shoes.”
Sidney collapsed out of her brown study and stared up at the face.
Behind her the teams of agents slightly stiffened and edged forward.
They would have surged toward her at full sprint when the man began to
approach except that the speaker was short, black and close to seventy.
This was not Jason Archer. But it still might be something.
“What?” She shook her head clear.
“Your shoes. I know where you got your shoes. Three-fifty if I’m
right. A free shine for you if I’m wrong.” His snow-white mustache hung
over a mouth largely absent of teeth. His clothes were more rags than
anything else. She also observed the battered wooden shoe shine kit
resting on the bench beside her.
“I’m sorry. I’m really not interested.”
“Come on, lady. Tell you what, I’ll throw in the shine if I’m right,
but you still got to come up with the money. What’s to lose? You get a
great shine for a very reasonable price.”
Sidney was about to refuse him again until she saw the ribs sticking
through the worn, gauzy shirt. Her eyes drifted over his own shoes,
from which bare and heavily callused toes protruded at several spots.
She smiled and reached inside her purse for money.
“Uh-uh, don’t do it that way, lady. Sorry. Got to play the game or we
don’t do business.” There was more than a small reserve of pride in his
words. He started to pick up his box.
“Wait a minute. All right,” said Sidney.
“Okay, you don’t think I can tell you where you got your shoes, do you?”
he said.
Sidney Archer shook her head. She had purchased them at an obscure
store in southern Maine a little over two years ago. It had since gone
out of business. There was no way. “Sorry, but I don’t think so,” she
replied.
“Well, I’m gonna tell you where you got those shoes.” The man paused
dramatically and then almost cackled as he pointed down.
“You got them on your feet.”
Sidney joined in his laughter.
In the background, the two agents holding listening devices couldn’t
help but smile.
After performing a mock bow to his audience of one, the old man knelt
down in front of Sidney and prepared her shoes for polishing.
He chatted away amiably while his dexterous hands soon turned her dull
black flats to lustrous ebony.
“Nice quality, lady. Last you a long time if you take care of them.
Nice ankles to go with them too. That never hurts.”
She smiled at the compliment as he rose and repacked his box.
Sidney pulled out three dollars and rummaged in her purse for change.
He looked at her. “That’s okay, ma’am, I got plenty of change,” he said
quickly.
In response she handed him a five and told him to keep the difference.
He shook his head. “No way, no sir. Three-fifty was the deal and
three-fifty it is.”
Despite her protests, he handed her back a crumpled single and a
fifty-cent piece. When her hand closed around the silver, she felt the
small piece of paper taped to its underside. Her eyes bulged at him.
He merely smiled and tipped the brim of his raggedy cap. “Nice doing
business with you, ma’am. Remember, take care of those shoes.”
After he moved off, Sidney quickly put the money away in her purse,
waited for several minutes and then got up and walked off as casually as
she was able.
She made her way back over to the French Market Place and into the
ladies’ room. In one of the stalls her quivering hands unfolded the
paper. The message was short and in block print. She reread it several
times and then promptly flushed it down the toilet.
Making her way up Dumaine Street toward Bourbon, she paused and opened
her purse for a moment. She made a show of briefly checking her watch.
She looked around and noted the pay phone attached to a brick building
that housed one of the largest bars in the Quarter. She crossed the
street, picked up the phone and, calling card in hand, punched in a
series of digits. The number she was calling was her private line at