Wednesday morning: cautious optimism again, but I wasn't going to push my luck by attending an aerobics class. Today I'd put all my energy into the Boydston case.
First, a call to Janie, whom I hadn't been able to reach at home the night before.
“The clothes were manufactured by a company called Casuals, Incorporated,” she told me. “They only sell by catalogue, and their offices and factory are on
Third Street
.”
“Any idea why the labels were cut out?”
“Well, at first I thought they might've been overstocks that were sold through one of the discounters like Ross, but that doesn't happen often with the catalogue outfits. So I took a close look at the garments and saw they've got defects – nothing major, but they wouldn't want to pass them off as first quality.”
“Where would somebody get hold of them?”
“A factory store, if the company has one. I didn't have time to check.”
It wasn't much of a lead, but even a little lead's better than nothing at all. I promised Janie I'd buy her a beer sometime soon and headed for the industrial corridor along
Third Street
.
Casuals, Inc. didn't have an on–site factory store, so I went into the front office to ask if there was one in another location. No, the receptionist told me, they didn't sell garments found to be defective.
“What happens to them?”
“Usually they're offered at a discount to employees and their families.”
That gave me an idea, and five minutes later I was talking with a Mr. Fong in personnel. “A single mother with a deaf–mute son? That would be Mae Jones. She worked here as a
seamstress for ... let's see ... a little under a year.”
“But she's not employed here anymore?”
“No. We had to lay off a number of people, and those with the least seniority are the first to go.”
“Do you know where she's working now?”
“Sorry, I don't.”
“Mr. Fong, is Mae Jones a documented worker?”
“Green card was in order. We don't hire illegals.”
“And you have an address for her?”
“Yes, but I can't give that out.”
“I understand, but I think you'll want to make an exception in this case. You see, Mae's son was found wandering the Mission seven weeks ago, the victim of a mugging. I'm trying to reunite them.”
Mr. Fong didn't hesitate to fetch her file and give me the address, on
Lucky Street
in the Mission. Maybe, I thought, this was my lucky break. The house was a Victorian that had been sided with concrete block and painted a weird shade of purple. Sagging steps led to a porch where six mailboxes hung. None of the names on them was Jones. I rang all the bells and got no answer. Now what?
“Can I help you?” an Asian–accented voice said behind me. It belonged to a stooped old woman carrying a fishnet bag full of vegetables. Her eyes, surrounded by deep wrinkles, were kind.
“I'm looking for Mae Jones.”
The woman had been taking out a keyring. Now she jammed it into the pocket of her loose–fitting trousers and backed up against the porch railing. Fear made her nostrils flare.
“What?” I asked. “What's wrong?”
“You are from them!”
“Them? Who?”
“I know nothing.”
“Please don't be scared. I'm trying to help Mrs. Jones's son.”
“Tommy? Where is Tommy?”
I explained about Jason Hill finding him and Darrin Boydston taking him in. When I finished the woman had relaxed a little.
“I am so happy one of them is safe.”
“Please, tell me about the Joneses.”
She hesitated, looking me over. Then she nodded as if I'd passed some kind of test and took me inside to a small apartment furnished with things that made the thrift–shop junk in my nest at All Souls look like Chippendale. Although I would've rather she tell her story quickly, she insisted on making tea. When we were finally settling with little cups like the ones I'd bought years ago at Bargain Bazaar in Chinatown, she began.
“Mae went away eight weeks ago today. I thought Tommy was with her. When she did not pay her rent, the landlord went inside the apartment. He said they left everything.”
“Has the apartment been rented to someone else?”
She nodded. “Mae and Tommy's things are stored in the garage. Did you say it was seven weeks ago that Tommy was found?”
“Give or take a few days.”
“Poor boy. He must have stayed in the apartment waiting for his mother. He is so quiet and can take care of himself.”
“What d'you suppose he was doing on Mission Street near Geneva, then?”
“Maybe looking for her.” The woman's face was frightened again.
“Why there?” I asked.
She stared down into her teacup. After a bit she said, “You know Mae lost her job at the sewing factory?”
I nodded.
“It was a good job, and she is a good seamstress, but times are bad and she could not find another job.”
“And then?”
“... There is a place on
Geneva Avenue
. It looks like an apartment house, but it is really a sewing factory. The owners advertise by word of mouth among the Asian immigrants. They say they pay high wages, give employees meals and a place to live, and do not ask questions. They hire many who are here illegally.”
“Is Mae an illegal?”
“No. She was married to an American serviceman and has her permanent green card. Tommy was born in San Francisco. But a few years ago her husband divorced her and she lost her medical benefits. She is in poor health, she has tuberculosis. Her money was running out, and she was desperate. I warned her, but she wouldn't listen.”
