Chapter 10: Last Chance

"If I had my way, Turner, I'd fire you right now," said Raymond Metcalf, regional director of the Wage and Hour Division office. "You don't threaten employers."

"I didn't threaten anybody," Turner said.

"You didn't grab Danny Horton around the neck and tell him you were going to beat him up?"

"All I did was admire his coat," Turner said. "And tell him I'd shut him down."

"Well, you won't. You're off the case."

Turner jumped to his feet. "I've been working that case for six months."

"You're lucky Danny Horton didn't have you arrested. I just spent the last hour talking his lawyer out of pressing assault charges."

"The guy's a crook," Turner said. "Who's running this office now, us or the sweatshop owners?"

"Listen, you idiot, shut up and sit down." Turner sat. "You're lucky Horton's lawyer called. I'm surprised you weren't found floating in the river."

Metcalf opened a folder on his desk. "I've been looking over your file, Turner. Very impressive, I must say." He turned a page. "When Washington transferred you here, I figured I must be doing something right to deserve such a hot shot.

"Let's see. Six years in the Manhattan office. Five convictions, $100,000 paid in back wages. Four years in Boston; string of good cases there. Two years in Providence. Pretty good record going after textile mills. Got your legs broken in the process."

"Glad to see you can read," Turner said.

"As I say, I was thrilled Washington sent you here, though I confess I was a bit curious why. Any ideas?"

Turner kept silent.

"You don't care much for paperwork, do you, Turner?" He started flipping pages rapidly. "Incomplete reports, reports never turned in. Chronic tardiness. Absent without leave. Harassment complaints."

Metcalf closed the folder and smacked it with an open palm. "You've got a problem, Turner. I don't know what it is, and frankly, I don't care. What I do care about is your performance in this office. And if that doesn't improve, I can guarantee you one thing: You're out. I talked to Washington this morning. Personally, I think they're crazy. But they're willing to give you one more chance."

Metcalf opened the humidor on his desk and removed a cigar. He lit it with a flourish, puffing until the end glowed red and smoke wreathed his face.

"Let's see how you handle this new assignment." He picked up another folder and opened it.

"Not your normal minimum-wage violation, although it's appropriate for the season." Metcalf grinned, a frosty, mirthless smirk.

"Fellow named Henderson," he said, consulting the report. "Nursery operation, looks like. Hires local farmers to make Christmas wreaths and sells them nationwide to department stores. Does business as," he looked down, "the Holly Wreath Man."

"Sounds dangerous," Turner said sarcastically.

"What city is he in?"

"No city."

"Suburbs?"

Metcalf was enjoying this. "He's located in Tennyson."

"Never heard of it," Turner said.

"I'm not surprised. It's downstate. About five hours from here."

"You're sending me to the boondocks? Listen, I'll take a suspension."

Metcalf leaned forward. "Turner, you don't get it. It's this, or nothing. Check out this Holly Wreath Man. If he's in violation, we'll shut him down." He leaned back and blew a smoke ring skyward. "Might make good news copy," he mused. "Labor Department rescues farmers." He leaned forward. "Any questions?"

"Just one," Turner said. "You pay for that cigar or pick it up off the sidewalk?"

"Enjoy the country, Turner."

AT THE TENNYSON Post Office, Pop Henderson opened his mailbox. Empty. At the counter, Hank Pritchard paid for his stamps and followed him outside.

"Henderson," he called. "Hold up. Given my offer any more thought?" asked Pritchard, who was making a fortune turning downstate farms into subdivisions.

"Some," Pop said.

"I'd like to break ground this spring," he said, waiting for a response that didn't come. "This can mean a future for your family."

"That land is their future," Pop said.

"Not with holly trees on it. Put houses on it and you've got something. But if it's a nursery business you want, you'll have enough cash to open a greenhouse. Or a flower shop. That's a business for today. Weddings. Anniversaries. Funerals."

"The wreath business may not be what it used to," Pop said. "But I've still got customers and suppliers who depend on me."

Pritchard climbed into his pickup with his company logo painted on the passenger door: "Holly Estates: Living at Its Finest."

"For how long, Henderson?" he said. "That's the question."

Next chapter: Dirt Poor