by S. L. Stoner
I don’t remember knowing anyone named ‘Alwyn.’ Yet, somehow, that name is familiar. What about him?” Sage asked.
Mae Clemens tilted her head to one side, bemusement softening the bold sculpted lines of her face. “Maybe you wouldn’t remember him. You were only two years old when he went away. But, I bet you remember his oranges.”
Oranges. A sparkling but elusive memory fluttered moth-like in his mind. That memory sent him far back into another place–one remote from this elegance of polished furniture, lace curtains and flocked wallpaper. He furrowed his brow at her, trying to sharpen the recollection.
Mae didn’t wait. “Alwyn was the only one in your father’s family who didn’t condemn our marriage because I came from part-Irish stock. Alwyn stayed our friend. Even after your father. . . ,” here she paused as a spasm of pain washed across her face.
Starting again, she said, “When I left your father and moved to Carbon County, Alwyn helped me. Once you and I got settled, he left Pennsylvania. Said he was heading to New York City where there were more of what he called ‘his kind’.” She lapsed into silence.
“And the oranges?” Sage prompted. “After that, at the end of every November or the beginning of December, a box of oranges would come on the train. Alwyn sent them. Surely you remember those oranges? They were from Brazil, each one wrapped separate in a corn husk.”
Sweet scent, music, laughter, flooded back. “You would have a party. People would come. We’d share the oranges,” Sage said.
She smiled. “Yes! Those oranges made us forget winter was coming. The neighbor women would arrive in the morning. We’d grate the peels and use the zest to make orange sugar rock candy. We’d scrape the white pith from the rind and set that atop the cook stove to dry. Then we’d store it in jars until summer canning time when we’d use it to thicken the wild berries. They smelled so good those oranges. Sundown come, our neighbors would bring whatever food they had to our two-room shack. There’d be a fiddle, a dulcimer and we’d sing and eat up those oranges. We called it our winter ‘Orange’ ceremony.” She smiled.
“We used to laugh over calling it that since every one of us was Catholic and a sworn enemy of the Orange Protestants.”
As she spoke, he relived it. Again, the sweet, foreign smell of oranges, the laughter, the tapping of the boots and the voices raised in song.
“But what happened? Did Uncle Alwyn stop sending the fruit? I don’t remember having any orange parties, there at the end.” By “end” both knew what Sage meant. The end came when, at nine years of age, he’d saved the mine owner’s grandson in a mine explosion and left to live as the mine owner’s foster boy for the next twelve years.
Mae heaved a sigh. “The year you started to work in the mines, when you were eight, Alwyn died. Of consumption is what I heard. Up there in New York City. In the years since, I’ve thought of him so often. He was always good to us. That I never got to thank him personally for the gift of those oranges has always been a sorrow.” Her voice trailed off before she straightened, her dark blue eyes snapping alert, her mouth a thin line of determination. “Far as I’m concerned, helping Mr. McAllister will be a way to pay Alwyn Adair back, to honor his kindness,” she said. She reached out, picked up the teapot and began to refill their teacups. “So, what exactly is the plan?” she asked, leaning forward.
* * *
The rap on the door came five minutes after the last patron exited Mozart’s. Sage let McAllister in, hung his coat and hat and ushered him to the table where Mae and Fong were waiting. McAllister’s eyes widened at the sight of them, but he said nothing, merely nodded at both before taking a seat.
Performing the introductions, Sage deliberately didn’t mention to McAllister that Mae Clemens was his mother. For safety’s sake, that fact was their most closely guarded secret.
“These are the two individuals with whom I work most closely, E.J. Since you gave me permission to do so, I have told Mrs. Clemens and Mr. Fong why we must be careful in how we fight Lynch and his backers. In turn, I have told you about the work that we do for the labor movement so I think we can dispense with talking about each other’s secrets. What we need to understand is Lynch’s business.”
