Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel - By Elizabeth Berg Page 0,119

washer, who knows? Steal anything, you not watch!” He resumes walking again, and I meekly follow. He is wearing neatly pressed tan pants that end just above the heels of his Nike sneakers, and a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled back. He has gray metal bifocals and a hearing aid that occasionally emits a high, squealing sound which Mr. Lee angrily adjusts—stopping in his tracks, grimacing, looking upward, and muttering.

“Also you clean up little bit,” he says. He smiles at me, revealing small, tea-colored teeth. His voice is softer now, kind. “People throw trash, forget. You keep nice, people want come in, do wash! Okay? Okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “That’s fine.”

“You bring laundry?” the man asks.

“Pardon?”

“You bring laundry?”

“Did I bring laundry?”

“Yeah-yeah!”

“No, I … I have a machine at home.”

He turns away, heads for the little office in the back of the room. “Too bad. Fringe benefit. Do laundry.”

“Oh. Well, that’s nice. Maybe tomorrow.”

I follow him into the office, hang my jacket on the coat tree after Mr. Lee removes his. He points to an old wooden desk. “You sit here. Shut door.” Pointing next to a small, square hole in the wall that is located above the desk, he says, “All business through window. Not let customers in office! Business only through window. Professional! You keep door locked.” He hands me a set of keys. “You go home, you give keys afternoon person, come at two.”

For a moment, I am frightened, wondering why Mr. Lee is so adamant about keeping the door locked. Is there that much money in the office? Are there robbery attempts here? I’m glad I’m on the early shift. Probably most criminals like to sleep late.

He opens a desk drawer, shows me a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. “You like candy, huh?”

“Well … yes. Sure.”

“Aha! I think so, first time I see you. Detective! Candy fringe benefit.”

Next he shows me large plastic containers of quarters and dimes, a tray for paper money. “For make change!” he says, and then, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, “You know how?”

“To make change?” I ask. “Yes.”

He smiles widely, a flash of gold. “Some people, don’t know how. Dumb.”

“I see.”

“Okay!” he says, zipping up his jacket. “Other Laundromats now. I got more, go check.” He opens his wallet, hands a small white card to me. “You have question, you call. You get my wife, she tell you what.”

“Yes, all right. So, just to … let me just make sure, here. I make change, and clean up, is that right? And then at two o’clock the afternoon person will come. He will come, won’t he? I have to be home for my son when he gets back from school.”

“He come, he come!” Mr. Lee says impatiently. “Steven. He come, all the time. Never miss!”

“Okay,” I say. “Just checking.”

He is almost out the door when he turns back to yell at me, “No dye! No one using dye!”

“Right,” I say. “The signs say so.”

“Not enough!” he says. “You watch!”

“I will.”

He gets into an older model white Cadillac. He can hardly see over the top of the steering wheel, yet the car suits him. I sit down at the desk, open the newspaper, pour a cup of coffee from the thermos I’ve brought. I hear a sound and, looking up, see the older man who had been folding laundry standing in the window before me. “Change for a dollar?” he asks. He has a thick Southern accent.

“Quarters or dimes?” I ask, thinking, Professional!

“Both,” the man says, and I pour a shiny pile of coins from my hand into his. The simple exchange fills me with pleasure. “Thank you,” he says, and then, “You new?”

“Yes. Yes I am. I’ll be here all week.”

“Okay,” the man says. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” He leans in closer, clears his throat. “My name is Branch Willis, and I know everything about this place. I been coming here for years.”

“I’m Sam.”

“Uh-huh.” A moment, and then, “You are a woman, right?”

“Right. It’s Samantha.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You look like a woman, don’t get me wrong! It’s just you never know. These days, especially. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended.”

He starts to shuffle away, then turns back to say, “You mostly stay in there, in the office, like he said. But you can come out, too. Up to you. You’re the boss.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.” I sit back down at the desk, smooth the dollar bill Branch gave me, put it in the drawer. The door opens and