Blue Collar Blues (15 page)

“Mr. Richardson doesn’t have an appointment,” Thyme snapped. “Tell him to make an appointment.” The name Richardson sounded familiar.

Even though the door to her office was closed, she could hear Elaine fencing with the man about getting in to see her now. If she didn’t get rid of him in five minutes, they’d run into each other.

Just as she was collecting the keys to her motor cart, the man burst into her office.

“How dare you come in here!” she shouted. “Get out before I call Security.” It took her a second to recognize him. She knew exactly who he was: Khan’s ex-fiancé, R.C. Now what did he want?

“Hold on,” R.C. said softly. “We can settle this without any problems. I only ask for two minutes of your time, Mrs. Tyler.”

Tucked beneath his arm was a Presidio front seat cushion. Suddenly, she realized why he was there. These dealers were always trying to hustle the factory. But, Thyme thought, we’re always two steps ahead of them.

Their eyes met and Thyme’s flames subsided. Though they’d never been introduced, she was very familiar with this man and had been for the past five years. Khan loved him.

“It’s okay, Elaine, go back to work. I can handle this.” She sat back down and pushed aside the papers she’d been looking at. She could tell that he was very angry but trying his best to hide it. Clasping her hands in front of her, she checked the clock on the wall, then said, “How can I help you, Mr. Richardson?”

“This morning I received several crates of seat cushions at my dealership that were sent back unrepaired.” He tossed a sample on her desk and took a seat in front of her that she hadn’t offered him.

Thyme barely glanced at the cushion before she spoke. “I’m quite aware of the repairs, Mr. Richardson.” She spoke fast. “The seats were returned because this problem is not a manufacturing defect. I’m sure you’re aware that Champion’s policy is to fill and return all orders within seventy-two hours. You know that we don’t repair knife cuts, cigarette burns, and splotches of paint.”

“But—”

The phone rang. It was her attorney. “Excuse me. Mr. Kravitz, I want to talk to you. Can I call you back?”

Turning her attention back to R.C., she inhaled. “As I was about to say, in the past we’ve repaired the seat cushions. We can’t afford to do business that way anymore, Mr. Richardson. Our budget has limitations.”

Per her order, Champion had sent the crates of seats back to R.C.’s dealership with pieces of tape attached to the problems that were not covered by their factory warranty.

“I do a lot of business with Champion. And I know several other dealerships that won’t be too pleased about this new policy either.”

Gathering her keys and purse, she said, “Come with me, Mr. Richardson. I’d like to show you something.”

Thyme led R.C. out of her office and, after stopping by her secretary’s desk to give her a quick message, led him through the salaried offices and out into the plant.

They were greeted by the thunderous sound of hi-lo drivers loading and unloading stock from the backs of suppliers’ semis at the truck dock and by the peculiar smell of uncut roll goods.

Once they were seated in the motor cart, Thyme could tell by the way R.C.’s eyes bulged at the sight of the huge knitting machines they passed that he’d never been inside a factory before.

Presidio had three sewing units: luxury, base, and signature. It took Thyme less than seven minutes to show him the repairs that they received daily from other dealers. Every repair was a serviceable one, and under warranty. Even though the cushions were disposed of and replaced with a new component, each repair was individually inspected and recorded.

R.C. didn’t utter a word as Thyme stopped their cart near Irvin Miller. She checked her watch. “Right on time, Irv. Can you give Mr. Richardson a ride back to the salaried offices? We’ve finished our business.”

Starting up the motor, she turned when she felt R.C.’s hand touch her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“Truthfully, Mrs. Tyler, I really need to get these cushions replaced.”

Thyme knew that Richardson was in a quandary. Champion Trim was the only company that sewed Presidio cushions. The luxury leather trim set cost eleven hundred dollars, each component costing just over two hundred and fifty dollars. Thyme did a quick calculation in her head of R.C.’s repairs. His cost would be roughly twelve thousand dollars.

Thyme put the cart in gear. “We’ll repair the cushions, Mr. Richardson. But at your expense. Ship the crate back to us, along with a check, and we’ll return them in seventy-two hours. Good day.”

