The Seventeenth Swap Read Online Free PDF Page A

like a thin burger in a bun. Eric peeked through the space separating the big “E” of “SHOE” from the “R” of “REPAIR” lettered on the smudgy display window and saw that no customers were waiting in the narrow space in front of the counter. The bell jingled as he pulled open the door, producing a brief shout of acknowledgement from the depths of the shop, unintelligible over the whine of one of the machines.
    â€œIt’s only me, don’t hurry,” Eric shouted back. He leaned his elbows on the scarred wooden counter, smoothed over and dark with multiple coats of varnish. Waiting for the whine to give way to the flapping sound that meant the machine was idling, he shut his eyes and drew a deep, analytical breath of the pungent atmosphere. Leather, of course—new and old. Machine oil. Shoe polish. A hint of French fries, probably left over from Mr. Lee’s lunch, always sent in from Shari’sSandwich Express next door by his wife, who was Shari. And something like glue—maybe all those plastic sacks encasing arch supports and things, hanging from the pegboard at his elbow. Anyway, lots of smells for Jimmy.
    â€œWell, if it isn’t my pal Eric,” said Mr. Lee, coming around the half-wall from the rear of the shop, leaving the machine panting like a big, noisy dog with its tongue lolling out and its tail thumping. He was a short, wiry man with big hands and black curly hair going a little thin in front. “What’ll it be, more shoelaces already?”
    â€œNo, I was just wanting to ask you something—about your cigar boxes that you showed me once. Did you ever have any tin ones? Or do you only like the wood kind?”
    â€œTin ones?” Mr. Lee’s dark eyes got the little spark in them that meant he was interested. “You don’t mean Between the Acts? Little flat hinged box, gold-colored, about so square, with six holes in a circle in the bottom, red lid with black lettering, light blue revenue stamp?”
    â€œI’m not sure about the holes,” said Eric, trying to visualize Angel’s box. “I only saw it for a minute, and it was full of cocktail picks.”
    â€œFull of cocktail picks? ” echoed Mr. Lee with a bark of laughter.
    Eric explained Angel’s use of the box. “She said she found it at her Grandpa’s.”
    â€œI’ll bet she did. In the attic at that. Those boxes went out just about the time I was cutting my teeth. Second World War stuff. What d’you think she’d take for it? Now, don’t say cocktail picks.” Mr. Lee heldup a palm. “I’m not a drinking man and if I was I wouldn’t set foot inside any rip-off cocktail bar.”
    â€œWould you pay money for that kind of box?” asked Eric, holding his breath.
    Mr. Lee thought about that a minute. “Would she take a dollar-fifty?” he asked Eric.
    Eric’s expectations deflated. “I don’t know.”
    â€œThey’re not worth more’n two bucks according to the list books—trouble is, I never yet come across one to buy. Tell you what—I’ll give her better’n that in work. She need any shoes reheeled?”
    â€œI guess not. She always wears tennis shoes, same as me.” Eric sighed. “She might not want to give that box up anyway. I tried to get it for you yesterday and she wouldn’t listen.”
    The little spark came back into Mr. Lee’s eyes and became a fanatical little light. He drummed on the counter with his stubby, work-grained fingers. “Listen, Eric. Talk to her, will you? Sound her out. I won’t deny I’d like to have that box.”
    â€œShe usually does the talking,” said Eric doubtfully. “But I’ll try.” He turned to go, then whirled back. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Mr. Lee, have you got any little scrap of new leather you’d give me? Or an old shoe-polishing rag?”
    â€œAn