Kingmaker

The molds were smaller than predicted. Not embarrassingly so, but enough for Salvadore to take notice. Under the office's harsh fluorescent bulbs, the craftsman let his eyes scan over every wrinkle and slope of his absent client's imprints. Even at a glance, the old shoemaker could see a defined curve forming in the large toe. One which, together with the uneven arch, betrayed a forward tilt in his stance. If the poor man was to have any hope of satisfaction while standing, it would need to be corrected.

But then, 'satisfaction' was not enough. It never was.

"Fetch me the, uh, the old molds."

"Yes sir."

As always, Salvadore's apprentice did his job well. His name was Luis, and he was an honest boy. A bit dull, perhaps, and with a tendency to daydream, but as hard a worker as he had ever met. He wasted no time in pointless questions, and never talked back to him while in his practice. In time, Salvadore was sure the boy would find his way in the world.

But he will never be a kingmaker.

Looking back at the molds, Salvadore could not help but let his fingers run along their grooves, as though attempting to commune with the man they belonged to. He had met this politician several times now, and had the pleasure of shaking his hand before his first election. It had been perhaps a decade past now– close to two– when he had first come to him for a pair of dress shoes. And no matter how many years passed, Salvadore still remembered every scrap of their conversation.

The politician opened with a fierce handshake, as he often did.

"I hear you made shoes for Elvis."

"Only the once," Salvadore lied. He always lied about that. Better that people thought him humble, after all. "But it was an honor. 'The shoes make the man,' you know."

"Oh, I know. How do you feel about making me a pair like his? Shoes fit for a King?"

"It would be my pleasure."

In twenty years Salvadore's feelings on the matter had not changed. Not once. Not now. And as he turned the molds over in his hands again, he felt that same passion in his work return. Not just to deliver on a promise, but to outdo himself. To build a legacy.

"Here are the old molds, sir." Luis's voice pulled Salvadore's mind back to the present moment. Beside him, his apprentice had set the imprints down beside him on the table, where they made a faint clacking sound as they settled. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Did he ever decide on the insole?"

"Yes. Well. He just said he'd spare no expense, sir."

"Heh," that's what Salvadore liked to hear. "In that case, we'll go with the old world cork. You know where to find it?"

"Yes. Right away."

"And the good sander."

"Absolutely, sir."

With his assistant gone, Salvadore took a moment to compare the old molds to the fresh ones. As they turned over in his hands, he felt out the deformities. Bit by bit.

As I suspected, Salvadore's instincts felt a surge of vindication at the sight. He's been spending far too much time on his feet. What's more he's gained weight. Carajo. I ought to–

A slight clatter caught Salvadore's attention, and forced his gaze behind him towards the back wall. There, he spied a pile of paperwork, spilling into the floor.

"Sorry sir, I–" Luis stammered out the words, while desperately clutching to what documents he could.

"Leave it." Salvadore waved his hand. "Just put it– put it over there. Walk away."

"Yes sir. Sorry sir."

Salvadore shook his head. It was not the boy's fault, he knew, but he had no one else to blame. The office the politician had provided him was a workable space, with plenty of room for his tools and materials, but it had not been cleared out prior to his use. As a result the space was still filled wholly over with boxes upon boxes of files, all jammed into corners and overburdened with the smell of fresh ink. 

This is no proper place for a kingmaker to work, a voice in Salvadore's head growled. As always, he did his best to suppress it, but to little success. If we had the foresight to hang onto grandfather's studio–

That conversation was a dead end, and Salvadore forced it down before it could return. Even with all his fingers and toes he could not keep track of how many times he had attempted that very conversation, but to no avail. What now was the sense of arguing with himself?

You're a cobbler, not a fucking painter, his wife had scolded him. That had been the only night he had come close to striking her, though he had not followed through. We need the money now. If your craft is so great, you can get a new one, yes? 

As always, the memory made him wince. Not the words, exactly, but the disdain with which the woman had bitten into the word 'cobbler.' Like it was an insult. Something to be ashamed of. Or laughed at.

Ignorant woman, the words arose from deep in his gut. Doesn't even know what I do for a living.

