Free The Bighead by Edward Lee Page A

state took
me.”
    “ Then where do the local
kids go to school now?”
    Charity made a tiny shrug. “I don’t
know. I guess they bus them to Filbert or Tylersville.”
    Jerrica idled on in low. “So far this
little trip into town must be real depressing for you. Most of the
stores are closed, your school is closed. The whole town looks
dead.” But then Jerrica gazed over the open top. “Wait—there’s
something. Those buildings there.”
    Several three-story buildings faced
each other at the end of the street, drab and rundown as everything
else, but their windows were full of lights, and within them,
hunched figures could be seen.
    “ Sewing shops,” Charity
recognized immediately. “Unless you want to run moonshine, this is
about the only steady work a person can get around
here.”
    “ Sewing shops?” Jerrica queried, a bend to her voice. “I
don’t get it.”
    Charity explained, “It’s been going on
since the mines closed. Out of state clothing manufacturers wait
till a shop goes under, then rent it for peanuts. Then they hire
local women to do the sewing.”
    “ Why don’t they just open a
plant in their own state, hire their own people?”
    “ Because they’d have to pay
them a lot more. Why hire state residents to sew for seven or eight
dollars an hour, when you can truck your fabric here and get women
to do it for minimum wage? When people haven’t worked for five
years, they’ll take any wage. I guess anyone would.”
    “ They’re sweat shops, you
mean?”
    “ Yep. Round the clock
shifts. And no one is allowed to work more than thirty-one hours a
week.”
    Jerrica looked at her.
“Why?”
    “ Because anything more than
thirty-one is considered full time. Then the home company would
have to pay unemployment insurance and a higher state accident
fund.”
    “ Jesus. Corporate America.
What a bunch of cheap shits.”
    “ They’ll look for any
loophole to save money and exploit workers.”
    Dusk now bled more darkly into the
famished recess that was Luntville. Jerrica turned on her
headlights, took a pair of lefts, and cruised up the next block,
where several more sewing shops stood, interspersed by ruined
buildings. But then a lit sign appeared through the murk: DONNA’S
ANTIQUES, and even this late, it was obviously open for business,
for a lone man went into the front door just that moment. Down the
street, several more shadows approached.
    “ That’s about the silliest
thing I’ve ever seen,” Jerrica said. “It’s going on nine o’clock.
Who’s going to buy antiques at this hour? And who’d want to open an
antique store here in the first place.”
    Charity raised her brows. “Well,
because it’s not really an antique store; that’s just a
front.”
    “ A front? For
what?”
    “ Donna’s Antiques is
actually the local bordello.”
    “ You’re kidding me? An
old-fashioned brothel? A whorehouse?”
    “ That’s right, I’m afraid.
There’s no police department in Luntville, and since Russell County
is uncharted, there’s no county police force either. The only real
law enforcement we have comes from the State and a small sheriff’s
department, and they’re spread way too thin to begin with. So they
look the other way, so to speak, as long as things don’t get out of
hand.”
    “ Unbelievable.” Jerrica
sounded astonished.
     
    “ There’s a bar around here
too, or at least there used to be,” Charity remembered. “The
Crossroads I think it was called, right around the
corner.”
    “ Oh, good,” Jerrica
commented, making the turn. “I hope it’s still there, ’cos I could
definitely use a drink.”
    “ You’re not serious!”
Charity startled. “We can’t go to the Crossroads!”
    “ Why not?”
    “ Well…it’s, you know, for
men.”
    Jerrica smirked. “What, bars are only
for men?”
    “ No, but—well, it’s not
what I’d call…sophisticated at all. It’s pretty rowdy, I
suspect.”
    “ A redneck watering hole,
in other words?”
    “