by S. L. Stoner
“Poor kid, telling him to forget about his friend Ollie’s situation is like telling him to not breathe,” Sage told himself as his fingernail pried up the wax so he could unfold the message. What he saw jolted him erect. He smoothed the paper flat n the table and studied the line drawing at its center.
Depicted was a skilled sketch of a four-legged table angled so that the right-hand front leg was in the foreground. Only he and one other person knew the meaning of the sketch and the positioning of the table. It was their secret code. One chair meant wait to be contacted by someone acting on behalf of Meachum. Two chairs meant Meachum was going to be passing through and would have time to visit. But, a table? That meant business for St. Alban. Serious business. The right leg forward meant a meeting at twilight, that very day. Sage knew where. He had time.
It was last June when he’d first met Meachum in Seattle.
Sage had immediately liked the man, trusted him and told him everything. About Mozart’s, even that his own mother was one of his confederates in his work for St. Alban. So, Sage’s first reaction was one of pleasurable anticipation. He wanted to see the silver-haired, craggy face leader of St. Alban’s Flying Squadron once again. Sage admired how Meachum had chosen a dangerous way to protect the aspirations of working people. He and his men traveled throughout the West, riding the rails and living in railway hobo camps. Wherever the railroad bulls or the thieving roof crawlers on a line turned to violence, the Flying Squadron would materialize. A few threats and a toss from the train on a slow curve usually brought the thugs under control.
Sage’s forehead wrinkled. Early May was a tad soon in the season for the Flying Squadron to be operating this far north. Until harvest time most bindle stiffs, the men comprising America’s endlessly growing population of unemployed, usually stayed south or else hunkered down in the cities. Few braved the deathly cold by riding in a boxcar over high mountain passes sometimes clogged with snow. More than one dead man had been found curled up in an empty boxcar when the train rolled into a rail yard.
So, maybe this wasn’t Squadron business after all. Maybe other business for St. Alban had sent Meachum from the comfort of his Denver home. Sage touched the drawing and felt his scalp prickle.
* * *
“But, what about the BCS and Lynch’s new house?” Mae Clemens asked, her voice sharp with frustration, her body stiffened as she leant forward over the table in Sage’s third floor room. “We can’t let E. J. down, not to mention those poor boys.”
“We won’t,” Sage promised her. “We’ve managed to carry out two missions simultaneously before and we will this time. I don’t care what St. Alban wants us to do. There’s Matthew too. I don’t think I could look him in the face if we didn’t help his friend Ollie.”
Mae Clemens leaned back in her chair, clearly relieved her son wasn’t going to abandon their plan to stop Lynch and eliminate his supply source for boys.
Throughout this exchange Fong’s face had remained blank. Only the sharp intent in his dark eyes revealed his interest in the subject. Once Sage and his mother had reached agreement, he smiled, as if he’d known the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
“So we must divide up work, once we know what Mr. Saint wants. This time, though, we will have Mr. E. J.’s help,” he said. “So, we have no problems,” he added, sounding much more confident than Sage felt.
* * *
The hobo camp looked forlorn beneath the leafless trees. When it wasn’t raining, men gathered here during the day to stretch toes and fingers toward the campfire’s warmth and trade stories of the road. At night or when it rained, they’d disperse to whatever nook or cranny promised dry shelter. Warmth was a rarity unless they were one of the few permitted to sleep for free on the jailhouse floor.
Sage arrived in the camp bearing treasures snugly wrapped inside his blanket bindle. The hobos had water aplenty but the sight of an entire can of ground coffee perked up the ten men who sat on log rounds next to a fitful fire. Grubby, trembling hands reached for the flattened loaves of bread and paper-wrapped sausages as if the men couldn’t believe their eyes.
Sage countered questions about his generosity with the explanation he had a job helping a grocery move its stock and expected to work tomorrow so he’d have plenty to eat. They didn’t question his story. Just slapped him on the back and laughed. In return, he received the pleasure of watching their bodies straighten and their expression lighten. One more day survived.
