text: &#x200B; I hadn’t been home for a couple years now. Moving to Seattle had made me hesitant to return. I had mixed memories of this town from when I was still in high school, biking on the waterfront trail with friends, sometimes alone or up the road at the seedy diner smashed between two dive bars. It was different now. I noticed more people wandering the streets. A man was yelling to no one as he ambled down the road, almost getting hit by oncoming traffic. I turned away, took the french press between us and poured some more coffee into my nearly full mug and refilled hers. The mugs were made locally. The glaze was uneven, but rather than detracting from the style, it made it a bit endearing. My mom looked exactly as I remembered, but I supposed she always would. I saw her in my mind and in my heart, before I saw her with my eyes. I wondered if it was the same for her. She had her eyes closed, sipping at the steaming cup. I heard this place was closing sooner. I couldn’t imagine running a massage business and a cafe in the same building. I debated ordering a grilled cheese with raspberry jam as my mom set her cup back onto the table. I was about to ask her if she was hungry, when she casually asked, “Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally worked for The Mob?” “No?” She wasn’t one to make up stories, being very much a realist. It started to drizzle outside and steam began to intrude on the windows looking over the bay. Mom smiled nostalgically for a brief moment, before diving with complete abandon. It wasn’t long after moving to the east coast that she found herself searching for a new job. The money she’d saved went quickly, living so close to New York City. As the weeks went by, her pickiness dropped. She’d prefer a bookkeeping job for a somewhat decently sized firm. A bookkeeping job for an individual. Okay, something more like a secretary position at a print shop or marketing department. Well, maybe just any secretary position somewhere she’ll get a regular paycheck? So, it was with these low expectations that she came across a wanted ad for a secretary position at a contracting firm. Some cursory research made her feel a bit more at ease. They were already established-- not a start up. It seemed like they mostly contracted to construction and various warehouses, which was pretty standard for the industrial area where the office was located. She smiled coyly at the ad. She was young, fit, and figured herself pretty sharp. She would bet that whoever ran the operation was an old man, looking for a pretty face to take calls. Easy money. It was New York. It was the 70’s. The man was in his mid-fifties, somewhat large, but not rotund. He had lingering eyes, countered by his tendency to speak in a clipped manner. The office decor was surprisingly tasteful. My mom was blessed with a fabulous eye for good alcohol, clothing, and all manner of decor. Although, her bank account strained to accommodate this blessing. She wondered for a moment at the waiting room, with its plush seating, meticulously tended potted plants and their china vases. They must have some fairly wealthy clients. Her new employer, Giovanni, outlined her duties quickly. She didn’t have many responsibilities: answer the phone, greet clients, schedule appointments, etc. He was specific about having coffee ready in the morning, but otherwise this was what her sister would call a “Moe job”. Named after the owner of the least frequented motel, it was a job where you could get the things more important than your job done-- things like finding a better job. She got along fine at the office and found herself not hating the work. Giovanni was relatively relaxed when nothing big was happening, the workers were well-mannered and fun to talk with, and she got an hour long paid lunch. Sometimes she would have to take the lunch at odd hours, when certain clients showed up. Giovanni would always lend her his Cadillac, a handful of money, and tell her to take her time coming back. Maybe it was a little odd, but getting handed fifty or so for lunch and the keys to his car wasn’t a bad deal. It was one of the days they were expecting such a client. There was a new diner a few blocks down from her regular place. She was stuck between trying someplace new... or the incredible pie she usually had with some coffee. She was a sucker for pie. A polite knock tapped on the office door. The clients they were expecting usually let themselves in. She slowly opened the doors, looking over the young guys standing outside. One of them was wringing his shirt. She let them in and told them to have a seat, but they walked right past her, into Giovanni’s office. He looked up with a frown, but that quickly turned into gritted teeth. “Mr. Russo, cousin Vinny... he uh... he stole Grandad’s jewels!” The young man blurted out, ringing his untucked button-down shirt. Giovanni hurled the keys to his Cadillac at her. “Lunch break!” She left the office without a look back, driving a bit quicker than normal to her favorite little diner. Eggs. Coffee. A sympathising look from Becky, the waitress. Pie. More coffee. It hit her: the odd meetings, the fact that he hired someone so young (and naive), the exceedingly expensive office space, the Cadillac. She breathed in horror. “Oh my god, I’m working for The Mob.” I found myself laughing at her delayed realization. Of course, during the telling, everything was pretty obvious. My Mom was laughing as well, coffee forgotten in her hand, mine forgotten as well. “Did they ever find Vinny?” “Oh yeah! They found him. He wasn’t very smart. I overheard later that he was going to sell off the jewels to buy some drugs, but he ‘hid’ all of them under his mattress, like an eight-year-old with a dirty magazine.” We both laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation, but I found myself thinking about the company I had just joined, an Indian-owned contracting firm that hired out to tech companies. It wasn’t too different really, and I was beginning to realize that I might have to keep my eye out for warning signs. “Speaking of not very smart, the firm I’m contracted out from just payed a bunch of people for overtime they hadn’t received.” Mom frowned at the coffee, now an unpleasant room temperature. “Why didn’t they get paid before?” “Well, people had been complaining, but the office didn’t think overtime was real. Apparently, this has been going on for a few months.” Mom waved over to the girl behind the counter, wordlessly motioning at the press for a new one. It looked like she understood. Turning back to me, Mom asked, “What made it real?” I shrugged. “Two of the employees showed up with a lawyer.” I flipped over the tiny, sand hourglass as the waitress put the new press on our table. I would have to work up the courage to finish off enough cold coffee to make my cup hot again. Mom raised an eyebrow at me. “Well, that sounds a little shady.” Edit: A very good point about cars.