Though the common term was "cobbler," or "zapatero" in the old country, Salvadore had always been taught that his art was that of the Kingmaker, and nothing less. It went far beyond padding feet with fabric. That was the work of machines. 

And Salvadore was a sorcerer. 

"Here's the cork." Luis set the package down gentler than the last, and stood back in a meek posture. 

"Good, good." Salvadore did not meet his gaze. "I'll need my scissors."

"Right away!"

'The shoes make the man.' That was what his father had often said, and time after time his work had proven the adage right. He still remembered his first client. How tall the man stood in the back of his car lot. Even when slinging half-rusted clunkers to druggies, Salvadore's shoes had made the man stand as straight as a captain. 

Noble as a marble column, that one, Salvadore reflected. The memory brought a grin to his face. He knows quality when he sees it.

Then there was Salvadore's brother, who had kept his pair hidden in the back of his closet for special occasions. In total, Xavier had only worn them thrice. Once at his wedding, and then at their parents' funerals. Both times, his brother had been a prince.

And still he keeps them buried.

"Get the– get the leather!" Salvadore snapped his fingers into the air behind him, knowing Luis was certain to hear. "The good black stuff. The stuff that shines."

"How much–"

"All of it. Full sheet."

"Yes sir."

Turning back to the molds, Salvadore let the brick of material spread over the base of the rubber, and pressed the imprints down onto its surface. At his command the cork-polymer spread itself over the mold, as easy as butter over bread. Carefully, Salvadore let his fingers press into the middle of the insole, then its edges, and back again. Slowly, oh so slowly, the compound began to fold itself into place, as it bowed to the cobbler's demands. Not just to fit the grooves of the mold, but to correct them. To draw blood and spirit forward, and make the wearer shine. 

Sharp outward curve at the toe. Firm support on the heel. Carefully, Salvadore began to form the cork as he had a thousand times before. With each pinch and fold his hands felt the material give way, until every curve was to his exact specifications. Align the blood flow here, here, and here. Push the chest forward, and shoulders back. Chin up.

This was the real art, Salvadore knew. The aspect of his work that made him a sorcerer– not just a common laborer. Pinprick points, scattered about the soles, which aligned the wearer with their inner strength. If placed correctly, with the customer's weight in mind, it would adjust enough of their stance and bloodflow to affect their character. Or at least, to affect one's perception of their character.

Like a glamour. One that runs up the leg, through the chest, all the way to your smile.

That was how Salvadore's grandfather had explained it, long ago. Though he had never truly bought into some of the more esoteric uses of his magick, they made for decent stories. Legends of ancient sorcerers who bound demons into their boots, and Emperors who used a different pair of slippers to face his court and another to face his wife. His favorite– perhaps despite himself– was the legend of the Corpse King, who lived on for three years after a failed war campaign, all because the points in his shoes did not let him rest.

Now that is a legacy, he knew.

Once, he had thought Elvis would be his legacy. Back when he was a young, stupid man. Even in his twilight years the rock star had maintained the image of a goliath, and quick to share his business with those fortunate enough to cross his path. So it was that the elderly King had approached Salvadore one day for a pair of his best after a pair of his usuals gave way on the road. And though Salvadore toiled after the shoes for a day and a half, the King had left town before he could use them properly.

But no one could prove that. 

This politician, though. Mr. Delaney. He surely would be Salvadore's legacy. His King. Assuming he could keep up with his orders, that is. 

Salvadore had known Mr. Delaney's face long before he had run for office– though, whether from his acting roles or his reputation he could not say anymore. All rich men looked the same to him back then. They still did, honestly. They all stood at odd angles, and spoke in the wrong way. Everything about them dripped with deceit. And no one wanted to be made a fool.

Salvadore had fixed all that.

And besides, the man paid well. Very well, in fact. Enough to keep Salvadore's passion alive, that was for sure. Even if it did not cover all his bills, that was hardly the point. No one patron was ever enough to make up the difference in a dying art. That much he knew very well. He had explained as much to his sons many times before. But no matter how he phrased it, they never seemed to listen.

"We can't keep up like this!" They had said. "The property taxes alone!"

