McCone and Friends (7 page)

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 garment 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’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.”