the room, but it was locked.  Women with wet nails, donning white bathrobes, some barefoot, huddled closely by the door.

 

“I must unlock room, but customer is there,” said John. 

 

“Okay, forget it!” He began aiming the rifle back and forth at the clients and workers.

 

“Let me get you money,” said John.

 

“I need heroin, man, that’s what I want.  He looked confused, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. Money, yeah.  Go get it, and (pointing the rifle at the assembly) you sit on the floor right where you are. No one will get hurt.  I need drugs. I don’t want to have to use this.”

 

The group sat down quickly.

 

John moved toward the cash register, and told Amy, who was choking back tears, to go join the others.  He walked slowly around the desk, and opened the register.  “You know, heroin holds you, man, more than you hold us with gun.  Gonna kill you, you don’t quit.”  He handed money over, one denomination at a time, looking straight at the gunman.

 

The man put the rifle under his arm to take the money.  He shook, and tears were falling.  He looked at John directly for a moment, while continuing to take the cash, sweat trickling down his neck.  “Shut up and give me the cash, man.” He stuffed his sweatshirt pocket with the ones.

 

“Why don’t you stop. No trouble.  I help you,” John tried.

 

“Shut up, man. I don’t want no help.  I want heroin.” He grabbed the tens.

 

John handed over the twenties.  “You need heroin.  But you don’t want heroin.”

 

“So what?  Nothin’ I can do now.  It’s too late.”

 

A client opened her tanning room door, swinging her purse over her shoulder, and stopped in shock.  The assailant dropped the twenties, and lifted his rifle.  John grabbed the rifle by the barrel and yanked hard, winning possession.  The stunned man grabbed at the twenties and ran toward the front door. 

 

“Stop, or I shoot!” John yelled. 

 

The young man froze, dropping bills.  He put his hands up, and slowly turned toward John. 

 

“Amy,” said John.  “Please dial 911.  Others, please leave by back door.”

 

The clients and workers filed out the back .  Amy called 911 and explained that Tanfastique was being robbed by a man with a rifle and her boss told her to call.  She hung up and ran out the back door.

 

“What is your name, young man?” asked John.

 

“Peter.  Peter Murtaugh.” He responded, slumping to a chair in the waiting area. 

 

“Peter, I know you.  You are like me, long time ago.  I can help you.”

 

“You, man?  You own a shop.  You’re not a druggie, man. I’m already dead, man.  Already gone.  They’re gonna put me away, and that’s it.”

 

“You think that now.  Good you are caught.  You see.”  John said holding the rifle at his side.

 

Police arrived with sirens blaring. 

 

Peter stood.  John aimed the rifle at him again and moved toward the door to let the police in.

 

Believing the salon to be under seige, police raised weapons using their cars as cover, saw John holding the rifle, and shot him through the heart.

 

John looked at Peter and Peter looked at John.  Peter walked over, knelt down and held John. John took Peter’s hand and stopped breathing.