The studio, or an apprentice. His grandfather's legacy, or his own. Hardly a choice any man was meant to make, but he made it all the same.

Not that they recognize it. That same, growling voice bit at the edges of his mind. By the time you get back there will be another bill. Another expense.

Even still, he'd weather it. He always had. Nothing would stop him from being who he was meant to be. Even if he had to store his leather under his porch, or keep his tools in his car. Even if he had to get rid of Luis, and wait for another to take his place. 

Not that he wanted Luis gone. In truth, he needed the boy. More than the poor kid realized. He was an old man now, and had just begun to feel a tremble in his grip some days. But that did not mean his time was up. Far from it. He just needed a little help. And lucky for him, help could be as cheap as a free lunch. Or a well timed pat on the back.

"Leather for you, sir." Luis cut in. With a flick of his wrist the boy spread the sheet of black material over the desk as though it was silk. "Need me to fetch anything else–"

"Hm." Salvadore considered for a moment. "How about you measure out this one?" 

"You mean it?"

The shoemaker answered with a grin, and passed his scissors back to the young man. As was his way, Luis took up the tools as though they were worth a fortune. 

"Right away, sir."

Truth was, it was grunt work at best. Hardly worth the hand pain. Luis had seen him cut out a pattern more times than he had fetched him coffee. The kid had even cut a few of his own recently. Never with Salvadore's scissors, of course, but that was a carrot the boy had long since deserved. An extra bonus, to keep him around the rest of the day. 

And besides, Salvadore needed to check his base.

Cork was really the only material worth the cobbler's time. Over the years its price had only risen, as rubber, polymers, and foams had begun to flood the market. Even still, Salvadore could not stand using anything less for his pieces. Rubber was too easily torn, and foam liked to disintegrate in humidity far too much for his liking. Then there were all the synthetics. Polymers, alloys, hybrids– whatever the salesmen called them. They were too artificial for kingmaking– regardless of name. Like all synthetic materials, magick had a tendency to bounce off of them, like water on a duck's back. Any amateurs who tried to work with it were wasting their time, Salvadore had always known. And as always, time had proven him right.

This project will be no different. 

There were reasons his fellows had shifted mediums, of course. Poor reasons, but reasons nonetheless. Some argued that rubber was the easier material for beginner glamors, which was true enough. Others claimed a polymer could be utilized for comfort spells. Albeit, with diminishing returns. Salvadore could not help but look down on both these trends. They were the arguments of weaker folk. Poor craftsmen. They would be forgotten, every one of them. While he, on the other hand. His legacy would last forever.

"This look right, sir?"

"Perfection!" The lie came easy to him, as it often did. In truth, Luis's cut was more than acceptable, but still showed all the telltale marks of a novice. The angle was too wide, the corners too sharp, and he had limited the available slack about the ankles. All the same, it would serve. Salvadore motioned for the boy to shake his hand, but instead Luis was quick to place the scissors back in his grasp. The reflex was enough to make a chuckle form in the back of Salvadore's throat, and a moment later he reached out to grab the kid's hand again. This time, he was sure to force it into his grasp. 

"Rule number one, kid, never turn down a handshake." 

"Oh. Thank you sir!"

All that remained was the riveting. The stitch pattern also played a role, of course, but not nearly as much as the rivets. The stitching patterns had all been decided upon back in the 70s, and there was no reason to fix what wasn't broken. The rivets, though. That had always been the new frontier. He'd always said it since he was a young man. And while all those kids focused on comfort, the real worth was in glamour. Their ability to propel a man from the lowest lows to the highest highs. That was his gift. His craft. His worth.

He was the Kingmaker, after all. 

In his grasp, the shoes' final form began to take shape. It was a long process, affixing the layers together. One with no shortcuts. No simple solutions. Just the careful interlocking of many different parts. Until, at last, a moment came. A beautiful, magical moment. One he was sure all artists and craftsmen knew well. When the scraps, components, and pieces all gave way, and the creation itself emerged. Not yet perfect, of course, but whole. The rest was all in the wrist.

"Look at that shine!"