Around dusk, as men began gathering up their few belongings, another man walked into camp. Sage glanced at him, then turned back toward the fire, outwardly intent on hearing the last bit of a rambling story about how one of the men had lost his “sweet little farm.”
“So’s that last hail storm’s what done me in. The golly durn bank foreclosed, even though there weren’t nobody in the county rich enough to take it over. That good dirt’s just a-lying there, growing weeds that can’t nobody eat,” the man glumly concluded.
“One day you’ll be back farming. Once things settle down a bit,” a man, young enough to still have optimism, tried to comfort.
An older, more experienced man, offered the farmer more coffee while another man, when he passed by to collect more firewood, silently touched the farmer on the shoulder. Across the fire, Sage met Meachum’s bright blue eyes in mute recognition of the moment’s poignancy.
When dark arrived, the air turned chill with a strengthening breeze. Once the dry firewood was exhausted, the camp disbanded. Each man shuffled off into the gloom to seek a place to bed down. Most knew that what lay ahead was a night of countless wakings as pain grabbed hold in stiffened joints.
Sage and Meachum ambled off together. Unlike the others, they didn’t move toward the lights of the saloons lining the rail yard. Instead, they walked deeper into the alder clumps, trusting that tree trunks and a cloudy night would conceal their meeting.
“You have any trouble getting here?” Sage asked once they’d found a reasonably dry downed tree on which to sit.
“Nah. I rode the cushions all the way from Denver. St. Alban insisted on that comfort, thank the Lord,” Meachum responded.
“I’m glad to see you, Meachum, but I must admit I am also more than a little concerned. From what you said last June, you’re pretty adamant about staying with your wife and that wood shop of yours until early summer.”
Meachum nodded in agreement as Sage talked. “Maybe you best suck on one of these machine-rolled,” he said, handing a cigarette to Sage who took it, his forehead wrinkling with concern. There was no lightness whatsoever in the Denver man.
“Spit it out, Meachum,” Sage said, after he’d expelled a lung full of smoke. “You know I’m going to help you so there’s no reason for you to hesitate.”
“I wish my only worry was whether you’d cooperate. I know you’re going to. Fact is, this situation is so damn serious it never crossed my mind that you wouldn’t want to help.”
Sage shifted on the log. The prickling in his scalp had resumed and was now running up and down his spine. “Christ, man, spit it out. My guts are starting to churn like a Chinese laundry tub.”
Meachum dropped his half-smoked cigarette and used his boot to grind it into the damp ground. Finished with that task he looked up, his face an intense mask of concern. “Someone’s going to assassinate President Roosevelt. Here in Portland. This month. And they intend to do it in such a way that the entire country will blame the unions.”
That statement froze Sage’s cigarette just an inch from his lips. He stared at Meachum as the enormous and negative consequences of such an assassination blasted through his brain. Meachum was right, the matter was dead serious. He said the first thing that came to mind. “But, I just learned yesterday that Roosevelt’s coming to Portland. The Republican bigwigs are in a tizzy about it. How could we have found out so fast?” he wondered aloud.
“Very few people know Roosevelt’s itinerary yet. People in Roosevelt’s inner circle know his schedule though, have kn
own of it for some time now. He’s scheduled to be here the end of May. Just fifteen days from now. St. Alban’s sources have confirmed that fact.”
“How do we know that the assassination plot is not just a rumor–some blowhard’s wishful thinking?” Sage asked. “We know too much about it and the source was reliable. A woman, a working woman, if you know what I mean. She got it straight from one of the conspirators. Apparently, while the customer was upstairs sleeping, she got a message to her brother. Her brother is a loyal union man. They met in the alley outside the whorehouse and she told him what she knew before going back inside.”
“What do we know? What did she tell him?”