She smiled to herself. It was about time they put an end to that shit. R.C.’s dealership had cost them thousands over the years. And without new business, they couldn’t afford to continue doing business that way. It had to end.

By the time the employee involvement meeting was coming to an end, most of Thyme’s afternoon was gone. The whole thing had been a disaster. Her headache had not retreated. Angry accusations about the select few on the A-team elicited heated shouts from both hourly as well as salary. As the meeting wore on, the accusations about workers receiving special treatment became intolerable. Ultimately, Thyme was about to make a suggestion that everyone agreed with. She would personally monitor all overtime allocated by the foreman during the next ninety days. There would be no exceptions.

But when she got back to her office, Ron was hot on her heels.

“Bullshit! It’s pure bullshit, Thyme. You knew about it all along,” Ron began shouting at her. “You’ve been lying, covering up that our jobs are all going to be moved to the Mexican plants.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said calmly. “When you settle down maybe we can talk.” But as she spoke the words an eerie feeling came over her, and her thoughts were of Cy’s frequent trips to Mexico.

“Champion’s selling us out, Thyme.” He hesitated before he added, “Maybe even you.”

Thyme tried to find the words to soothe the tension between them, but Ron refused to sit down, and stood by the window glaring at her. “It seems the whole time we’ve been friends, I’ve been new collar and you’ve been blue collar. This fact has never come between us before. Why now?” She was trying to be diplomatic.

Even before he spoke, a part of her knew. Reported in today’s papers, next to the story of a Bloomfield bank robbery, was the latest dictatorial stance by the Big Four on their outsourcing policies. They couldn’t have picked a worse time to be selling out the American workers so boldly. There was nothing but strikes and trouble everywhere you looked. Who headed their public relations committee, anyway—Dumbo?

The executives from all four corporations said that even though they would like to maintain their operations in the Detroit area, they must keep costs in line with other competitors. And that meant transferring production to the southern United States, or Mexico if taxes, land, and labor costs were lower there.

Fury was written all over Ron’s face when he launched into his spiel. “You tell me how the average working American, namely the automobile workers, should react when the president decides to provide the Mexican government with financial support and the Mexican worker with jobs—our jobs!”

“Ron, you know I don’t support that agreement.”

“And your white husband. Does he?”

So that was it.

“That’s not fair, Ron. We’ve been friends for years. What does our friendship have to do with Cy?”

Without Ron saying so, Thyme knew what Ron thought: She and Cy were above this fight.

Ron lived on the east side of Detroit, in the same neighborhood as the poor working men who were constantly being evicted because they couldn’t pay their rent. Most of them were laid-off automobile workers. Obviously, his neighborhood was a far cry from where she and Cy lived. Yet it had always been Ron’s staunch advocacy of the working man that was the single thread stitching their friendship together over the past twenty years. They respected each other. White collar or blue. If Ron thought Thyme was holding out information on him, their friendship would be shattered.

“How can the working man win? How can the black man win?” Ron was overwhelmed with emotion. “I was here during the ’sixties riots in Detroit. That was damn near forty years ago, and most of the businesses that have reopened since are liquor stores.”

“Ron?”

He was at her desk now, with his huge hands pressing into the varnished wood, his face inches from hers.

“No—think about it. On damn near every corner in Detroit, there’s a liquor store. When you drive to the suburbs, where you live,” he sneered, “you can’t hardly find one. You got to drive to another county.” His voice was quivering with emotion and his eyes filled with tears. “Why is that, Thyme?”

He reared back and returned to staring out the window at the workers from the second shift parking their cars and heading toward the east hourly entrance.

It hurt her to see tears in his eyes. She had to look away. What could she say? She knew he was right. The unasked question was: Even though you’re married to a white man, even though you live in the suburbs, have you forgotten about your black brother? The brother who gave you life in the first place.

“I understand what you’re saying, Ron. And you’re exactly right. But I have no control over how Champion chooses to do business.”

“Understandably so, Thyme. But my point is this: Troy Trim jobs are being sewn in Mexico at this very moment. Don’t ask me how I know. It’s my job to know. And if I know, why don’t you? You were once an hourly employee—blue collar like one of us. Have money and white power changed you that much? No matter who you’re married to, you’re just as black as the rest of us.”

