Read Online The Glass Factory by Kenneth Wishnia - Free Book Online Page A

point is that I can’t take him. I tell him, ‘You make me take you and you’re going to get hurt.’ ‘Yeah?’ Now, the rules back me both ways here, and I generally prefer not to hurt people. But this guy urgently needs to get hurt. I tell him to get out of the truck. He blows a kiss at me. I say, ‘What’sa matter? Afraid of me?’ I give him plenty of room. I want this to be fair. Then— slam! I only hit his elbow, but it’s right on the funny bone, and in about three seconds I’ve got him cuffed, knees on the asphalt, face against the truck. I tell him: ‘You should have shut it off when I told you.’ Bastard was nonunion anyway.”
    “Wow!” he says, nodding vigorously. “You know, the guy could’ve reported you.”
    “Yeah: A truck driver’s gonna go public saying a 5’6” latina beat him up.” I finish my wine in one swig. Damn cop reflex. I’ve got to watch that.
    “I just love virile women.”
    And how about viral women? No, let me change that: “And what do you love about them?”
    “I’d love to discover about twenty-five of your thirty erogenous zones. Single-handedly, and in great detail.”
    He’s kind of a charmer, I guess. So why do I keep composing put-downs in my head?
    “What’s the matter with the other five?”
    “Haven’t you heard? The Decade of Greed is over.”
    “I need to get a job first,” I say. “I hate economic inequality.”
    “Want me to put a good word in for you at Morse?”
    “No! I mean, that’d be too obvious.”
    “So what do you want?”
    “Well, I was figuring if I could find out some more about the people who already work there, maybe I’d have a better chance.”
    He nods. “Well, I’ve got some personnel files at my office—”
    “Great. Can I come by and look at them?”
    “Nah, it wouldn’t help you.”
    “Why not?”
    “All I’ve got at the office is the list of sickos.”
    “What do you mean, ‘the sickos’?”
    “The Disabilities. The Worker’s Comps. Making friends with them isn’t gonna get you anywhere.”
    “Well, I’d still like to see what you’ve got.”
    “You would, would you?” He leans closer.
    “Yes.”
    “How about tomorrow, around lunchtime?”
    “Sure.”
    I let him follow me home. He comes in for a few minutes. Billy’s on the couch watching El Show de Porcel at ear-splitting volume. How ’bout those G-strings, huh? Jim’s only comment is “This place would be nice if you decorated it.” I walk him back to his car. I let him kiss me, but that’s it. He starts his car up, then lowers the power window:
    “See you tomorrow.”
    “See you.”
    “I can hardly wait,” he says. Then: “Oh, you know, you could try the business liaison office at the State University. Morse is using about half their incubator space. It’s all public documents over there, so they gotta let you see ’em.”
    Hmm. “Thanks.” Then it’s off to bed. I’ve got to hunt for a sick, angry worker, find a helpmate at the State University, get a second interview at Morse’s plant, call the EPA to initiate an investigation into the local toxicity, raise my child, save the environment, and not die of lung cancer. That’s a lot to do.
    I think I’d better let it wait ’til tomorrow.

CHAPTER FOUR
Vivie: And are you really and truly not one
wee bit doubtful—or—or ashamed?
Mrs. Warren: Well, of course, dearie, it’s only
good manners to be ashamed of it: it’s expected
from a woman. Women have to pretend to
feel a great deal that they don’t feel.
      —Bernard Shaw, Mrs. Warren’s Profession
    WEDNESDAY MORNING I phone Gina Lucchese at the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. Gina is one of the three Feds in the world you can trust. (Or is it four? I keep forgetting.) Because she could be making a ton of money doing the same work for the other side. Turns out she’s in Puerto Rico for the week busting heads over some toxic leachate in the water supply. They had to throw in Puerto Rico because she