Cleanup Read Free

home—a doctor? An engineer? A lawyer?” He watched my face the whole time, and nodded. “Lawyer, huh? I knew it had to be something like that.”
    â€œSo you’re not going to hire me?”
    â€œNot hire you?” He looked at me as if I were crazy. “Hell, yeah, I’m going to hire you. Welcome to the American dream, sweetheart.”
    If I wanted Mike to find me another job, then I had to be nice. But I also wanted an answer.
    â€œWhat do you mean, Maria is a gold digger?” I asked him again.
    â€œCome on, Connie. I’m not stupid.”
    â€œMike, I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œMaria,” he said. “I’m talking about Maria. When I hired her, she told me the neighborhoods where she was prepared to work. Prepared to work, mind you, like she was calling the shots. Don’t give me lazy bourgeois housewives, she said. What does that even mean, bourgeois?”
    I kept my mouth shut. I knew Mike well enough to know when he wanted an answer and when he didn’t.
    â€œShe wanted rich neighborhoods and what she called mansions,” he continued. “She wanted bachelors and widowers. Especially widowers.”
    I don’t know what surprised me more— that she had said those things to Mike or that I hadn’t known.
    â€œAnd that’s what you gave her, just because she asked?”
    â€œI gave her Withers,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You know how many maids I’ve sent Withers over the years? Dozens. Think about it, Connie. The man wanted two maids five days a week. That doesn’t scream obsessive clean-freak to you? When Maria quit, I figured that he had finally broken her the way he’d broken all the others—except you.”
    I thought about the way Mr. Withers smiled whenever he encountered us on his rounds. I recalled the respectful tone he used when he handed over his list of assignments to Maria—always Maria—every day. He seemed almost apologetic, unlike many Missy Maids clients who seemed to enjoy bossing people around.
    â€œAre we talking about the same person, Mike?” I asked. “Richard Withers?”
    â€œThe old coot? Yeah. I was surprised she lasted as long as she did. Then she quit and I thought good riddance. That dame was high-maintenance. Now I find out she didn’t quit at all. She was still working for him, only off the books. That’s a no-no, Connie. Check your contract. I wouldn’t be surprised if that little tramp was banging the old man.”
    I thought about Maria’s wet hair and the way she had said she was “always” careful.
    â€œDid you tell the police that, Mike?” I asked.
    â€œDamn right I did.”
    Mike promised to find me more work. He also said, “But if I find out that you knew about Maria and you didn’t tell me, you’re through. You got that?”
    I said I did. And I vowed to use every minute that I wasn’t working to look for a new job—one where I didn’t have to take orders or give them. One where I could help people. Maybe something in immigration settlement or helping low-paid workers.
    Definitely one where I wouldn’t have to put up with Mike Czernecki.
    * * *
    The next morning, I still hadn’t heard from Maria—or Mike. It was so noisy outside my apartment door that I couldn’t think. The building management was making improvements. Putting new floors in the kitchens and bathrooms as well as new countertops. Everyone was afraid they were going to raise the rent after they finished. If they did, I would have to move.
    It was one more reason for me to start looking for a new job.
    I grabbed my decade-old Prada—a gift from my parents in the good old days— and glanced in the mirror. I hadn’t had a decent haircut in months, and it showed. But there was nothing I could do about that now. As I locked my apartment door, I saw