“Warned her against what?”
“There is talk about that factory. The building is fenced and the fences are topped with razor wire. The windows are boarded and barred. They say that once a worker enters she is not allowed to leave. They say workers are forced to sew eighteen hours a day for very low wages. They say –that the cost of food is taken out of their pay, and that ten people sleep in a room large enough for two.”
“That's slavery! Why doesn't the city do something?”
The old woman shrugged. “The city has no proof and does not care. The workers are only immigrants. They are not important.”
I felt a real rant coming on and fought to control it. I've lived in San Francisco for seven years, since I graduated from
Berkeley, a few miles and light years across the Bay, and I'm getting sick and tired of the so–called important people. The city is beautiful and lively and tolerant, but there's a core of citizens who think nobody and nothing counts but them and their concerns. Someday when I'm in charge of the world (an event I fully expect to happen, especially when I've had a few beers), they'll have to answer to me for their high–handed behavior.
“Okay,” I said, “tell me exactly where this place is, and we'll see what we can do about it.”
“Slavery, plain and simple,” Shar said.
“Right.”
“Something's got to be done about it.”
“Right.”
We were sitting in a booth at the Remedy Lounge, our favorite tavern down the hill from All Souls on
Mission Street
. She was drinking white wine, I was drinking beer, and it wasn't but three in the afternoon. But McCone and I have found that some of our best ideas come to us when we tilt a couple. I'd spent the last four hours casing – oops, I'm not supposed to call it that – conducting a surveillance on the building on
Geneva Avenue
. Sure looked suspicious – trucks coming and going, but no workers leaving at lunchtime.
“But what can be done?” I asked. “Who do we contact?”
She considered. “Illegals? U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service
. False imprisonment? City police and district attorney's office. Substandard working conditions? OSHA, Department of Labor, State Employment Development Division. Take your pick.”
“Which is best to start with?”
“None – yet. You've got no proof of what's going on there.”
“Then we'll just have to get proof, won't we?”
“Uh–huh.”
“You and I both used to work in security. Ought to be a snap to get into that building.”
“Maybe.”
“All we need is access. Take some pictures. Tape a statement from one of the workers. Are you with me?”
She nodded. “I'm with you. And as backup, why don't we take Willie?”
“My Willie? The diamond king of northern California? Shar, this is an investigation, not a date!”
“Before he opened those discount jewelry stores Willie was a professional fence, as you may recall. And although he won't admit it, I happen to know he personally stole a lot of the items he moved. Willie has talents we can use.”
“My tennis elbow hurts! Why're you making me do this?”
I glared at Willie. “Shh! You've never played tennis in your life.”
“The doc told me most people who've got it have never played.”
“Just be quiet and cut that wire.”
“How d'you know there isn't an alarm?”
“Shar and I have checked. Trust us.”
“I trust you two, I'll probably end up in San Quentin.”
“Cut!”
Willie snipped a fair segment out of the razor wire topping the chain–link fence. I climbed over first, nearly doing myself grievous personal injury as I swung over the top. Shar followed, and then the diamond king – making unseemly grunting noises. His tall frame was encased in dark sweats tonight, and they accentuated the beginnings of a beer belly.
As we each dropped to the ground, we quickly moved into the shadow of the three–story frame building and flattened against its wall. Willie wheezed and pushed his longish hair out of his eyes. I gave Shar a look that said, Some asset you invited along. She shrugged apologetically.
According to plan we began inching around the building, searching for a point of entry. We didn't see any guards. If the factory employed them, it would be for keeping people in; it had probably never occurred to the owners that someone might actually want in. After about three minutes Shar ame to a stop and I bumped into her. She steadied me and pointed down. A foot off the ground was an opening that had been boarded up; the plywood was splintered and coming loose. I squatted and took a look at it. Some kind of duct – maybe people–size. Together we pulled the board off.
Yep, a duct. But not very big. Willie wouldn't fit through it – which was fine by me, because I didn't want him alerting everybody in the place with his groaning. I'd fit, but Shar would fit better still.
I motioned for her to go first.
She made an after–you gesture.
I shook my head.
It's your case, she mouthed.
I sighed, handed her the camera loaded with infrared film that I carried, and started squeezing through.