McAllister slid a finger between his neck and collar before moving his chair closer to the table, his movements uneasy. He looked away as if ashamed to meet Sage’s eyes and said, “As I am sure you can imagine, I move in circles where many people have secrets. That’s how I heard about Lynch’s house.” He looked down at his laced hands with their white knuckles. He took a deep breath, relaxed them and rested them in his lap. “The idea of men assaulting a young child turns my stomach, so I tried to learn all I could about the situation. I’ve had to be careful, because if I’m discovered snooping around, Lynch and whoever he works with will take steps to expose me. That will hurt my wife and children.”
He cleared his throat. Mae took that as her cue, jumping up and heading for a tea tray already prepared and sitting on the walnut sideboard. As she passed by McAllister, she paused, momentarily resting her work-roughened hand on his slumped shoulder. The lawyer blinked rapidly.
Tea poured, McAllister took a sip and spoke directly to Mae. “I am my wife’s second husband. Her first husband died in a carriage accident. She has no living relatives. And when he died, my friend left her with three children to raise and no means of support. He died so young, just as his law practice was getting started. He was my boyhood friend and knew about my . . . me and always stood by me. Angelique, my wife, she has always known too. I owed them both so much. She loved James to distraction and says she wants no other husband. Real husband, that is. It was her idea that we wed and move here to get a fresh start. She’s a fine woman and a wonderful companion.”
Mae nodded. “It is an honorable thing for you to care for your friend’s widow and children.”
Once again the lawyer blinked rapidly before taking a deep breath and continuing, “There’s going to be one other house just like Lynch’s. Impoverished young farm kids are pouring into Portland. When they get hungry enough they become vulnerable to the tricks and enticements of men like Lynch. Some of them, of course, are probably like me but that doesn’t make them want to prostitute themselves. Others, I think, are desperate or tricked into working for men like Lynch. Boys as well as girls.”
He turned toward Sage. “Like we talked before, it seems that many of those boys working in Lynch’s started out living in the Boys Christian Society building. Once I learned that, I began going there to the BCS to swim, taking note of the boys I saw there. It was very uncomfortable.”
Disgust twisted his face. He looked down at his clenched hands, deliberately relaxed them once again and continued, “Anyway, next, I started watching Lynch’s. That’s why you saw me with binoculars. I have rented a room in the house across from Lynch’s so I can see if the boys working in Lynch’s house are ones I’ve seen earlier at the BCS.” He gulped tea before saying, “I’ve recognized at least three of them as coming from the BCS. So, it appears the rumors are true.”
Here Sage interrupted to tell Mae and Fong, “What E. J. and I can’t figure out is why the boys don’t just run away from either the BCS or Lynch’s. Somehow, they are being forced to stay. Maybe their lives, or their families’ lives are being threatened.”
McAllister cleared his throat. “I guess this is when I tell you that there’s one additional piece of information I’ve managed to dig up concerning Lynch’s little business. He’s bragging about how he’s about to open a second house. In Northwest Portland. That means he needs even more boys.
“The problem is, I think Lynch and his friends are getting suspicious of me. You saw me watching the house. Maybe he did too,” McAllister said.
“What makes you think Lynch knows you’re looking into his business?” Sage asked.
“As I told you, I’ve been visiting the BCS building, trying to find out how they were obtaining the boys. Well, last time I was there, people weren’t friendly and
I wasn’t allowed anywhere but in the lounge, locker room, gym and swimming pool. Whenever I tried to do a little exploring, like up on the third floor, this unfriendly brute demanded to know where I thought I was going. He made no bones about the fact that he was there to make sure I didn’t go snooping about.”
“Maybe he just protecting boys,” Fong said, speaking for the first time.
“Perhaps, but I got the distinct impression that it wasn’t the boys he was protecting. A street thug is what he is. He doesn’t act like one of the BCS staff and I’ve never seen him do any work,” said McAllister.
Fong stood quickly, pressing a finger against his lips. In a few quick silent strides he was gone, leaving the three of them staring at the swinging kitchen doors.
“More tea, E. J.?” Mae asked. “Tell me whereabouts you were raised,” she said as she refilled his cup.
