McCone and Friends (8 page)

“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
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 the 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 came 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 you 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.