PART 2
Brock Hensley laughed.
“And who are you supposed to be?”
Toby opened his briefcase.
“I’m a housing attorney. I represent the fourteen families who live in the apartments upstairs from this shop.”
Brock’s grin slipped.
“Three weeks ago,” Toby said, “you shut off the heat to the second and third floors. In November. One of my clients is 84 years old. Another has a newborn. You told them the boiler was broken.”
He laid a stack of photos on my counter. Thermostats reading 49 degrees. A grandmother in a winter coat in her own kitchen.
“The boiler isn’t broken. Your contractor turned it off. Under your orders. He told my investigator himself.”
The contractor slowly put down his tape measure. He looked at the floor.
“That’s harassment of tenants to force an eviction,” Toby said. “It’s illegal in this city. And it’s not the only thing.”
He set down another folder.
“You applied for a city development grant on this building. You told them it was vacant and blighted. It isn’t vacant. It has a barbershop that’s been open for forty-four years and fourteen families.”
Brock opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
“The city revoked your grant this morning,” Toby said. “Your bank was informed at noon. I’m guessing they’ll be calling you soon.”
As if on cue, Brock’s phone started buzzing.
He walked out without saying a word. The bell jingled behind him.
My customers, who had all been pretending not to listen, started clapping. Mr. Pettiford clapped the loudest.
Toby turned back to me. And for a second, he wasn’t a lawyer in a navy suit. He was sixteen, in a pile of coats, in a fogged-up Honda.
“I heard about the eviction from Mr. Pettiford’s grandson,” he said. “He follows me online. I got here as fast as I could.”
“Toby,” I said. “You didn’t have to.”
“Mr. Lou, you gave me a key when I had nothing. You never asked for it back.”
He put it in my hand.
“I kept it for twelve years. I figured it was time to return it. But I’m bringing something better.”
It took four months.
Brock Hensley’s bank called the loan. He couldn’t pay. The building went up for sale in March.
Toby made some calls. Then I learned something I never knew.
There were a lot of us.
Men who’d sat in my chair as boys. A doctor. A firefighter. Two teachers. A city bus driver. A pastor. A man who owns a car dealership in Southfield. They pooled their money with a community land trust and bought the building.
The trust’s rule is simple. The rent for the barbershop and the apartments upstairs can never be raised beyond what working people can afford. Ever.
The heat came back on in the apartments the day of the sale.
I still open at 7 every morning.
On the wall by the door, there’s a new brass plaque. Toby had it made.
“The Chair. Est. 1981. Everyone welcome. Ask Lou for a key.”
Last Saturday, Toby came in at closing.
He sat down in the third chair by the window, the same one he sat in at sixteen.
“Same as always, Mr. Lou.”
I picked up my clippers.
Some things never change. Thank God.
THE END.
