Excerpt from Sweetland by Michael Crummey, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Duke was sitting in the barber's chair with the three-day-old paper arrived on yesterday's ferry. His praying mantis legs crossed in a fashion that seemed barely human. Didn't glance up when Sweetland came in and looked to have dozed off with his heavy-lidded eyes half-open, but for the habitual tremor in his hands that made the paper shake. "Be done in a minute," he said finally, and Sweetland took a seat, stared down at the game in progress on the chessboard.

Duke bought the barber's chair from a second-hand building supply in St. John's when the cod stocks collapsed and the government ended the inshore fishery in '92. Sweetland had tried to talk him out of it. To begin with, there were only ninety-odd people living in Chance Cove in those days and every one of them got their hair cut in Reet Verge's kitchen, but for Ned Priddle who was bald as a cue ball. And Duke had never cut hair in his life, regardless. Man nor woman was willing to sit in that chair and let Duke at them with the clippers.

Duke rustled the paper. "Pilgrim was by earlier. Said you and Jesse was out checking slips."

"Got a couple brace on the backside, above the Priddles' cabin."

"Pilgrim says Clara wouldn't very happy about it."

"I don't imagine," Sweetland said quietly.

Duke had a straight razor and a shaving cup and offered shaves for a dollar fifty. As far as Sweetland knew, he had no takers on that offer either. A tax write-off, Duke called it when he put out his shingle.

Though it was anyone's guess what exactly he was writing off. Twentyodd years he'd been spending six afternoons a week out here, sweeping the floor and reading the paper, watching passersby through the tiny window beside the door. His ex-wife had abandoned the island twentyfive years ago, his children all shifted off to one part of the mainland or other. He gossiped with the men who dropped in for a cup of tea, a gander at the chessboard, moving a piece here or there. Duke played the white and never lost.

"Who've been at this board?" Sweetland asked.

Duke craned to look over his shoulder. "There's been seven or eight had a go since you was here last."

"You didn't let Loveless touch anything."

"You're in check there," he said and he shook out the paper. "If you hadn't noticed."

"Loveless still thinks it's a goddamn checkerboard."

"He means well."

Sweetland grunted. "So does the fucken government."

Duke nodded, which was as close as he came to laughter. "Didn't see you at the meeting yesterday."

"You was taking attendance, was you?"

"Just Loveless and yourself and Queenie missing. Hard not to notice. Hayward thinks you and Queenie must be having a little something on the side."

"He's not worried about Loveless?"

"Hayward's paranoid," Duke said. "He's not an idiot."

"Well," Sweetland said, as if there was some doubt about the fact.

"You heard he signed up for the package after all," Duke said.

"I heard."

"Just you and Loveless, then."

He glanced over at the man in the chair. Sweetland knew where he stood on the matter, but Duke Fewer was the only person on the island who'd never once tried to sway him, one way or the other. The barbershop felt like the only safe place he had left. "Don't start," he said.

"Makes no odds to me. I'm leaving, government package or no. Laura's crowd have got a room waiting for me."

"Jesus," Sweetland said. "Who's going to take over the barbershop once you goes?"

"You can kiss my arse," Duke said.

"A rake like you got neither arse to kiss."

Sweetland moved his king out of check and Duke folded the paper, climbed down from the chair. An elaborate process, uncrossing those long limbs, setting them upright on the floor. He walked across to the board and lifted his rook, setting it down shakily. "Check," he said. Sweetland sat back in disgust. "Fucken Loveless," he said.

Excerpted from Sweetland: A Novel by Michael Crummey. Copyright © 2014 by Michael Crummey Ink, Inc. First American Edition 2015. With permission of the publisher, Liveright Publishing Corporation. All rights reserved.