Chapter nine: An honest man

"Excuse me, ladies." John Turner stood in the windowless room where Marvella Fashions' seamstresses ate lunch. "I'm with the U.S. Labor Department. I'm investigating complaints that your employer doesn't pay minimum wage, as required by federal law."

Stakeouts didn't always pan out. Paper trails went cold. Numbers didn't add up. To take down crooked employers, Turner had to reach out to those who had the most to lose: exploited workers whose meager paychecks were better than none.

The women exchanged puzzled looks and whispers. He opened his wallet, revealing his badge. Their confusion turned to fear, and the room echoed with the same word in several languages: "Policia! Polizia! Po."

"No police. Labor Department. Here to help you." But the room emptied as the women gathered up their lunches, brushing past Horton, the owner, and his foreman, who'd come to the doorway.

"You got everything the other day. You're harassing my workers and interfering with my constitutional rights," Horton said.

"To do what?" Turner said. "Cheat people?"

"I pay minimum wage. Ask anybody. Right, Joe?" Horton said.

The foreman's eyes took on a deer-in-the-headlights glaze. "Sure, sure, minimum wage."

"Right," Turner said, turning to leave, then swiveling back. "Say Joe, what is minimum wage?"

Eyeing the boss, Joe stammered, "Uh, 75 cents?"

Horton bit down on his cigar and gave his head a little shake.

"No, no, I know. A dollar." Horton's face darkened. A sheen of sweat glistened on Joe's brow. "I mean, a buck 10. Yeah, that's it."

"Close, Joe, but no cigar," Turner said, shouldering his way between the two men.

"Give it up, Turner. If you think any of my girls are going to talk to you, even if they could speak English, you're stupider than this moron," Horton said, jerking his finger at Joe.

Turner stopped, inches from Horton's face. "You're finished."

"Lay a hand on me, pal," Horton said, "and you're the one who's finished."

Turner brushed past the owner, walked down the hall and through the throng of women eating lunch in the stairwell. They rose, ready to bolt again. Turner raised his hands in a peacekeeping gesture. "Stay, stay."

How could he ever help them, he thought, if they didn't trust him?

TURNER WALKED into the Capitol Diner and took a counter seat next to Peter Doyle, reporter for the Morning Chronicle.

"Ah, the eternal cynic," Doyle said, raising his coffee cup. "How goes the search, Turner?"

Turner played along. "What search would that be?"

"Why, your continuing but fruitless quest for one honest man, my friend. Did you know, Mary," Doyle said, turning to the waitress, "Turner's a modern-day Diogenes?" Unimpressed, Mary kept wrapping silverware in white paper napkins.

Undeterred, Doyle continued. "Like our beloved Greek philosopher who prowled the wide world with his lantern, our man Turner scours the working world, ever vigilant, peering at the careworn faces of beleaguered bosses searching for that one honest soul. Pray, traveler, give us your report. Have you found a contender?"

"Just coffee, Mary. Thanks," Turner said. "Just left one who thinks he fits the description."

"The envelope, please." Doyle beat a drum roll on the counter. "And the winner is ... ?"

"Danny Horton."

Doyle rolled his eyes, and continuing the charade, rubbed his chin and appeared to consider for a moment.

"Ah yes, Mr. Horton. I believe I covered his arraignment, let's see, five years ago? Yes, assault with intent to murder. I believe his defense was 'the poor victim had accidentally fallen from his car,' a turn of events that said victim eventually came to accept as accurate. Case dismissed."

"Yeah, well this time I'm nailing him," Turner said. He sipped his coffee. "So, smart guy, how did Diogenes make out? Did he ever find an honest man?"

"What do you think, Turner?"

Turner shook his head. "I don't think he did. There aren't any. At least, I sure haven't met one. I doubt I ever will."

"Turner, my friend, you are not alone," Doyle said. He raised his cup. "To the search."

AT HOME in Tennyson that evening, Allie Henderson scanned the shelves of the kitchen cupboard. "I've looked everywhere," she said. "I must be losing my mind."

"Why's that?" Pop looked up from the apple he was peeling.

"I know I bought three cans of creamed corn last week," Allie said. "We had two for Sunday dinner. And now, for the life of me, I can't find the other one."

At the kitchen table, Jeff was the picture of innocence, but he stopped reading his magazine, and listened, shoulders hunched, like a deer ready to bolt.

Next chapter: Last Chance