Read Online Betrayed: A Rosato & DiNunzio Novel (Rosato & Associates Book 13) by Lisa Scottoline - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lisa Scottoline
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them.”
Judy grimaced at the disgusting odor of manure that permeated the air. “They really use manure to grow mushrooms?”
“Yes, horse manure and some chicken, but they call it compost. That’s why there’s always mushroom growers next to horse farms. Chester County produces almost half of all mushrooms grown in the United States.”
“Really? How do you know that?”
“Everybody does. It’s a source of local pride, and Iris used to tell me all about the business, and she gave me the inside track.”
“But how did she work with this smell ?” Judy couldn’t imagine anyone breathing that stink, twenty-four/seven.
“God knows.” Her aunt wrinkled her nose. “The men pick the mushrooms, and the women pack, but it’s gross in the packing room here, too.”
Judy didn’t know much about how mushrooms grew, except it had been a joke at her old law firm that the partners treated the associates like mushrooms—keep ’em in the dark and feed ’em shit. “How is that sanitary, to grow food in horse manure?”
“They pasteurize it. You’ll see, we’re going inside.” Aunt Barb charged past battered trash cans and broken wooden pallets. “This place is such a dump. I don’t know how they pass inspection.”
“Who inspects?” Judy asked, as they approached the door to the building.
“The state and federal agencies, and the mushroom growers have their own independent council that inspects as well. Someday I’ll figure out how Mike gets away with what he does.” Aunt Barb reached for the metal handle on the battered door, which had a thick spring. “He must pay somebody off.”
“I’ll get the door,” Judy said, but her aunt had already opened it and they entered the building, where the manure stink was stronger, turning Judy’s stomach. They found themselves in a cold, rectangular hallway with a grimy gray utility sink and blue plastic trays scattered on a concrete floor. “It’s so chilly in here.”
“Because we’re close to the growing rooms. Let’s keep going. The office is behind the growing rooms.”
“I got the door.” Judy crossed to another door, also with a metal handle and a spring. Wrinkled paper signs were taped to the door in English and Spanish: HAIRNETS MUST BE WORN , REDECILLA DEBE USARESE EN ESTA AREA . NO SMOKING EATING OR DRINKING IN THIS AREA , PROHIBIDO FUMAR COMER O BEBER EN ESTA AREA .
“This is a growing room,” her aunt said, charging through the door into a freezing-cold, dark room that reeked of manure. A mechanical thrumming filled the air, the sound of refrigeration units atop the building.
Judy followed, but the stench of manure overpowered her, triggering her gag reflex. Her step slowed, and she covered her mouth instinctively, trying not to throw up. She could barely see a thing, and the room was dark except for a single bare fluorescent panel on one of the wooden racks of brown mushrooms, which ran the length of the immense room, almost floor to ceiling. Narrow aisles ran between the racks, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the dim outline of twenty-some figures moving up and down the aisles, hunched over the trays.
She walked past, shuddering against the cold, her eyes tearing from the manure stink. They looked like shadows instead of people, but they were men dressed for the frigid temperature in heavyweight hoodies and bulky jeans, with baseball caps over their puffy white-paper hairnets. None of them looked up, but stayed face-down as they picked small brown mushrooms from trays of thousands, seeming not to see or hear her. She realized that they all had earplugs in against the mechanical noise.
Judy felt so disturbed by what she was seeing that she found her pace quicken. She couldn’t have imagined such awful working conditions, worse than hell itself, because of the manure. She caught up with her aunt, who was at a door in the back wall, with more Spanish and English signs, then one in a language she didn’t
Judy grimaced at the disgusting odor of manure that permeated the air. “They really use manure to grow mushrooms?”
“Yes, horse manure and some chicken, but they call it compost. That’s why there’s always mushroom growers next to horse farms. Chester County produces almost half of all mushrooms grown in the United States.”
“Really? How do you know that?”
“Everybody does. It’s a source of local pride, and Iris used to tell me all about the business, and she gave me the inside track.”
“But how did she work with this smell ?” Judy couldn’t imagine anyone breathing that stink, twenty-four/seven.
“God knows.” Her aunt wrinkled her nose. “The men pick the mushrooms, and the women pack, but it’s gross in the packing room here, too.”
Judy didn’t know much about how mushrooms grew, except it had been a joke at her old law firm that the partners treated the associates like mushrooms—keep ’em in the dark and feed ’em shit. “How is that sanitary, to grow food in horse manure?”
“They pasteurize it. You’ll see, we’re going inside.” Aunt Barb charged past battered trash cans and broken wooden pallets. “This place is such a dump. I don’t know how they pass inspection.”
“Who inspects?” Judy asked, as they approached the door to the building.
“The state and federal agencies, and the mushroom growers have their own independent council that inspects as well. Someday I’ll figure out how Mike gets away with what he does.” Aunt Barb reached for the metal handle on the battered door, which had a thick spring. “He must pay somebody off.”
“I’ll get the door,” Judy said, but her aunt had already opened it and they entered the building, where the manure stink was stronger, turning Judy’s stomach. They found themselves in a cold, rectangular hallway with a grimy gray utility sink and blue plastic trays scattered on a concrete floor. “It’s so chilly in here.”
“Because we’re close to the growing rooms. Let’s keep going. The office is behind the growing rooms.”
“I got the door.” Judy crossed to another door, also with a metal handle and a spring. Wrinkled paper signs were taped to the door in English and Spanish: HAIRNETS MUST BE WORN , REDECILLA DEBE USARESE EN ESTA AREA . NO SMOKING EATING OR DRINKING IN THIS AREA , PROHIBIDO FUMAR COMER O BEBER EN ESTA AREA .
“This is a growing room,” her aunt said, charging through the door into a freezing-cold, dark room that reeked of manure. A mechanical thrumming filled the air, the sound of refrigeration units atop the building.
Judy followed, but the stench of manure overpowered her, triggering her gag reflex. Her step slowed, and she covered her mouth instinctively, trying not to throw up. She could barely see a thing, and the room was dark except for a single bare fluorescent panel on one of the wooden racks of brown mushrooms, which ran the length of the immense room, almost floor to ceiling. Narrow aisles ran between the racks, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the dim outline of twenty-some figures moving up and down the aisles, hunched over the trays.
She walked past, shuddering against the cold, her eyes tearing from the manure stink. They looked like shadows instead of people, but they were men dressed for the frigid temperature in heavyweight hoodies and bulky jeans, with baseball caps over their puffy white-paper hairnets. None of them looked up, but stayed face-down as they picked small brown mushrooms from trays of thousands, seeming not to see or hear her. She realized that they all had earplugs in against the mechanical noise.
Judy felt so disturbed by what she was seeing that she found her pace quicken. She couldn’t have imagined such awful working conditions, worse than hell itself, because of the manure. She caught up with her aunt, who was at a door in the back wall, with more Spanish and English signs, then one in a language she didn’t
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