McAllister caught on and answered smoothly. “I spent my youth in Delaware. Later went to various schools in Pennsylvania and Boston. Obtained my law degree in Virginia. One could say I had a privileged upbringing since there was always money enough to send me to the best schools. But my parents sacrificed to do it. I owe them a tremendous debt.”
A noise sounded from above them, followed by the sound of Fong’s scolding voice. McAllister’s face was a mix of puzzlement and alarm. “I better be going,” he said, slapping his hat on his head and practically running out the door.
Heavy steps on the stairs, descending from the second floor, followed the sound of the front door’s closing. The sight of a shamefaced, redheaded boy preceding Fong down the stairs was no surprise to Mae and Sage. Once the pair reached the ground floor, Matthew paused clearly reluctant to move any closer. Fong give him a stiff finger poke his back. The boy shuffled forward, albeit reluctantly.
Sage and his mother exchanged exasperated looks. Matthew, the cook’s 16-year-old nephew, was proving to be a recurring problem. In less than a year, Sage had saved him from hanging for the murder of his brother’s killer and then saved him from being shanghaied. During their last mission, it appeared that Matthew had finally learned his lesson about snooping because he’d done exactly as asked and stayed out of their business. But here he was again. A deep red, embarrassed flush had swallowed up his freckles.
Matthew reached the table but remained standing even as Fong sat. Three pairs of eyes drilled into the boy, forcing him to clear his throat. “I was studying and, ah, decided to come down here to, ah, fetch a piece of Aunt Ida’s apple pie. I saw the light on in the dining room. At first I thought, it ah, was, ah, thieves but then I heard voices. I listened a minute to make sure it wasn’t . . . ,” his words trailed away as he fidgeted on feet that were still too big for him.
“And you heard what we were talking about and decided to lurk on the stairs and eavesdrop,” Sage finished for him. Matthew opened his mouth to protest, then snapped it shut, clearly unable to deny the fact since he’d lurked there long enough for Fong to ascend to the third floor by the backstairs and then descend two flights to catch him in the act.
The boy’s backbone stiffened and his chin came up.“What I heard was some man talking about the Boy’s Christian Society. I listened because I know a boy who came from there. He said something bad is going on in that place but he wouldn’t tell me what. I listened ‘cause I thought I might find out.” The boy’s bright blue eyes searched the room for the man he’d heard talking.
Mae and Sage exchanged another look, and this time Sage grabbed a chair from a neighboring table and gestured for Matthew to sit. “Suppose you tell us exactly what this boy told you. Start with his name.”
“His name’s Ollie and he came here from a river-bottom farm up in Washington. I got to know him ‘cause he made friends with Jimmy, my friend who works as the printer’s devil. Jimmy let him stay overnight with him in the back of the print shop.”
Matthew’s eyes widened in sudden alarm. “Crikey. Please don’t tell Mr. Casey, ‘cause Jimmy didn’t get permission to keep Ollie there. It could get Jimmy fired and his ma needs the money.”
“We won’t. But, what about Ollie?”
“Something was real wrong with Ollie. He was jumpy as water dropped on a hot burner. He wouldn’t tell us what happened to him at the BCS but it was something real bad. Once he started to tell us, then he started crying and wouldn’t finish That’s how come Jimmy took him under his wing.”
“How old is Ollie?”
“He’s only fourteen.” Almost to himself, Matthew added,
“Billy’s age.” His brother’s murder still pained the boy deeply. No one said anything for a beat, then Matthew returned to his explanation, “But see, Ollie’s kinda slight, so he looks like he’s only twelve or so.”
The adults looked at each other, their faces grim. “Where’s Ollie now? We’d like to talk to him. Maybe help him, if we can.” Mae said, her voice gentle.
Matthew leaned forward to say in a rush, “Mrs. Clemens, that’s exactly why I was standing on the stairway listening to you all talking. Day ‘afore yesterday, Ollie said he had to go help a friend. We ain’t heard from him since. He’s gone missing. He left all his stuff with Jimmy and just disappeared!”
