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intended for evil, God intended for good.’ Genesis 50:20.”
    Staring down at the pointy tips of my dad’s shoes in my hand, I don’t say a word. When my mom worked in the hospital, she used to lecture us about the importance of good shoes. As a cleaning lady, it was the one personal item she could see in every room. Fancy clothes were replaced by hospital gowns, but under every bed . . .
Show me someone’s shoes, and I’ll show you their lives.
    Thanks to that ridiculous mantra, my dad used to always have one pair of shiny black lawyer shoes (even though he was a painter) and a pair of tan cordovans (which my mom was convinced meant you were rich).
    Today, in my lap, he’s got black loafers. And not the cheap kind with the tough leather and the seams coming undone. These are nice—buffed and narrow at the toes; Italian leather soles.
    I read the label inside.
    “What’s wrong?” Roosevelt asks.
    “These are Franceschettis.”
    He cocks an eyebrow and looks for himself. He’s the one from money. He knows what it means.
    “Franceschettis are expensive, aren’t they?” I ask.
    “Four hundred bucks a pair.”
    “What about his shirt?” I ask, showing him the label on my dad’s bloody silk shirt. Michael Kors. “Is Michael Kors good?”
    “Plenty good. As in three-hundred-bucks-a-pop good.”
    “On a guy we found on a homeless call,” I point out.
    “Maybe they were donated. We get designer clothes all the time.”
    I look at the bottom of the shoes. The leather soles barely have a scuff on them. Brand new. Confused, I once again start to stand up, then quickly sit back down.
    When I was little and we had company coming over, my father would buy cheap Scotch at the neighborhood liquor store and pour it into a Johnnie Walker Black Label bottle. He did the same when he first started painting signs at restaurants, pouring discount remainder paint into the Benjamin Moore cans he’d have me fish from the hardware store’s trash. My mother used to tease him, calling it his little CIA trick. He never laughed at the joke. For him, appearances mattered.
    “Did he say anything in the ambulance?” Roosevelt asks, eyeing the other people in the waiting area. A teenager on crutches stares our way.
    “Not much,” I say, lowering my voice. “He told the medics he was coming out of that dump bar on Third Street when some Hispanic kid with big ears pulled a gun and asked for his wallet. When he refused, the kid took the wallet, pulled the trigger, shoved him into a red Jeep Cherokee, and dumped him in the park where we found him.”
    “Okay, so that’s a story. He’s
not
homeless. He just got robbed.”
    I shake my head, still staring at the shirt’s snazzy black label. “People with three-hundred-dollar shirts and four-hundred-dollar shoes don’t go into low-life bars on Third.”
    “What’re you talking about? This is
Florida
. We got stupid rich people
everywhere
. Besides, even if he’s out of place, doesn’t mean he’s out to—” Roosevelt cuts himself off, watching me carefully. “Oh, you think this is like Miss Deirdre, don’t you? No,
no
, boy. This is
not
Miss Deirdre.”
    I’ve known Roosevelt for nearly six years. I first met him back when I was an ICE agent (which is just the cooler-sounding acronym for the U.S. government’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement). I guarded the ports, stopped terrorist and drug shipments from coming in, and, at least during my first two years, confiscated shipments of fake Sony TVs and counterfeit Levi’s jeans. Until I opened myself up, helped someone I shouldn’t have, and in one horrible moment got fired from my job and plummeted through the second trapdoor in my life.
    “Cal, what happened with Miss Deirdre—”
    “Can we please go back to my father’s shoes?”
    “That’s exactly what I’m doing. I know you, Cal. And I know it’s easier to drive around with a van full of strangers where there’s no risk of any emotional investment, but