They were a fine pair of dress shoes. As fine a pair as any he could recall. Stalwart and well-arched, their soles fell perfectly beside each other on the carpet, as though they had always been there. Their black leather– likewise– was spotless to the eye, and managed to catch the light of every room. Even if it was just a single bulb, hanging overhead. Salvadore did not doubt that the pair would dazzle under the cameras. It would be like raw lightning, pressed into the leather itself.

It wasn't until after the final layer of polish that Salvadore felt his senses return to him. Slowly, he remembered the ache in his knees. The tremble in his hands. What little of a headache he had begun the day with had blossomed without his notice, and now it was all it could do to suppress it into the back of his skull.

"What's the time?"

"Quarter to seven, sir."

"It's past six already?" Salvadore ran a pair of knuckles over his eyes, gently, until he felt his center again. "The client's speech starts in–"

"I could call a courier?"

"No need." It was a simple problem. One Salvadore needed no help with. A moment later his masterpieces were stowed away, and his own affairs were packed. He waved to Luis to bring the rest to his car and scrambled down the hall beside. There was a moment spent slipping on his dockers and he was out the door, with the finished order slung under his arm.

"Load up the car. I'll meet you at the shop on Monday."

"You mean over the phone, sir?"

Salvadore did not bother to answer that question, or the one after that. He had a client to meet, after all.

The Key Largo Resort and Spa was not the sort of place one expected a politician to use as their headquarters. At least, it would be to those born outside of the Gulf. Those who grew up within the Sunshine State knew full well the convenience of the state's seaside resorts. Both as generic infrastructure, and as a place to build an image. And all the better, if it had a touch of history to it. The Key Largo Resort was one such spot. It had been featured in half a hundred films, back when movie stars were aplenty. Even now, as the shoemaker navigated its halls, he found its back rooms littered with old photographs, each bearing the likeness of some distant past, forever preserved behind its frame. 

Salvadore found the politician where he knew he would be. At the far end of the main hall, with cameras all around. The man held his usual, porcelain smile, with half a mile of makeup painted across his features. Even under the Florida heat, his client did not seem to sweat. Instead, he often dabbed his face every now and again with the folded point of his handkerchief, and nodded politely at every other word.

"Mister Delaney!" 

"There's my guy! Here, here," Before Salvadore could respond, he felt hands guide him forward. Past the red rope, and the reporters, until all at once he was standing beside the politician. Close enough to smell his cologne. With an extra-wide smile the man pulled Salvadore close, and pointed towards the crowd. "Go on. Introduce yourself to the cameras."

"Oh." After a moment to adjust his face towards the cameras, Salvadore forced out a smile. He had always hoped to be on TV, but now that the time had come he found himself unable to speak much at all. "My, uh, my name is Salvadore Mendez Ramos, and I make the best shoes in Miami."

"They call him the Kingmaker. And he really is, you know?" Mr. Delaney reached out to shake his hand. The grip was weaker than in years prior, but Salvadore clasped it all the same. "Are these them? Wow, they really are beautiful. Look at that! A work of art. You made them the way I like them, right?"

"Oh yes, sir. Fit for a President."

"For a President, I like that. Think we can make it that far?"

"I think you can, sir."

"That's what I like to hear!" Mr. Delaney slapped Salvadore on the back, and flashed the cameras his best smile. "One of you, pay the man. And make sure he gets a meal, on me. I really need to get on stage. No more questions."

The next moment the politician was gone. Though the sound of cameras still echoed behind him, none of the glitz remained. None of the stardom. In its place, Salvadore found himself directed to three seats that night. One at a restaurant he could not otherwise afford. Then to a bar stool. Then a cab. He did not see his client's speech until the following day, while half drowning in ice packs and aspirin. Most of it was the usual promises. Jobs needed to be fixed. Streets needed to be fixed. People needed to be fixed. The words did not really matter much.

After all, everyone knew that politicians lie.

But the smile. And the stance. That was what mattered. That shoulders were back enough, and his chin at the right level. Gather the right pieces, and the world would bend to you. It was a fact of life. One that Kingmakers knew all too well. From Rome to Washington, they knew it better than anyone. 

The shoes made the man, after all.