I've got to admit that I have all sorts of mild phobias. I get twitchy in crowds, and I'm not fond of heights, and I hate to fly, and small places make my skin crawl. This duct was a very small space. I pushed onward, trying to keep my mind on other things – such as Tommy and Mae Jones. When my hands reached the end of the duct I pulled hard, then moved them around till I felt a concrete floor about two feet below. I wriggled forward, felt my foot kick something, and heard Shar grunt. Sorry. The room I slid down into was pitch black. I waited till Shar was crouched beside me, then whispered, “D'you have your flashlight?” She handed me the camera, fumbled in her pocket, and then I saw streaks of light bleeding around the fingers she placed over its bulb. We waited, listening. No one stirred, no one spoke. After a moment Shar took her hand away from the flash and began shining its beam around. A storage room full of sealed cardboard boxes, with a door at the far side. We exchanged glances and began moving through the stacked cartons.
When we got to the door I put my ear to it and listened. No sound. I turned the knob slowly. Unlocked. I eased the door open. A dimly lighted hallway. There was another door with a lighted window set into it at the far end. Shar and I moved along opposite walls and stopped on either side of the door. I went up on tiptoe and peeked through the corner of the glass.
Inside was a factory: row after row of sewing machines, all making jittery up–and–down motions and clacking away. Each was operated by an Asian woman. Each woman slumped wearily as she fed the fabric through.
It was twelve–thirty in the morning, and they still had them sewing!
I drew back and motioned for Shar to have a look. She did, then turned to me, lips tight, eyes ablaze.
Pictures? she mouthed.
I shook my head. Can't risk being seen.
Now what?
I shrugged.
She frowned and started back the other way, slipping from door to door and trying each knob. Finally she stopped and pointed to one with a placard that said STAIRWAY. I followed her through it and we started up. The next floor was offices – locked up and dark. We went back to the stairwell, climbed another flight. On the landing I almost tripped over a small, huddled figure.
It was a tiny gray–haired woman, crouching there with a dirty thermal blanket wrapped around her. She shivered repeatedly. Sick and hiding from the foreman. I squatted beside her.
The woman started and her eyes got big with terror. She scrambled backwards toward the steps, almost falling over. I grabbed her arm and steadied her; her flesh felt as if it was burning up. “Don't be scared,” I said.
Her eyes moved from me to Shar. Little cornered bunny–rabbit eyes, red and full of the awful knowledge that there's noplace left to hide. She babbled something in a tongue that I couldn't understand. I put my arms around her and patted her back – universal language. After a bit she stopped trying to pull away.
I whispered, “Do you know Mae Jones?”
She drew back and blinked.
“Mae Jones?” I repeated.
Slowly she nodded and pointed to the floor off the next landing.
So Tommy's mother was here. If we could get her out, we'd have an English–speaking witness who, because she had her permanent green card, wouldn't be afraid to go to the authorities and file charges against the owners of this place. I glanced at Shar. She shook her head. The sick woman was watching me. I thought back to yesterday morning and the way Darrin Boydston had communicated with the boy he called Daniel. It was worth a try.
I pointed to the woman. Pointed to the door. “Mae Jones.” I pointed to the door again, then pointed to the floor.
The woman was straining to understand. I went through the routine twice more. She nodded and struggled to her feet. Trailing the ratty blanket behind her, she climbed the stairs and went through the door.
Shar and I released sighs at the same time. Then we sat down on the steps and waited. It wasn't five minutes before the door opened. We both ducked down, just in case. An overly thin woman of about thirty–five rushed through so quickly that she stumbled on the top step and caught herself on the railing. She would have been beautiful, but lines of worry and pain cut deep into her face; her hair had been lopped off short and stood up in dirty spikes. Her eyes were jumpy, alternately glancing at us and behind her. She hurried down the stairs.
“You want me?”
“If you're Mae Jones.” Already I was guiding her down the steps.
“I am. Who are – ”
“We're going to get you out of here, take you to Tommy.”
“Tommy! Is he – ”
“He's all right, yes.”
Her face brightened, but then was taken over by fear. “We must hurry. Lan faked a faint, but they will notice I'm gone very soon.”
We rushed down the stairs, along the hall toward the storage room. We were at its door when a man c
alled out behind us. He was coming from the sewing room at the far end.
Mae froze. I shoved her, and then we were weaving through the stacked cartons. Shar got down on her knees, helped Mae into the duct, and dove in behind her. The door banged open.
The man was yelling in a strange language. I slid into the duct, pulling myself along on its riveted sides. Hands grabbed for my ankles and got the left one. I kicked out with my right foot. He grabbed for it and missed. I kicked upward, hard, and heard a satisfying yelp of pain. His hand let go of my ankle and I wriggled forward and fell to the ground outside. Shar and Mae were already running for the fence. But where the hell was Willie? Then I saw him: a shadowy figure, motioning with both arms as if he were guiding an airplane up to the jetway. There was an enormous hole in the chain–link fence. Shar and Mae ducked through it.
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