The Color of Light by Wendy Hornsby Page B

pocket, came forward through the forest of plastic garment bags hanging from the overhead conveyor. He flicked my card as he studied me.
    â€œI heard you were a local,” he said. “My wife watches your stuff on TV.”
    I had to chuckle. “But you don’t?”
    He shook his head. “Too bleeding-hearts for me. No offense.”
    â€œNone taken.”
    â€œMadison here said you have some questions.”
    â€œA few, yes,” I said. “I know you’re a busy man.”
    â€œThat I am.” He flipped up a section of the counter and gestured for me to come through. “But if I said no to you, the wife would shoot me. Come on back. We can talk while I work. This time of day I need to keep an eye on things.”
    I followed him into a huge room. It was a hive. At the far end, a bank of industrial-size washers and dryers sloshed and whirred while maybe a dozen people operated a variety of pressing and folding machines. Sorters wrapped and tagged the finished work and either hung it on the conveyor or placed it on shelves in what seemed like one seamless, efficient chain. A truck backed into a loading bay and three workers converged to unload bundles of soiled clothing, and then they loaded in clean.
    Fascinated, I said, “This is a much bigger operation than I thought it was. Very impressive.”
    â€œYou gotta keep growing or you get plowed under. We’ve taken over five storefronts since my dad retired.” Joe weighed a stack of starched, maroon-colored dinner napkins on his hand, flipped the edges and took two off the top before he sealed the stack in plastic and stuck a routing label on it. “You wouldn’t know how big the plant is unless you went down the alley.”
    â€œHow many employees?”
    â€œHere at the laundry, we have eighteen. Another four at the dry cleaning plant up in Richmond.” He leaned in close to offer a confidence, though he still had to shout over the noise of the machines. “Up there, they aren’t as anal about the cleaning chemicals as they are here in town. But in case that’s what you’re nosing around about, this ain’t no sweatshop. We run a green business, we pay better than minimum, make our Social Security contributions on time and offer health coverage to full-time workers. And we don’t discriminate against nobody. Hell, take a look around and you can see I got a goddamn mini-U.N. working for me.
    â€œEverything is run strictly by the letter of the labor codes. Here in the People’s Republic of Berserkeley, if I break some law of political correctness, whatever it is at the moment, a squadron of hatchet-faced do-gooders will land on me like a bomb and organize a boycott. Which I can’t afford. Is that what you want to know?”
    â€œInteresting,” I said, laughing. “But I’m more interested in your delivery schedule.”
    He scowled. “There a problem? My drivers are bonded.”
    â€œNo problem,” I said, watching the truck driver scan his load before signing off on a computer-generated manifest.
    â€œMy drivers are good guys. They draw a good wage and they stay with me for a long time.”
    Feeling hopeful, I asked, “How long?”
    He wrapped another stack of napkins. “Fred’s been with me about a dozen years, Satch eight or nine. Jaime, my dispatcher back there, drives backup if someone calls in sick. He was the first man I hired when Dad retired twenty years ago. I don’t mean to knock my dad, may he rest in peace, but he had a big turnover of drivers. I say it makes better sense to take good care of your key people so they stick around.”
    I was disappointed; none of them had been on the job long enough to help me out. I asked, “Do you change their delivery routes regularly?”
    â€œNope. The schedule is the same as it’s been since forever.” He tapped a city map on the wall behind him that was divided