“But Ron, you know how hard I worked for my promotions. My marriage had nothing to do with where I am today.”

When Ron walked out of her office, Thyme broke down in tears. How much did Cy know? Was this why her proposal was a moot point as far as the board was concerned? What information was Cy keeping from her?

Thyme tried to push away her thoughts about whether or not Cy had been aware of Troy Trim’s jobs going to Mexico. He would have told her, wouldn’t he?

Before leaving the office, Thyme returned her lawyer’s call.

“This is Thyme Tyler; I’m returning Mr. Kravitz’s call,” Thyme said shortly. She didn’t have the energy to be polite to Mr. Kravitz’s secretary. God, she was tired.

Mr. Kravitz came on the line quickly. “Thyme. How are you?”

“Fine,” Thyme said without enthusiasm.

“I wanted to let you know that the subpoenas will be delivered in two weeks.”

“Does that mean I have two weeks if I want to change my mind?”

“Change your mind? You have a strong case—why are you hesitating?”

“I’m not. I guess I’m just a bit scared.”

“That’s natural. But I’d like to remind you that you’re in good hands.”

“Thanks. So what happens after the subpoenas?”

“Then I take the depositions, from which we build the evidence for your case. Have you been able to obtain that evidence we discussed in our last meeting?”

Kravitz was referring to information that Thyme needed from her friend and colleague Vicky Kress. Thyme had befriended several new collar employees on her way to the big league, and Vicky was one of them. Vicky had moved up in the ranks before Thyme and left Troy Trim in 1995 to work at World Headquarters, but they had remained friends.

Thyme knew that Vicky had access to documents that detailed all of the promotions of the salaried employees over the past fifteen years.

As soon as she was done with her lawyer, the phone rang again.

“Thyme, honey, I just found out I have to leave for Mexico tonight.”

“But baby, you just got home. Why now?”

Cy had arrived home from Reno late the night before and Thyme had been asleep. This morning she was out the door before he’d even opened his eyes. Were their schedules just conflicting or was Cy avoiding her? They still hadn’t talked about the meeting last week regarding her proposal, and she wanted a chance to talk to him about Ron’s accusations about moving all trim production to Mexico.

“I can’t explain right now, Thyme. But these trips are important to the company at this time.”

“Are you telling me that you can’t tell your wife about your job?”

“Let’s not get into this over the phone, Thyme. Someone could be listening.”

“Oh, now we’ve got spies in the company. What’s going on, Cy?”

“Thyme, stop. As long as the company makes money, we make money. Now hush. Get my suitcase out for me. I’ll be home by six-thirty.”

But when Cy came home that evening he was running late. He guggled down the half tumbler of Chivas, then kissed his wife quickly on the cheek before snapping his suitcase shut. “You know I hate leaving you. I’ll be back in a few weeks. We’ll have a chance to catch up then.”

Following Cy into the foyer, Thyme said, “Why do you have to go? Why can’t someone else go in your place?”

“We’ve gone over this before, Thyme,” he said, rolling his eyes as he jerked his head around to stare at her.

Thyme felt her headache returning.

“I have a good rapport with the Mexican workers, and I speak better Spanish than the other managers. Besides, I’m sure a promotion is forthcoming. Sandler’s given me every indication that I’m the new man to oversee all Plastic Products, and Trim. Then the trips to Mexico will stop,” he said, with a fatigued tone in his voice. He hugged her tightly. “Okay?”

Every instinct in her body told her he wasn’t telling the truth. Yet she smiled her best smile and hugged him back. “Okeydokey.”

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he handed Thyme a pager. “I’ve got a new pager. Can you put this old one on the dresser for me?” he asked. “I forgot to turn it in before I left the office.” Then he added, “I still have the same phone number.”

He checked his watch against the time on the wall clock. “Shit, I’m going to miss my flight.”

“Cy?”

Busy scrambling in the front closet for his Detroit Pistons cap, he spoke hurriedly. “I’ll call you this evening, honey. I gotta go.”

Thyme felt his cold kiss on her lips as he hurried down the hallway and unlocked the door to the garage.