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EIGHT

E ddie is standing on MacDougal Street, in a now-familiar posture to him (and us). He’s got his feet spaced a couple of feet apart for stability, the camera strap around his neck instead of his shoulder, and the camera itself held up to his face. His expression is strained, squinty as he centers the doorway of Hangout Shoe Repair in the viewfinder and waits for something to happen.

It’s an uninteresting little storefront, wedged between a Japanese restaurant and a candy shop, but when two club kids in acid-green bodysuits enter the frame, the image comes alive. They notice him and stick out their tongues just as he snaps the photo. Cookie will love that. The club kids laugh and stroll on. Eddie slips the little plastic card into his pocket and steps into the shop.

It’s a tiny space filled with shoes in various states of repair. Eddie counts seven levels of shelves lining every wall. The bottom shelves are filled with boots, then wingtips, then loafers, then stilettos, then pumps, then slippers, then sandals. A glass counter sits near the back, its case filled with shoelaces, shoe polishes, brushes, buckles, and rubber shoe covers for sale. Behind it, Eddie can see a small recess with two workbenches covered in tools, sheets of leather, eyelet fixtures, and rags.

A balding man with a wild comb-over stands at one of the workbenches, the only other person in here, as far as Eddie can tell. He’s wearing a leather apron and banging a hammer against the sole of a brown suede oxford. He doesn’t notice Eddie, so after a moment, Eddie taps the counter bell.

“Gimme a minute,” the man mumbles, the nail held in his teeth bobbing up and down as he speaks. He takes it out and bangs it into the shoe, then inspects his work. Satisfied, he turns to Eddie. “Whaddya got?”

“Just these,” Eddie says, holding out the blue shoes. “They need new soles.”

The man takes the shoes and turns them over. He scrutinizes the scuffs, the soles, the heels, then turns them right side up again. His forehead crinkles as he runs his fingers over the seams. “I know these shoes,” he says. “These are Cookie’s shoes. How did you get them?”

Eddie draws back, shocked by the question. This man must see a thousand shoes a week, but he knows these? “I, um—”

“Answer?”

“She’s my great-aunt,” Eddie says. “How did you know they were hers?”

“I know my customers,” the man says in a dull monotone. He takes out a claim check card and starts filling it out. “They’ll be ready in a few days.”

“A few days,” Eddie repeats.

“Say hello to Cookie from me, wouldja?” the man says, tearing off half the claim ticket and handing it to Eddie. “I’m Paulie.”

“I will. How long have you known her?”

Paulie scowls. “Longer than you have,” he says. “My great-grandfather opened this place in 1927, after the nightclub closed down. Eve’s Hangout. Pop kept the name. Well, part of it. It’s been mine since 1986.”

“Eve? Who’s that?”

Paulie waves away the question. “Look, kid, I’m busy,” he says. “Thursday.” He disappears into the back, his comb-over bouncing against his skull as he walks.

Eddie looks around. There must be a thousand pairs of shoes in here, some shiny and new-looking, others rough and worn. Some look contemporary, like they’ve only been bought this year. Others look ancient, like they’ve been forgotten in the shop and Paulie never called to follow up. He imagines a story for a pair of two-tone vinyl bucks, how they’d belonged to a rockabilly wannabe in the 1980s who never made it. He pictures the owner of the knee-high black boots with the pirate buckle, and how she had a night job taking tickets on Broadway. He wonders about the twin pairs of yellow fleece baby booties, and why they look like they’ve never been worn.

So much life in this shop. Maybe he’ll take a picture in here. It’s not the kind of thing Cookie usually asks for, but maybe she’ll like it. He stands just next to the entrance, to fit as much of the shop as he can into the frame, and snaps. The camera clicks and whirs, and soon he’s holding another plastic card, watching for the image to emerge. But the card stays blank. Must be a dud, he thinks. He raises the camera to try again.

But when Eddie looks through the viewfinder, the shoes are gone. The counter, the workbenches, the footwear accessories, all gone. This isn’t an empty shoe shop at all. This is a nightclub, and the door behind him is straining as people push through and into the room, crushing their way in. They seem to enter all at once, just as a loud, jazzy song starts to play. Suddenly, everyone is dancing. Fast, frenetic steps.

