“How scared you look.”
The Vendor stopped wiping.
The Flower Vendor looked toward the corner where the Sergeant had disappeared earlier.
“He started me at one-fifty.”
“Then two hundred.”
“Sometimes more around holidays because he says sidewalk traffic is more valuable.”
The Vendor’s expression changed.
“What happens if you don’t pay?”
She laughed without humor.
“My flowers become a pedestrian obstruction.”
“My umbrella violates visibility rules.”
“Some inspector says my water buckets are unsanitary.”
“One week I refused.”
“The next morning they towed my cart.”
“Why?”
“Improper storage.”
“Was it?”
“No.”
“Did you appeal?”
“I tried.”
She looked down at her hands.
“Three days without the cart cost more than the payment.”
The Vendor nodded slowly.
“Anybody complain?”
“I did.”
“What happened?”
The Flower Vendor looked at him.
“One week later I received four citations.”
The Vendor’s jaw tightened.
“From him?”
“Two from him.”
“Two from another Officer.”
“Same unit.”
The Vendor’s hands became still.
“Names?”
The Flower Vendor shook her head immediately.
“No.”
“I’m not asking you to report anybody.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking what happened.”
She studied him.
Then:
“You’re new.”
“Ten weeks.”
“That’s new.”
She looked toward the stainless cart.
“You still think rules matter because you’ve kept yours straight.”
The Vendor said nothing.
The Flower Vendor continued:
“Rules matter when somebody powerful wants them to matter.”
“That man decides when mine do.”
The Vendor looked at his watch.
Then back at her.
“How many vendors?”
She shrugged.
“Most.”
“On this block?”
“More than this block.”
The Taco Vendor approached slowly.
He had been listening from five feet away.
He looked toward the Flower Vendor.
Then at the Black Vendor.
“Three hundred.”
The Black Vendor turned.
The Taco Vendor continued:
“He gets three hundred from me.”
“Every Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Cash?”
“Yes.”
“Envelope?”
The Taco Vendor nodded.
The Black Vendor folded the cleaning rag.
“Anybody else know?”
The Taco Vendor laughed bitterly.
“Everybody knows.”
The Flower Vendor added:
“Nobody can prove it.”
The Black Vendor looked at both of them.
“Maybe somebody can.”
Neither understood what he meant.
That was good.
The following Friday, the Sergeant returned at 11:42.
The Black Vendor had already prepared the envelope.
White.
Plain.
Five hundred dollars.
Every bill had been photographed.
Every serial number logged.
The money had entered the cart that morning inside a sealed packet from the federal task force.
The Vendor placed the envelope beneath the counter.
Then waited.
The Sergeant arrived.
No uniform hat.
Sunglasses.
Same swagger.
He walked directly past a line of customers.
The Vendor said:
“Afternoon.”