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his newspaper, I saw that his technique was to attempt to lock eyes with the driver, while most of the drivers tried to avoid eye contact. His sales were slow. Not surprising since there were no afternoon papers published in the area, so he had to be pushing a morning edition.
    He fit the profile of homeless—scruffy, several days’ growth of beard, long, shaggy, greasy hair sticking out from a dirty baseball cap, unkempt clothes in layers. He was a clone of people you see panhandling on corners all over South Florida. After a moment, I stepped into the street, dodging traffic until I stood on the median. “Excuse me, sir. Do you have a minute?”
    He gave me a look that asked what I was bugging him for. “What you want? I ain’t botherin’ nobody.”
    “I agree, but sales appear to be slow. Maybe I could buy you a coffee or something.”
    He stepped toward me. “Maybe you buy my paper. Fifty cents.”
    Backing off a step to lessen the smell, I fumbled out a dollar and handed it to him with my best smile. He gave me a paper with no offer of change and no smile.
    The light flipped to green, and cars surged forward, the breeze from the more aggressive ones fanning my hair. “I’d really like to talk to you—preferably where there’s less danger of becoming a statistic.”
    “Lady, you wanna talk, talk. I gotta make enough for dinner. You think they give me these papers? Or maybe you want to give me fifty bucks for the whole bunch.”
    Actually, I’d heard the publisher donated papers to the homeless, but I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I looked at his stack on the curb and figured he had no more than twenty. “Five dollars and you keep the papers,” I said.
    He gave me a You gotta be nuts look. “Hey, it’s your money. Let’s talk—cash up front.”
    I handed him a fin, and we crossed the street, ducking the rush-hour drivers. He stopped on the sidewalk.
    “Starbucks?” I said. “It’s just a few stores away.”
    He looked around, a frown on his face. “There’s a bar down the block. I could use a beer.”
    “And I could use a latte. Since I’m picking up the tab, it’s coffee or nothing.” I had learned the best way to deal with men, no matter what their financial status, was to grab control and hold it. No way was I going to let Mr. Homeless make the decisions.
    “Waste of money,” he mumbled, but followed me, proving my theory correct. When we walked in, we were instant celebrities. Everyone turned to stare. That’s when I remembered he wasn’t as fresh smelling as he could be.
    “Maybe you should find us someplace outside to sit,” I said. “I’ll get the coffee. Vanilla latte okay?”
    He gave me a look and left. Standing in line, I thought, that was stupid. He’s probably off to his bar with my money, and I’ll be stuck with enough caffeine to keep Dracula awake all day.

thirteen
    I slipped sleeves on the two cups and walked outside, hoping my newspaper vendor was there. And he was, holding a table just like I asked him to do. I noticed we’d have no problem with eavesdroppers. There were ample empty chairs around him.
    Stepping up to the table, I slid a cup of coffee toward him along with several packages of the pink stuff.
    He frowned and glared at me. “Ain’t they got no sugar? If I gotta drink this stuff, I need lots of sugar.”
    “Suffer,” I said. While he stirred in three packets, I opened my attaché case and pulled out a picture. “Have you ever seen this woman?”
    He picked it up and studied it. “How much reward?”
    “Depends on how much you tell me. Do you know her?”
    “Nah, but I see her two, three times a week. Why?”
    “Because I want to find her.”
    He stared at the picture, then at me. “She drives through my intersection.” He stopped and resumed his glare.
    “So?”
    “How much reward?”
    “Keep talking. The amount goes up with everything you add.”
    “Going up is fine, but let’s see it start? Lay a ten spot on the table.”
    I went