“I didn’t think that you had staterooms with kitchen facilities in them,” Vince replied.
“We don’t,” retorted Hartwell. “In fact, the only place other than our kitchens where preparation over an open flame takes place, is Chinatown.”
“Chinatown?”
Hartwell smiled. “Since you haven’t had your complete tour of the Queen as yet, you haven’t had a chance to visit the ship’s Laundry down on Seven Deck. That’s where you’ll find Chinatown, home to seventeen of the hardest working Chinese laundrymen this side of Shanghai.”
“I imagine that’s where my steward sent the shirts that I asked him to launder?” Vince supposed.
“That’s the place. It remains operational twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and is responsible for cleaning every piece of dirty linen generated by our dining rooms and passenger cabins, as well as the crew’s uniforms, and those personal items of clothing that our passengers might want laundered.
“A character by the name of Ping is the head man down there. He’s a fairly new arrival on the ship, and treats the Laundry like his personal fiefdom. The majority of his workers will never even see the light of day during an entire crossing. I believe they’re paid by the piece, and being the industrious folks they are, leisure time is kept to a bare minimum. Hell, they won’t even sleep with the rest of the crew, let alone eat with them. And that’s why we allow them to have their own domain, where all their needs, including food preparation, can be met with a minimum of fuss.”
“Did the recent visit by the New York Public Health Department include an inspection of Chinatown’s kitchen?” Vince asked.
Hartweu’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Actually, as far as the outside world knows, Chinatown’s food preparation area doesn’t even exist. This is one of those delicate cases where we tolerate a certain behavior for expediency’s sake, without sanctioning it officially.”
Vince was surprised by this revelation, and he replied accordingly.
“Then, who’s responsible for insuring that proper safety and sanitary conditions prevail down there?”
“My staffs charged with insuring that all fire and safety codes are strictly enforced in Chinatown,” Hartwell revealed.
“Yet as far as the sanitation of the food-preparation area is concerned, I believe that’s the Doc’s area of responsibility.”
“So food prepared in Chinatown could have caused the crew members’ illness?”
“Doc’s questioning of the patients afterwards makes no mention of such a thing,” said Hartwell. “My suspicion is that it was something they consumed during a cocktail party the assistant manager of the Gym threw in his stateroom shortly after leaving Southampton.”
Vince followed up on this train of thought. “Maybe this party included appetizers prepared in Chinatown?”
Hartwell’s brow knitted in thought. “Though they made no mention of any such appetizers existing, I do suppose that it’s a possibility.
Shall we go down to Seven Deck and find out for ourselves? Besides, this will be the perfect opportunity for you to begin your tour.”
They started on Two Deck, where they headed forward past the Computer Learning Center and the A Stairwell. It was at the forwardmost end of the passageway that Hartwell led the way through a hatch that read: no admittance: crew only. This brought them into a portion of the ship that few passengers were ever allowed to see, the living and work spaces of the QE2’s crew.
Vince felt much like Alice after she stepped through the looking glass, finding himself in a whole other world. Gone were the carpeted hallways, the boutiques, and lush furnishings. In their place was a maze of bare, concrete passageways, looking much like those of an industrial plant.
This impression was further intensified as they climbed down a twisting, lattice-steel stairwell, deep into the bowels of the QE2. Vince lost count of the descending decks, concentrating instead on keeping up with his fast-moving guide.
They finally halted on what proved to be Six Deck. A fairly wide passageway led aft here, and Hartwell began a running commentary as they followed this long corridor toward the ship’s stern.
“We call this passageway the working alleyway. Crew quarters are located on the port side, along with the Administration Office, ship’s Print Shop, and the first of several large storerooms dedicated to the stowage of various food items.”
Vince got a chance to peek inside a large deep freeze, about the size of a three-car garage, reserved solely for the storing of ice cream. An adjoining locker held hundreds of cases of every type of alcoholic beverage imaginable, while beside it was a good-sized vault dedicated exclusively to caviar.
Continuing aft, Hartwell showed Vince the ship’s main Food Pantry. It occupied an immense compartment, and was filled with shelf after shelf of canned and package goods. It reminded Vince of his local grocery store, though this supermarket could only get its vendors’ deliveries while the QE2 was in port.
After passing a hatch that led into the Hospital, Hartwell guided Vince down another narrow stairway. This conveyed them to Seven Deck and the large room where the vessel’s Laundry was located.
The air was hot and humid as they stepped inside. Banks of industrial-sized washers and dryers dominated this equipment-packed compartment. To the steady roar of machinery, Vince watched as two men fed sheets into the jaws of a massive flat ironer that automatically pressed and folded clean linens. Four other men were absorbed in transferring a heavy load of white terry-cloth towels into one of the dryers.
All of the workers were Asian males. They wore Tshirts, shorts, and open-toed thongs, with several of them sporting red bandannas tied around their foreheads.
“Those dryers that they’re loading can hold up to two hundred-forty pounds each,” explained Hartwell, who had to speak loudly to be heard.
“When the ship’s fully occupied, it takes a constant twenty-four-hour shift to keep up with the volume, with things getting a bit interesting upon hitting rough seas.”
Vince followed his guide past the first churning washing machine. The air temperature seemed to increase further and he felt the first rivulet of sweat roll down the back of his neck.
“Ping must be in the other room,” Hartwell surmised after scanning the faces of the workers. “And that’s where we’ll find Chinatown’s food-preparation area.”
It was indeed in the adjoining compartment that they found Ping. The short, wiry Asian was supervising the unloading of a pallet packed with fifty-pound sacks of detergent.
“Mr. Robert,” greeted Ping, a surprised grin turning the corners of his wrinkled face. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”
“Ping, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Vince Kellogg of the U. S. Secret Service,” said Hartwell. “Special Agent Kellogg will be joining us for the upcoming crossing, and expressed an interest in seeing your operation.”
There was a shy inquisitiveness to Ping’s glance as he looked at Vince and bowed slightly. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’m flattered that you’ve taken the time to visit our humble work space.”
Vince returned this gracious greeting with a slight bow of his own and listened as Hartwell continued.
“I see that our reduced crew certainly hasn’t affected your workload.
If anything, you folks seem busier than ever.”
“That we are, Mr. Robert. Right now, we’re in the midst of a thorough inspection of the ship’s bath linens. Every single towel is being checked for wear and then relaundered.”
Vince surveyed the tall stacks of white terry-cloth towels that lay neatly folded on the counters lining much of the room. A long, rectangular table holding piles of hand towels stood in the compartment’s center, but Vince failed to spot any sort of kitchen facilities.