Making It Pay

Making It Pay By J.L. Merrow Daniel always looks at the shoes first. You can tell a lot from a bloke’s shoes: what sort of work he does, how well off he is, how much it’ll hurt if he gives you a kicking. Then he slowly raises his gaze, taking in all the details on the way, until he gets to the man’s face. A punter once told him it’s dead sexy, like he’s drinking in the sight of them, savouring every inch. Talk about making a virtue out of necessity. Course, sometimes he doesn’t need to go that slow. He’d know those boots anywhere—he knew them the minute they turned the corner from Market Street, just from the sound they made on the pavement. Heavy, but not quite even; the left one’s been mended at some point, and the nail or the staple or whatever they used must stick out a bit. It gives the step on that side a metallic clang that cuts through the more solid sound of the rest of the boot. So as soon as he sees those boots, Daniel flicks his eyes straight up to the face and gives the bloke a smile, although really it’s a shame to be so hasty, as the bits in between are well worth lingering over. Still, the face is good, too. It’s not movie-star handsome, not by a long chalk, but the dark eyes—brown, Daniel thinks, but it’s hard to tell at night—are kind and the smile is one of those magic ones that turns a bloke from threatening bully to teddy bear. “Evenin’,” the boots’ owner says, as usual. His voice is so deep Daniel was surprised when he first heard it. The bloke’s six foot six if he’s an inch, and his chest measurement must be something similar; you’d almost expect him to have a squeaky little voice to compensate. “Evening,” Daniel returns. “Any trouble tonight?” He doesn’t know the bloke’s name, but he knows he’s a bouncer down at the King’s Head. He helped Daniel out one time when a punter got nasty and went for him with a knife, and he always passes this way on his route back home after work. Always has a friendly word or two to say. “Nah, dead quiet. Well, the usual, you know. Couple of young ladies pissed off their heads we had to persuade into a taxi, but no rough stuff.” Anyone else would have called them slags, or slappers, or something equally derogatory, but Bob the bouncer (well, he’s got to call him something, hasn’t he?) is always polite about the people he deals with. Daniel likes that about him. “‘Ow’s tricks, then?” Bob asks Daniel in his turn. Daniel shrugs. “You know. So-so. Bloody recession. Last bastard asked if I was going to cut me prices.” Bob grins. “Tell him you’re a luxury item. They’re s’posed to sell better when times are hard, ain’t they?” Daniel grins back. “I wish,” he says, although he’s not sure which part of Bob’s statement he’s referring to. “Night, then,” Bob says, and the boots clomp off home. “Night,” Daniel calls to their echoes, the night already feeling a little colder as the sounds die away.