Read Online Shoedog by George P. Pelecanos - Free Book Online Page B

edging over to one of his best regulars, a perfect seven and a half, a regular with a full-time paycheck and a government job. And Jorge, the Latin with the thin mustache and all the hair, was sniffing after something in a tight leather skirt, always lookin’ to get next to that Man in the Boat.
    “Yes, tonight.”
    Randolph looked down impatiently at the woman’s foot. “You an eight and a half, right?”
    “That’s right.”
    “How’s next Tuesday sound?”
    “Tuesday’s good,” said the woman in the red skirt.
    Randolph said, “I’ll be right back.”
    On the way to the stockroom Randolph stopped at a large woman wearing a colorful dress and a headband to match. She was sitting on the end of the padded bench, and she was holding a sale shoe, some burlap-lookin’ bullshit, some old-ass espadrille-lookin’ shit, in her callused hand.
    “You ready now?” Randolph said.
    “Nine,” said the woman.
    “Be right back.” Randolph paused before entering the stockroom. He turned and shouted across the sales floor, over the seventies funk—Rick James, “Bustin’ Out of L 7”—that was booming out the store speakers, toward his regular, who was now holding a shoe and talking to Antoine. “What size, baby?”
    The woman said, “Antoine’s helping me today, Randolph.”
    Randolph bugged his eyes and shook his head. “Uh-
uh!
What you want to talk to that itty-bitty”—Randolph paused, grabbed the top of his thigh, shook what he grabbed—“you want a man with some
heft,
don’t you, baby?”
    The regular looked at Antoine, blinked apologetically, and turned back to Randolph. “Seven and a half,” she said.
    Randolph jetted into the stockroom, kicking boxes out of the way. He felt Antoine follow him back.
    “What you want to go and disrespect me like that for?” Antoine shouted, as he entered the clutter of stock and stretching tools and empty cartons.
    Randolph turned, gave Antoine his godfather stare. “You know better than to talk to my ladies, Spiderman.”
    “Don’t call me no Spiderman, man.”
    Randolph softened his voice—he didn’t need to throw gasoline on this shit, not during the rush. “Go on, man. There’s plenty of money out there for everyone. Plenty of money and plenty of honey. Right, Antoine?”
    Antoine smiled his country smile, said, “That’s a bet. Sure is plenty of honey.” He turned his arachnid’s torso and loped back out the door, all arms and legs.
    Randolph headed for the back of the stockroom, thinking that the boy Antoine could be good—
if
he concentrated more on picking up customers and less on his pride. Now the other one, Jorge, he’d wash out. All he thought about was the nappy, day and night. Randolph knew one thing: the day was for taking those shoes to the hole; the night was for the freaks.
    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