'What for?'
'He's a fugitive.'
'What'd he do?'
'Listen,' Frank said, fed up with the stocky man's sullen responses, 'I can make this hard or easy for you. We can do it here or downtown. And if you want to play Mr. Hardass, we can bring the Immigration and Naturalization Service into it. We don't really give a good goddamned whether or not you hire a bunch of Mexes, but if we can't get cooperation from you, we'll see that you get busted every which way but loose. You got me? You hear it?'
Tony said, 'Mr. Garamalkis, my father was an emigrant from Italy. He came to this country with his papers in order, and eventually he became a citizen. But one time he had some trouble with agents from the Immigration Service. It was just a mistake in their records, a paperwork foul-up. But they hounded him for more than five weeks. They called him at work and paid surprise visits to our apartment at odd hours. They demanded records and documentation, but when Papa provided those things, they called them forgeries. There were threats. Lots of threats. They even served deportation papers on him before it was all straightened out. He had to hire a lawyer he couldn't afford, and my mother was hysterical most of the time until it was settled. So you see, I don't have any love for the Immigration Service. I wouldn't go one step out of my way to help them pin a rap on you. Not one damn step, Mr. Garamalkis.'
The stocky man looked down at Tony for a moment, then shook his head and sighed. 'Don't they burn you up? I mean, a year or two ago, when all those Iranian students were making trouble right here in L.A., overturning cars and trying to set houses on fire, did the damn Immigration Service even consider booting their asses out of the country? Hell, no! The agents were too busy harassing my workers. These people I employ don't burn down other people's houses. They don't overturn cars and throw rocks at policemen. They're good hardworking people. They only want to make a living. The kind of living they can't make south of the border. You know why Immigration spends all its time chasing them? I'll tell you. I've got it figured out. It's because these Mexicans don't fight back. They're not political or religious fanatics like a lot of these Iranians. They aren't crazy or dangerous. It's a whole hell of a lot safer and easier for Immigration to come after these people 'cause they generally just go along quietly. Ahh, the whole damned system's a disgrace.'
'I can understand your point of view,' Tony said. 'So if you'd just take a look at these mug shots--'
But Garamalkis was not ready to answer their questions. He still had a few things to get off his chest. Interrupting Tony, he said, 'Four years ago, I got fined the first time. The usual things. Some of my Mexican employees didn't have green cards. Some others were working on expired cards. After I settled up in court, I decided to play it straight from then on. I made up my mind to hire only Mexicans with valid work cards. And if I couldn't find enough of those, I was going to hire U.S. citizens. You know what? I was stupid. I was really stupid to think I could stay in business that way. See, I can only afford to pay minimum wage to most of these workers. Even then, I'm stretching myself thin. The problem is Americans won't work for minimum wage. If you're a citizen, you can get more from welfare for not working than you can make at a job that pays minimum wage. And the welfare's tax-free. So I just about went crazy for about two months, trying to find workers, trying to keep the laundry going out on schedule. I nearly had a heart attack. See, my customers are places like hotels, motels, restaurants, barber shops ... and they all need to get their stuff back fast and on a dependable schedule. If I hadn't started hiring Mexicans again, I'd have gone out of business.'
Frank didn't want to hear any more. He was about to say something sharp, but Tony put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, urging him to be patient.
'Look,' Garamalkis said, 'I can understand not giving illegal aliens welfare and free medical care and like that. But I can't see the sense in deporting them when they're only doing jobs that no one else wants to do. It's ridiculous. It's a disgrace.' He sighed again, looked at the mug shots of Bobby Valdez that he was holding, and said, 'Yeah, I know this guy.'
'We heard he used to work here.'
'That's right.'
'When?'
'Beginning of the summer, I think. May. Part of June.'
'After he skipped out on his parole officer,' Frank said to Tony.
'I don't know anything about that,' Garamalkis said.
'What name did he give you?' Tony asked.
'Juan.'
'Last name?'
'I don't remember. He was only here six weeks or so. But it'll still be in the files.'
Garamalkis stepped down from the platform and led them back across the big room, through the steam and the smell of detergent and the suspicious glances of the employees. In the front office he asked the secretary to check the files, and she found the right pay record in a minute. Bobby had used the name Juan Mazquezza. He had given an address on La Brea Avenue.
'Did he really live at this apartment?' Frank asked.
Garamalkis shrugged. 'It wasn't the sort of important job that required a background credit check.'
'Did he say why he was quitting?'
'No.'
'Did he tell you where he was going?'
'I'm not his mother.'
'I mean, did he mention another job?'
'No. He just cut out.'
'If we don't find Mazquezza at this address,' Tony said, 'we'd like to come back and talk to your employees. Maybe one of them got to know him. Maybe somebody here's still friends with him.'
