“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’m afraid 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 Mae’s 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 settled 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 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
“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.”
