George Pelecanos - Shoedog

Randolph climbed the wooden shelving to get red skirt’s nine-she’d said eight and a half, but she sure was a nine-and he pulled it from the top. He jumped to the floor, feeling the impact, even on the thin green carpet, thinking that at forty-two maybe it was time to slow down. But he had forgotten that by the time he was looking for his regular’s seven and a half. The name of the shoe was Panis, which he remembered ’cause it rhymed with Janis, the name of the redbone he’d been with the night before. The Panis-a slingback in black, he was sure that was the color she had held in her hand-was at the top of its stack, too, and he leapt up for that, got it on the second try.

On the way back out, Randolph took the biggest burlap shoe he could find for the woman in the colorful dress. She had said nine, but those big-ass, spread-out, Haitian-ass feet had to be elevens. Eleven at least-if they had stocked a twelve in the back, he would’ve brought that, too.

Out of the stockroom, Randolph surveyed the floor. The crowd had begun to thin out, the only new face a man who had entered and was now sitting on the bench. The man wore blue jeans and Timberland boots, and his black hair hung long and clean. A three-day black beard, trimmed and grown high, covered his jaw. His brow was thick and his eyes were blue and deep. Randolph’s first thought: Jesus, just like in the pictures. But what the fuck is he doin’ in my shop?

Randolph dropped the burlap shoes in front of the Haitian without a word, and moved to the woman in the red skirt. He opened the lid of the box, unwrapped the tissue with ceremonious care, and dropped to one knee. He took the right shoe and put it on her foot, and he placed the shoe on the top of his thigh as he tied it. He patted her on the ankle and ran his finger along it after the pat, saying, “Okay, darling,” as he stood and walked toward his regular seven and a half.

“How you been, baby?” Randolph said as he arrived at his regular, a fine light-skinned woman with a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She smiled and moved her eyes shyly away from his. Had he ever taken her out? He couldn’t remember, just then. Randolph pulled the right slingback from the box, put her foot on his knee, and guided the shoe onto her foot.

The Haitian woman walked her shoes up to the register, where the manager, a balding, heavy-set young man, sat ringing up sales. Randolph yelled to the manager, “That’s a twenty-nine”-Randolph’s sales number-“on that one, Mr. Rick.”

Randolph excused himself, content that the Panis was going to fit just fine, and walked around to the freak in the red skirt. “Those spectators gonna do it today, girlfriend?”

She scrunched up her face. “These shoes are too hard, Randolph.”

Randolph countered: “Don’t you like hard things?”

She laughed. “Not my shoes!”

He took the shoe off her foot, patted her ankle once again. “I’ll stretch these out with some magic shit”-it was plain old alcohol, and he kept it in the back-“okay? And, oh yeah, don’t forget about Tuesday night, hear?”

The woman in the red skirt smiled. “I won’t forget. I’ll lay those spectators away today, get them out on Tuesday.”

Randolph grinned. The front door opened, and a man and three women walked in. The man wore a matching shirt and slacks combination and the women wore hot pants and halter tops and tight-assed skirts.

Randolph crossed the sales floor, stepping around Jorge, who was sitting on the bench next to his girlfriend-of-the-week, and walked up to the pimp, a guy by the name of Felix. Randolph shook Felix’s hand, using a handshake that he used only on Felix, a handshake that he had otherwise stopped using with friends since 1975.

“All right, man,” Felix said.

Randolph said, “All right. ”

“You gonna hook my ladies up today, hear what I’m sayin’? Some evening shoes, man.”

“I got just the thing, man.” Randolph could feel Antoine’s envious stare burn into his back. He postured theatrically, spread his palm out in the direction of the ladies. “Sizes?”

Felix pointed down the line, starting with two pretty fine ones and ending with some West Virginia-lookin’ girl. “Nine, seven and a half, and ten.”

Ten said, “I be a nine, Felix.” I be, shit. Randolph had to check his grin. West Virginia talked blacker than the black freaks.

Felix nodded as Randolph, looked at her feet. Randolph said, “Have a seat, all o’ y’all. I’ll be right back.”

He started for the stockroom, noticing the man with the long black hair staring at him, from his seat. What did he want? If he was into pumps, then Randolph didn’t mind, he made plenty over the years, selling high heels to men. But this one didn’t look like a punk, didn’t even look like the type to be buyin’ shoes for his woman. No, this one wanted something with him.

But Randolph put it out of his mind. When Felix walked in, twice a year, he dropped five hundred, sometimes a grand. So this was a special day, maybe a three-thousand-dollar day-a triple dot. At ten percent, three hundred dollars for a day’s work. Not bad for where he came from. Not bad at all.

In the stockroom, he tried to remember the sizes as he picked out the shoes. Nine, seven and a half, and… the West Virginia-lookin’ ho, with those country-ass feet-she had said nine. But she meant ten.

Later, when the rush had ended, just as Felix and his girls had left the store, Randolph looked across the littered sales floor to the bench in the corner, where the man with the long black hair still sat. The Isley Brothers’ “Groove with You” came sweetly from the store speakers-Antoine had taken the funk down a few notches for the post-rush chill-while Jorge stood in the stockroom, putting dead soldiers back up on the shelf. It had been a good day, and Randolph had made some money. Now he’d see what that man had on his mind.

He crossed the sales floor, stepped up to the man. The man had risen out of his seat, a near friendly smile on his thoughtful face. He was taller than medium, like Randolph, though not as solid, more on the loose-limbed side.

Randolph stroked his black mustache, looking hard into the man’s blue eyes. “All right, man. What you want?”

The man took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Randolph. Randolph took it, read it, tossed it on the bench.

“Right now?” Randolph said.

“Yes,” the man said.

Randolph shrugged sadly and headed for the front door, the man walking beside him. Before he reached the glass, Randolph shouted over his shoulder, to the manager. “I’m takin’ the rest of the day off, Mr. Rick.”

Mr. Rick, running a tape on his calculator, did not look up. “See you in the A.M.,” he said.

Antoine shouted from the entrance to the stockroom in the back of the store, pointing down at the erratic pile of shoe boxes at his feet. “Where you goin’, Shoedog? You ain’t goin’ nowhere till you put up these thirty-fours!”

“You put ’em up, Spiderman. I got something I got to do.”

Antoine shook his head slowly as Randolph and the man walked out the door.

Out on the sidewalk, Randolph turned to the man. “You got wheels?”

“Right over there,” the man said, pointing.

Randolph looked it over, said, “Uh-uh.” He nodded to a late-model T-Bird parked on the street. “We’ll take my short.”

They walked to the T-Bird, Randolph tipping a bill to an old man who sat by the car, putting quarters in the meter on the half hour. Randolph gave the old man some parting instructions, along with a handful of change. The old man thanked him and walked slowly up the street.

Randolph went to the driver’s side, put his key to the lock. He peered over the roof at the man with the long black hair, who was standing by the passenger door, waiting to be let in.