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Julie looked at the rows of cleaned clothes wrapped in plastic bags hanging from metal racks. Many were work clothes: hospital scrubs, uniforms, business suits.
A heavyset gentleman came in asking for his order.
“Whaddaya mean they’re not done?” he said. “Lemme see ‘em. Now.”
Alone in the laundry, Julie trembled. A co-worker had told her Mr. Giordano’s garments had blood stains. And not all had come out. And there’d been a knife in a pocket.
A casually dressed customer walked in, and Julie relaxed. “Here’s your uniform Sergeant Torres,” she said. “Is this where you pin on your badge?”