Characters in The Mangler

“That's it,” Hunton said. “A woman named Adelle Frawley got caught in it at the Blue Ribbon Laundry crosstown. It sucked her right in.” Jackson looked suddenly ill. “But . . . that can't happen, Johnny. There's a safety bar.

And Alberta—that's Alberta Keene—shouted that something was exploding and everyone was running and screaming and Ginny Jason started yelling she was burnt. I started to run away and I fell down. I didn't know I got it worst until then. God forbid it was no worse than it was.

Mrs. Gillian's smile became brilliant and she took his grip awkwardly with her unburnt hand. “Anything I can tell you, Mr. Hunton. God, I thought my Andy was in trouble at school again.” “What happened?” “We was running sheets and the ironer just blew up—or it seemed that way.

One of the women, Mrs. Annette Gillian, had been held at City Receiving Hospital with second-degree burns. “Funny coincidence,” he said, but the memory of Inspector Martin's words in the empty inquest chamber suddenly recurred: It's a spook . . . And the story about the dog and the boy …

“Mrs. Frawley is dead. Jesus, I wish Bill Gartley was here.” “What happened?” Stanner said, “You better come over here.” He led Hunton past a row of hand presses, a shirt-folding unit, and then stopped by a laundry-marking machine. He passed a shaky hand across his forehead.

Only lately. The steam line breaking. That awful, awful accident with Mrs. Frawley, God rest her. And little things. Like the day Essie got her dress caught in one of the drive chains. That could have been dangerous if she hadn't ripped it right out. Bolts and things fall off.

… • • • It was very funny how George Stanner lost his arm in the mangler. Seven o'clock Monday morning the laundry was deserted except for Stanner and Herb Diment, the maintenance man. They were performing the twice-yearly function of greasing the mangler's bearings before the laundry's regular day began …

… exploding and everyone was running and screaming and Ginny Jason started yelling she was burnt. I started to run away and I fell down. I didn't know I got it worst until then. God forbid it was no worse than it was. That live steam is three hundred degrees.” “The …

Bolts and things fall off. Oh, Herb Diment—he's the laundry repairman—has had an awful time with it. Sheets get caught in the folder. George says that's because they're using too much bleach in the washers, but it never used to happen. Now the girls hate to work on it.

… were inside, doing dishes and talking babies while John Hunton and Mark Jackson sat in lawn chairs near the aromatic barbecue. Hunton smiled slightly at the understatement. He had eaten nothing. “There was a bad one today,” he said. “The worst.” “Car crash?” “No. Industrial.” “Messy?” Hunton did not reply …

… dishes and talking babies while John Hunton and Mark Jackson sat in lawn chairs near the aromatic barbecue. Hunton smiled slightly at the understatement. He had eaten nothing. “There was a bad one today,” he said. “The worst.” “Car crash?” “No. Industrial.” “Messy?” Hunton did not reply immediately, but his …

“If it was for Mrs. Cherinikov, you'll have to come back later. They just gave her medication.” “No, it's for you, Mrs. Gillian.” Her smile faded a little. “I'm here unofficially—which means I'm curious about the accident at the laundry. John Hunton.” He held out his hand.

Oh, what if it gets out? Oh Jesus, what if—” His eyes suddenly flickered, glazed, rolled up to show the whites, and he fell to the carpet in a stonelike faint. Mrs. Martin was in the doorway, clutching her robe to her throat. “Who is he, Rog? Is he crazy?

… rolled a ball back and forth for three-year-old Patty Hunton to chase. “He pulled all the fuses?” Hunton was asking. “And the off button just didn't function, huh? . . . Has the ironer been shut down? . . . Good. Great. Huh? . . . No, not official.” Hunton …

Hunton, dumbfounded, cornered Roger Martin, one of the inspectors, after the hearing. Martin was a tall drink of water with glasses as thick as the bottoms of shot glasses. He fidgeted with a ball-point pen under Hunton's questions. “Nothing? Absolutely nothing doing with the machine?” “Nothing,” Martin said.

I'm investigating an ironer with a bad case of demon possession and would like to know if you're a virgin.’ Do you think I'd get a chance to say goodbye to Sandra and the kids before they carted me off to the booby hatch?”

“Sherry?” Hunton asked. “Sherry Ouelette. Pretty little thing, just out of high school. Good worker. But clumsy sometimes. You know how young girls are.” “She cut her hand on something?” “Nothing strange about that. There are clamps to tighten down the feeder belt, see.

The mangler. Hunton took a long, frozen look, and then he performed a first in his fourteen years as a law-enforcement officer: he turned around, put a convulsive hand to his mouth, and threw up. “You didn't eat much,” Jackson said.