“The customer was mighty drunk and talked freely. He said he was in the pay of a big-money group. It seems the group has a representative here in Portland, someone important enough to be part of Roosevelt’s local entourage. The drunk let on to the girl that his role in the plan is to make sure the assassination mastermind gets near Roosevelt. He also told her it was a complicated operation. He said some rowdies will create a distraction. In the uproar, his job is to make sure the plot’s mastermind gets close enough to Roosevelt to trigger everything else. Once the deed is done, the actual assassin will be shot. It’s that damn assassin who’s going to get us involved. He’s some poor deluded dummy who thinks the union movement is behind the plot and he’s going to be helping us out. He has some kind of history being in a union. He also thinks that it’s just a stink bomb he’s going to be heaving at Roosevelt–a package containing ammonium-sulfite–unpleasant but harmless. That’s why he’s signing on to the plot.”
Meachum pulled out another cigarette and lit it up with dead-white fingers.“But it’s going to be a real bomb, filed with nitro. Deadly,” he added once the cigarette was burning. “More people than the president will die.”
“Who is he? Who is this assassin? Can’t we find him Tell him he’s being used, tricked?” Sage asked.
“That’s the problem. We don’t know who he is. St. Alban’s put the word out but, so far, nothing. The information came to us a bit garbled because the girl was afraid, in a hurry and the drunk had been trying to impress her at the same he was trying to be cagey.”
Sage stared up into the alder branches, some part of his mind taking note that leaf buds were beginning to show. “Can’t the woman find out more? There’s still some time. Can’t she ply her gabby customer with more whiskey, get him bragging again?” he asked.
Meachum’s expression turned remorseful. “That’s just it. We’re certain this isn’t just a drunk blowhard making himself sound important but an actual plan they intend to carry out. We’re certain because, that night, right after she talked to her brother, the house burnt down. She didn’t make it out. The fire chief said the fire was deliberate. It started in her room. They think she was already dead. Her drunk customer was gone.”
For a while, neither man said anything, simply stared up through the tree branches at the pale roiling clouds blocking the starlight. Yet another life sacrificed.
“So we know someone will make an attempt and we know where. Here, in Portland. This month. May,” Sage told himself then asked, “We know anything else, Meachum? Anything, at all?”
“One more thing, but it isn’t of much help,” Meachum said, “They’ve given a name to their little assassination plot. The drunk let it slip.”
“What? What are they calling it?” Sage asked. Maybe the code name would provide a clue of sorts.
“They’re calling it ‘Black Hawk’.''” Meachum said. “She told her brother that the customer called it ‘Operation Black Hawk’.”
“Black Hawk? That doesn’t seem to mean anything,” Sage said.
“I know,” Meachum said as he stood. “Hell, man. Let’s go find ourselves someplace warm to get a beer. We’ve got too much to do in not enough time.”
SEVEN
Dispatch: May 7, 1903, President’s train arrives in Barstow, California.
“If we allow envy, hatred, anger to rule us. If we permit wrong to be done by any man against another, if we strive to interfere with the just rights of any man or fail to protect him in them, by just so much are we coming short of the standard set for us by those who in 1776 found this nation . . . .” —T.R.
“I say, Missus, you’re out and about early this morning. You’re my first customer. We’re not really open just yet, but never you mind. What is it that I can I fetch for you?” the storekeeper said from behind a polished counter that contained neatly labeled glass-fronted bins, each one holding flour, grains, beans, dried fruits or sugars. The provision shelves rising against the wall behind the storekeeper displayed brightly labeled tins, boxes and bottles. The topmost shelf supported a variety of teakettles, lamps and empty canning jars.
“Take your time now, I’ve got to build up the fire in the old stove anyway,” he told her as he lifted the counter gate. He crossed to the ornately chromed Ben Franklin filing the corner farthest from the door. Behind its mica-covered lattice, a banked fire glowed. Clangs and rattles sounded as the storekeeper opened the stove, deposited coal chunks inside, adjusted the damper and re-latched the door.
Once the storekeeper had resumed his post behind the counter, Mae was ready with her order. “One pound flour, one pound sugar, a dozen eggs, if they don’t flat stale, and one pound butter.” The storekeeper bustled to and fro all while giving her assurances that, “Yes, all his products were fresh and weighed fairly.”
“I can see that you are a man who puts value on honesty,” she told him. He puffed at that observation as he opened a faded flour sack and placed her purchases inside. “I suppose your store does quite a bit of business with the BCS kitchen next block over?” Mae asked as she handed him the coins.