Eddie is jostled from all sides by the raucous crowd. They poke and pinch him as they swirl past, mouths wide with laughter as a vocalist warbles a lively song. “ I don’t want no man that I got to give my money to ,” she sings. Eddie listens to the voice, rich and syrupy with a distinct growl, almost like the one he’d just heard at Cookie’s.

It’s happening again but Eddie doesn’t feel panic this time. Urgency, sure, and some disorientation. But not panic. Just curiosity. Energy. He squeezes through the dancers to the side of the room and steps up onto an overturned soap box. His head above the crowd now, he takes a deep breath, drawing in the sweaty, humid air. There must be a hundred people in this tiny space, all moving in time, and not one of them is a man. Sure, some are dressed like men, in dark pinstripe suits and slicked-back hair, while others are in gold and violet dresses adorned with fringe. But they are all women, as far as he can tell. They dance in couples, cheek to cheek, laughing and twirling and kicking and singing along. He looks down at his own clothes. He’s in pinstripes, too. No jeans, no sneakers.

Eddie cranes to see the singer. She’s wearing white tails and a top hat, commanding the room from a small platform where she’s surrounded by three musicians on piano, clarinet, and standing bass. Her white tails sway behind her as she smiles and sings in her growly voice.

As the song reaches its crescendo, the crowd cheers with delight, and after her final note the singer looks straight at Eddie. He recognizes her perfectly now. It’s Gladys Bentley.

“‘Red beans and rice’!” someone shouts, and everyone cheers again.

Just then someone shouts, “Cops!” and Eddie spins to see four policemen at the front door, holding up police batons and shouting, “This is a raid! You’re all in violation of the New York City cabaret statute!” Screams of protest and fear fill the air as everyone starts pushing in opposite directions, some toward the cops, some away from the cops, some just in panicked circles. Eddie can see they are trapped. There’s nowhere for anyone to go. The lights flicker off, leaving the chaos in total darkness.

Eddie feels a hand on his elbow, tugging at him, pulling him through the crowd. Eddie trips behind as he’s yanked through the curtain behind the stage and into an even tinier space. A small gas lamp flickers weakly, and in the dim light, Eddie sees who’s grabbed him. It’s a boy. It’s him. The boy with the eyes.

“It’s you,” Eddie says, or thinks he says. He can’t hear his own voice in here. All this chaos.

The boy probably doesn’t hear him, either, because he doesn’t answer. He just takes Eddie’s shoulders, steadies him, and points to a door leading out the back. “Get out!” he shouts. “Get out before the cops take you!”

“What?” Eddie shouts. “What’s happening?”

But the boy still doesn’t answer. Instead, he slips a folded piece of paper into Eddie’s chest pocket just as the curtain behind them is ripped from its pole, and the melee spills through toward them, dancers falling over one another, and the boy pushes Eddie, violently almost, through the back door, to safety. Eddie tumbles off the two steps and into a small fenced-in courtyard, landing on a pair of overstuffed trash bags. Behind him, the door slams shut with a crash loud enough to scare the pigeons pecking at the garbage.

He lies still for a moment. He’s not hurt. He catches his breath, then raises his head.

There’s no one out here in the twilight. Just Eddie, in the same jeans and sneakers he wears every day. No noise is coming from inside. Just the sounds of the city. A siren, a car horn, the sound of a storefront grate closing. He opens the latch on the gate leading into the alley and steps out. It’s eerily silent. The only person he sees is a short man in tan Dickies and a ribbed tank top, sitting up against a wall and smoking a cigarette. Eddie stares at the man for a minute, maybe two, before the man notices.

“Fuck is wrong with you?” the man says, pointing at his wireless earbuds. “I’m on the fucking phone.” He flips Eddie off and turns his back.

Eddie blinks, breathes, and checks his shoulder for the camera strap. It’s there. It’s just after seven. He closes the gate, then walks through the winding alley and back out onto MacDougal Street, which is just as it was before he entered the shop. Even the club kids in green are still there, walking back down the opposite sidewalk. Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s happened. Nothing’s different at all.

Eddie feels for the piece of paper in his chest pocket. He’s certain it won’t be there.

But it is. And it’s a note. Let me find you , it says. That’s all. Let me find you.