The Hatmaker Cycle - Part I: Dedication

THE HATMAKER CYCLE
A Tale of Intrigue, Headwear, and Justice
Dominic E. Lacasse

Part I: Dedication

   Juan carefully shaped the leather fedora into a perfect crease. He realized he'd been holding his breath and released it in a slow, easy exhale. Another perfect hat. He sat back on his stool and looked around: perfect hats everwhere. He basked in his perfect hats. Nobody could make a hat like Juan. Fucking nobody.

   Suddenly there was a commotion outside his door. Most people who came through Juan's door were insipid tourists looking for a hat, any old hat, so they could wear it and when people asked where they'd gotten it they could say quite casually "Oh, this old thing? I picked it up in Mexico." People like that didn't appreciate a fine hat. And if they weren't tourists they were greasy workers, looking for something to keep their faces out of the sun. Juan would spend ten or fifteen minutes carefully pitching the exquisite Panama he had spent nine hours crafting with the utmost care and the dirty bastards would say "Do you have something with a wider brim?" They said it in Spanish, of course, but somehow that made it even more insulting.

   In either case, neither of his standard customers ever made anything that could be called a commotion, as such. They just sort of sauntered in through the door and peered about quietly while Juan steamed at their lack of appreciation for his perfect hats. This commotion, however, was a commotion indeed, and Juan carefully set the fedora on the counter and walked briskly to the door.

   His brain half-registered the horrified scream of an onlooker as he grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door open to reveal a woman at his doorstep. She was beautiful, he half-thought. Gorgeous, really. She had long, blonde hair, a green dress that clung lovingly to her full, round breasts. Her legs were milky-white serpents enchanting him with their visual siren's call, terminating in delicate, perfect feet clad in the finest sandals Juan had ever seen. She was also rapidly dying of a bullet wound to her left lung.

   "Ay dios mio!" Juan shouted as he watched her struggling on his doorstep. A man, running, to the door of his shop. "We must call the police!" he yelled, yet Juan himself had already grasped that the urgency so apparent in the young man's voice was unecessary. They could take their time calling the police-- the gorgeous blonde woman had gasped her last breath and lay dead on the step. A chilling quiet fell over the market square, each onlooker refusing to believe what they had just witnessed. For such a beautiful, perfect young woman to be gunned down in front of a poor Tijuana hatmaker's shop-- somehow it was more of an injustice than any of them had encountered. Juan searched his heart for the right words but found no words at all. So he was silent as he removed the hat from his head and put it to his heart, a tribute to the ravishing woman he had never known, who had been so tragically cut down in the prime of her life.

   Sweat poured down the young man's face. He was too late. He was stunned, as if he had been shot himself. The deafening silence continued. It was as if even the animals were struck dumb by this travesty. The market that was normally frantic with activity was utterly, deathly silent. Juan finally broke his gaze from the woman's bloody body; he had decided to bring the woman inside, close the door, and call the police. He looked to the young man, hoping to gain his help to bring her perfect body into his shop so that he could make that terrible call, but the young man would not meet his gaze. He was staring, incredulous, at the hat that rested atop Juan's heaving chest.

   The young man gulped twice to gain his voice. "That is the most beautiful hat I've ever seen." he finally croaked, and wandered into Juan's shop, carefully stepping over the perfect body that obstructed his path to Juan's perfect hats.

   Nobody could make a hat like Juan. Motherfucking nobody.