He pulled the cash register’s lever to make the drawer spring open. Collecting the change, he handed it over. “They get most of their supplies direct from the wholesaler, but there’s some items they buy from me,” he told her. “I maybe see them once or twice a week.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any work over there? My niece is in from Chicago and she’s looking for work. Typewriting work, that’s what she does,” Mae said.
“Hmm. From what I heard, that BCS don’t hire females except in the kitchen. Leastways that’s what I heard from Gussie. She’s the kitchen runabout and scullery.”
“My niece might want to work in a kitchen. Do you know if they have any openings?”
“Matter of fact, I believe Gussie said they’d lost another cook. They can’t keep a second cook on because of the head cook, Mrs. Wiggit. She’s a terror. Ain’t nobody seems to please her.”
The storekeeper’s observation gave Mae momentarily pause. A terrorizing Mrs. Wiggit was not something to look forward to. That hesitation was chased away by the mental picture of pale, woeful faces. Boys just the age of Sage, when he’d had to leave her. Pain stabbed her heart.
She took a deep breath. “I expect that Mrs. Wiggit’s the one who does the hiring?” she asked.
His head shake was rueful. “‘Fraid so. Heard tell she in particular don’t like young women. Thinks every one of them’s spoilt. Not sure your niece would have a chance if she’s young.”
When Mae Clemens left the store, she paused to look south toward the four-story BCS building. Constructed of plain red brick, it occupied a quarter block. Most likely, the kitchen was quartered in the basement.
She looked down at the flour sack of provisions dangling heavily from her hand. She certainly couldn’t apply for a job toting a sack of food. She’d look suspiciously well-to-do and not needy enough to be obedient. That wouldn’t do, if she knew her Mrs. Wiggit. And, there wasn’t time to run it back to Mozart’s, meet the cook and still make the scheduled meeting.
As she stood on the sidewalk, uncertain what to do, she noticed a slender woman approaching. The woman’s coat was too thin for the chill morning air and although her boots were clean and polished, the thick boot black couldn’t hide the cracked leather. Mae
raised her eyes to the woman’s face. There she saw the strain of poverty, but also lips pursed in determination. Nearing the shop door, the woman paused. Her hand, encased in a darned glove, fumbled with the strings of the little bag she carried. Oblivious to Mae’s scrutiny, the woman fingered the few coins she emptied into her palm.
Mae stepped forward. “Pardon me, ma’am,” she said. “Would you accept these provisions? It turns out I can’t carry them with me.” She thrust the cloth bag at the woman who took it automatically, confusion crumpling her face as she tried to form a question.
“Sorry, I can’t explain right now, I’m in a hurry,” Mae said before turning and quickly walking north. The last thing she wanted was to hear words of gratitude. She knew what that sack of provisions would mean to the woman. She knew the gratitude the woman would feel for the unexpected gift. By the same token, she also well knew the shame that accompanied a gift of charity. No need to prolong the exchange.
Just before she turned the corner, Mae looked back. The woman’s hand was deep inside the bag, exploring its contents as her jaw slackened and her mouth formed a small “o” of disbelief. The sight made Mae wish she’d bought a sack of dried fruit as well.
That was thanks enough. Mae nipped around the corner and strode on until she reached a café with steamy windows. Once inside, she ordered tea and sat down to plan the best approach to Mrs. Wiggit, the boss cook.
* * *
It had been Fong’s idea that they convene in Herman Eich’s lean-to at the edge of the Marquam ravine. Sage, Eich, Fong and E. J. McAllister were already there. Alerted by Fong, Eich had supplemented his seating arrangements. In addition to his work stool and sturdy cot, three ladder-backed chairs, likely borrowed from his next door landlady, crowded the floor space.
Sage looked around the room. It was snug and, as usual, the workbench under the only window displayed an array of chipped ceramics–bowls, plates and even a figurine or two. Stacked neatly beneath the bench were burlap bags, their contents no doubt gleaned from various dustbins across the city. Eich made his meager living by repairing ceramics and peddling dustbin finds at the city’s back doors.
