Sweet Ginger Poison

sell them to customers.

Manny was so excited he couldn’t sleep. He spent his last few dollars on a one-way bus ticket to Coreyville.

Hosea’s business was a tiny shoe repair shop, located on town square. Manny’s job would be to shine each pair of shoes that Hosea repaired.

What would be Manny’s hourly rate of pay? Zero, his cousin told him. He would only get paid if a customer decided to tip him in response to a particularly impressive shoe shine job.

But there was more. Hosea had recently purchased a shoe shine stand at an auction. He would charge five dollars per shine, which he would keep. But Manny could pocket any tip money. And assuming he could keep the chair occupied for much of the day, he could make a living. Of course, Manny would have to buy his own supplies. Hosea would loan him the money to get started.

But at least he would have free room and board, right? Yes, for the first two months. After that, he’d have to fork over money for half of the rent and groceries. He would live with Hosea in the efficiency apartment above the shop. There was only one bed. Manny would sleep on the floor.

What about the promised walls for his paintings? Hosea was a man of his word—and then some. Manny could indeed cover the walls with his works of art. But the previously undisclosed stipulation was that Hosea would get fifty percent of the sales price of each painting.

Manny decided to go back to El Paso immediately. But he couldn’t. First he’d have to earn some money. It would be hard enough to go home and admit that his father had been right. He just couldn’t bring himself to call and beg for a bus ticket.

He worked diligently at his shoe shining, figuring the better the shine, the higher the tip. And it paid off. Before long, the word had spread all over town. Manny was swamped with customers, while Hosea sat idle.

Then Manny began to dream. Maybe he could go out on his own. Then he could keep the five-dollar fee as well as the tips. And if he sold any paintings, all the money would be his. He would just need to save up enough to get his own place.

But then Hosea got even greedier. One night after dinner, he told Manny that he must start giving him fifty percent of his tip money. That wasn’t fair, said Manny. He had just started paying for half the rent and food. He would not give up any of his tip money.

They got into a violent argument that ended when Hosea fell down the stairs. Manny grabbed Hosea’s car keys and carried his unconscious cousin to the car. The hospital was less than one mile away. But Manny forgot to buckle Hosea’s seat belt. And somehow, as Manny sped around a corner, the passenger door swung open and Hosea fell out. A police car happened by at that moment and saw Manny trying to pick up Hosea and put him back in the car. But he was already dead.

Nobody knew Hosea had been treating his twenty year-old cousin like a slave. So they had no reason to suspect foul play. Manny was only known to the men whose shoes he shined. And to them, he was a fine, hard- working young man.

After the funeral, he took over Hosea’s lease and eventually renovated the shop—transforming the little dump of a shoe repair shop into an upscale shoe shine boutique. His oil paintings were on the walls, but they weren’t for sale. He refused to sell them to anyone for any price. In his mind, this made them priceless.

He did away with the shoe repair business altogether, and concentrated on building his brand name: Monet’s MasterShine. Before long, he had more business than he could handle, so he hired two employees and let them do all the labor. He kept the shoe shine fee at five dollars and paid his workers minimum wage. But they got to keep all their tips.

The income from the shoe shines paid the rent. But the real money was in the extras—like the latest must- have electronic gadgets that men love. They would come in planning to spend a few bucks on the best shoe shine in town, and walk out fifty dollars poorer, with their shiny shoes and their new GPS system with built-in metal detector.

But Manny had not been content to sit back and enjoy the success of his little shop. He sought more lucrative endeavors.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said Manny. He stood up.

A man in his mid-twenties walked in and closed the door. “I’m sorry I’m late, Mr. Monet. I’m Will J—”

“—I know who you are, Will. And call me Manny.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Have a seat.”

They both sat down.

“So, what can I do for you, Will?”

“I understand that you make loans.”

“Yes. Sometimes. But if you need money, why don’t you just go to a bank?”

“I tried that.”

“Or get a credit card. They’re pretty easy to get these days.”

“Not for me.”

“Credit problems?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“How much do you need?”

“Uh…it’s a lot.”

“How much?”

“Ten-thousand.”

“That isa lot,” said Manny.

“I’m sorry,” said Will, standing up, “this is crazy for me to be—”

“—sit down, Will. I can do it.”

Will sat down, grinning. “You can? Great.” Suddenly his smile went away. “What’s the interest rate?”

“Twenty percent.”

“Oh, that’s not too bad. So, twenty percent APR.”

“No. Twenty percent per month,” said Manny.

“Whoa.”

“Change your mind? Don’t need the money so bad after all?”

“No—I really doneed it.”

“Okay, then. And just so we’re clear: in thirty days your first payment of one-thousand dollars will be due.”

Will’s eyes got big.

“So, you still want the money?”

“Yes, Sir. Where do I sign?”

“There’s no paperwork. But just so you know,” said Manny, looking directly into Will’s eyes, “nobody’s ever defaulted on me—and livedto tell about it.”

Will’s chin began to quiver.

Manny grinned. “Come back at Noon and I’ll have your cash.”

**********

Mayor Kassle sat up in his oversized leather chair and reached for his desk phone.

“Melissa?”

“It’s Monica, Sir. Melissa was your lastsecretary.”

“Have you finished typing those letters?”

“Yes, Sir, I have. Are you ready to sign them?”

Duh. “Yes.”

He hung up the phone.

Monica hurried through the door and shut it behind her. Then she quickly baby-stepped over to the mayor’s desk. The five-inch heels and ultra-tight skirt precluded a normal stride.

“Here we go,” she said, handing him the two letters.