On Main Street, Harry passed a shoe-shine stand.
The shoe-shine “boy,” Diogenes Nunez, mid-seventies, ash-colored hair, wearing a stained apron, leaned against the wall of his stand, gazing out at the street, as he had done every evening at this time for the past sixty years.
“Nikes, Reeboks, Adidas, Etonics, New Balance, Saucony…,” Nunez said.
Shaking his head, Harry said, “Sneakers. Terrible.”
Harry entered the stand and sat on one of the raised wooden chairs. Nunez spritzed Harry’s shoes with cleaner.
“Lawyers, salesmen, bankers,” Nunez said.
Harry nodded and said, “Even doctors wear them.”
“Used to be,” Nunez said, “a man could make a living shining shoes.”
Harry picked up a nine-by-twelve manila envelope from the seat next to his.
“Someone forgot something,” Harry said.
“Must of been the guy with the boots,” Nunez said. “In here about an hour ago. Red boots. Had me polish the whole thing. Uppers and lowers. Then stiffs me, like he was wearing a pair of loafers.”
Harry turned the envelope over.
“No name,” Harry said.
“Boots must of cost, what?” Nunez said. “Six, seven hundred? More? Lots more, probably.”
“No address,” Harry said.
“Wearing dirty overalls,” Nunez said, “white painter’s cap, you understand…”
Harry opened the envelope and took out a bank statement for Marian Turner.
“All his money on his feet,” Nunez said.
“She just closed out her account this afternoon,” Harry said. “Three hundred thousand dollars.”
Harry got up.
“I haven’t buffed the left yet,” Nunez said.
“You got a phone book?” Harry asked.
Nunez grunted as he stood, pushing his left hand against his left thigh for leverage. He went into the back of the stand and came out with a tattered city directory, which Harry flipped open to the T’s
Harry ran his finger down the page.
“Turner, Alan,” Harry said. “Turner, Carl. Turner, Daniel. Turner, Daniel, Jr. Turner, Leonard. Turner, Marian. One twenty-eight Sumner Avenue.”