“Oh Lord,” Mae Clemens breathed. “We better move fast. Especially since now we know this boy, Ollie, has gone missing.”
Sage’s fingernail flicked his empty teacup, making it ping. The others turned their attention in his direction. “Maybe I should be the one to go investigate. They don’t know me,” he said.
Mae’s response was swift and emphatic. “You walk through that BCS door and everyone in town will know about it. The last thing we need is for Mozart’s owner to ever be associated with goings-on like that once they come to light.” Because of Matthew’s presence, she didn’t say it would jeopardize their ability to carry out missions for the labor movement, but that is what she meant. So far, they’d completed only a few Portland missions for Vincent St. Alban, the man who gave them certain goals to reach. Still, she was right, they couldn’t endanger those efforts.
A quick glance at Fong’s steady dark eyes confirmed that Sage’s other partner was in complete agreement with Mae Clemens.
Sage compressed his lips together before he sighed and said. “Okay, I accept that. But, E. J. sure can’t keep snooping. Fong isn’t even allowed in the door, and if I can’t go in how the heck can we find out what is happening with those boys?” Sage asked.
“I go in, that’s how,” Mae answered. “A place like that always needs a cook or a cleaning woman. A few people might know me from here but I spend most of my time in the kitchen. And, I can make myself look a bit different. I’ll get a job there and take a look around. The last thing they’ll be expecting is a woman snoop.”
“Me too! I can go in, they won’t suspect me. Nobody at all knows me,” Matthew said, clearly caught up in the excitement of the “hunt.”
As one, the three adults turned toward him and exclaimed in unison, “No!”
Minutes later they sent a disgruntled Matthew off to bed with strict instructions. He was to forget everything he’d heard. He was to say nothing about Ollie to anyone. And, he was ordered by Mae Clemens to keep his “inquisitive nose to himself.” Reluctantly, the boy promised to comply. Sage watched Matthew trudge noisily up the stairs and said to the other three, “So, which one of our instructions do you suppose that kid will disobey first?”
SIX
Dispatch: May 6, 1903, President’s train arrives in Seligman, Arizona.
“In a country like ours it is fundamentally true that the well being of the tiller of the soil and the wage worker is the well being of the State . . . there can be no real general prosperity unless based on the foundation of the prosperity of the wage worker and the tiller of the soil.” —T.R.
Sage was immersed in Mozart’s financial records when the note came. He’d been putting off the book-work chore for weeks. Ordinarily, he found numbers work somewhat enjoyable because it engendered no emotion until that final calc
ulation revealed overall profit or loss. Unfortunately, it took him five times longer to make things balance than it would have taken someone trained in the art. Still, Mozart’s book-work would remain his chore since an accountant would ask too many questions about his odd expenditures.
He’d just double checked the final numbers and experienced a fizz f satisfaction over Mozart’s modest profit when Matthew’s distinctive clumping ascended the stairs. Expecting a summons for his presence downstairs, Sage started tidying up his paperwork. But it wasn’t a summons. Instead, it was a white piece of folded paper that the boy extended. Sage took it, noticing a blob of candle wax kept its flap secure.
“This just come for you by one of the messenger boys,” Matthew said.
Sage dug in his vest pocket and tossed Matthew a coin. “Give this to the boy, will you, Matthew?”
The boy nodded but hesitated, curiosity welding him to the spot. Sage made no move to break the seal and unfold the paper. Instead, he stared directly at the boy, raised an inquiring eyebrow and asked, “Anything else, Matthew?”
“Uh, no. I guess not.” He turned to leave, then turned back. “I was wondering if that note there had anything to do with the BCS, I guess?” he said.
The question wasn’t unexpected. History had proven that Matthew tended to cling to his curiosity despite being strongly discouraged from doing so. Sage heaved a sigh. “Matthew, what did we tell you last night?”
The boy flushed, though a hint of belligerence stiffened his freckled chin for just a second before he lowered it and mumbled. “I’m supposed to act like I know nothing about it.” There was an awkward silence. Then he heaved a sigh, rounded his shoulders, turned and clumped from the room.
