I’d gone there earlier this afternoon. When I showed Jason Hill the laminated card he’d looked kind of funny but claimed he didn’t do that kind of work, and there hadn’t been any equipment in evidence to brand him a liar. Actually, he wasn’t a liar; he didn’t do that kind of work anymore.
Hill was closing up when I got to Quik Prints, and he looked damned unhappy to see me again. I took the laminated card from my pocket and slapped it into his hand. “The machine you made this on is living at the Cash Cow right now,” I said. “You want to tell me about it?”
Hill-one of those bony-thin guys that you want to take home and fatten up-sighed. “You from Child Welfare or what?”
“I’m working for your pawn broker, Darrin Boydston.” I showed him the ID he hadn’t bothered to look at earlier. “Who had the card make up?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“For the kid’s sake,” he switched the Open sign in the window to Closed and came out onto the sidewalk. “Mind if we walk to my bus stop while we talk?”
I shook my head and fell in next to him. The famous San Francisco fog was in, gray and dirty, making the gray and dirty Outer Mission even more depressing than usual. As we headed toward the intersection of Mission and Geneva, Hill told me about his story.
“I found the kid on the sidewalk about seven weeks ago. It was five in the morning-I’d come in early for a rush job-and he was dazed and banged up and bleeding. Looked like he’d been mugged. I took him into the shop and was going to call the cops, but he started crying-upset about the blood on his down jacket. I sponged it off, and by the time I got back from the restroom, he was sweeping the print-room floor. I really didn’t have time to deal with the cops, so I just let him sweep. He kind of made himself indispensable.”
“And then?”
“He cried when I tried to put him outside that night, so I got him some food and let him sleep in the shop. He had coffee ready the next morning and helped me take out the trash. I still thought I should call the cops, but I was worried: He couldn’t tell them who he was or where he lived; he’d end up in some detention center or a foster home and his folks might never find him. I grew up in foster homes myself; I know all about the system. He was a sweet kid and deserved better than that. You know?”
“I know.”
“Well, I couldn’t figure what to do with him. I couldn’t keep him at the shop much longer-the landlord’s nosy and always on the premises. And I couldn’t take him home-I live in a tiny studio with my girlfriend and three dogs. So after a week I got an idea: I’d park him someplace with a laminated card asking for a job; I knew he wouldn’t lose it or throw it away because he loved the laminated stuff and saved all of the discards.”
“Why’d you leave him at the Cash Cow?”
“Mr. Boydston has a reputation for taking care of people. He’s helped me out plenty of times.”
“How?”
“Well, when he sends out the sixty-day notices saying you should claim your stuff or it’ll be sold, as long as you go in and make a token payment, he’ll hang onto it. He sees you’re hurting he’ll give you more than the stuff’s worth. He bends over backward to make a loan.” We got to the bus stop and Hill joined the rush-hour line. “And I was right about Mr. Boydston helping the kid, too. When I took the machine in last week, there he was, sweeping the sidewalk.”
“He recognize you?”
“Didn’t see me. Before I crossed the street, Mr. Boydston sent him on some errand. The kid’s in good hands.”
Funny how every now and then when you think the whole city’s gone to hell, you discover there’re a few good people left…
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.