Then one day Will Simpson, the printer, walked into the laundry carrying a bundle of white work shirts. The family hadn’t seen him since the day after Pearl Harbor, when he’d shut his door in Kisaburo’s face. But apparently printer’s ink was as difficult to remove as industrial grease. “Kay, I can’t find anybody to do my shirts right,” Simpson said. “Would you do them?” Kisaburo paused for a moment, savoring the glee rising in his chest. Then he put on a mournful face, shook his head sadly, and said, “Jeez. Sorry. I’m just too busy.”
