Traveling in Latin America is pitifully incomplete without a healthy sampling of the region’s multitude of gastronomic pleasures. That being said, knowing I was here to kill a man purely out of spite did little to enhance my appetite. I managed to choke down half a plate of the hotel’s gringo version of churrasco—thin grilled steak topped with fried egg, rice, plantains, fries, sliced avocado, salad and garlic ají sauce—but only for the protein and carbs murder sometimes requires. If I was right, the man who had set my hell in motion had been living the high life somewhere off the Ecuadorian coast. That was where his exclusive shoemaker was, and that was where a lot of new, luxurious and near-anonymous seaside residential developments had recently gone up. I briefly gave thought to a mid-20th century Black poet who wrote—

Where does the good man go after his blood has been taken

and his teeth are held in the palms of his hands?

He wanders deep into his own shadow,

where he no longer bleeds and where his bite

is reborn.

Maybe the assassin I’d come to know as the Cleaner was right after all.

Maybe we were two of a kind.

When Remy picked me up outside the hotel, I was dressed in a well-tailored cream-colored linen-and-viscose suit, a powder-blue Egyptian-cotton shirt, no socks and black velvet Ferragamo shoes. The waistband of my pants had just enough give to accommodate my newly acquired Berretta and extra clip.

“Damn, jefe, you looking killer!” Remy, realizing the cold irony of what he’d just said, stammered through a profuse apology until I excused him his transgression. This time I offered him two hundred American over the back of the driver’s seat and gave him the address of Ernesto Manta’s shop.

The “master,” Señor Manta, was not in. And he was never available for an initial client interview, style consultation or measuring. It didn’t matter if you were a Saudi prince, prime minister, drug lord or gunrunner. If you wanted to put your feet into his hands, you followed his rules. And his rules included a handwritten request accompanied by a thousand in US cash.

I was good with being a “walk-in.”

In fact, that’s how I preferred it.

Five hundred cash turned the key to the door, allowing for my entrance, though not an audience with Manta.

The display of shoes lining the softly lit walnut shelves of the small shop was impressive. These were merely examples of his work. Models. None were meant for customers to try on. If you saw a design element, flourish or frill on one shoe that you’d like added to yours, the “master” would let you know if your detailing suggestions made sense or not. If not, then you were more than welcome to spend your money elsewhere. Perhaps you were more of a Thom McAn man than an Ernesto Manta client.