Black Drop

by S. L. Stoner

  The ragpicker poet was bustling about, using a chipped graniteware pot to brew the coffee Sage had brought. Sage studied the man’s tall, erect figure, his flowing beard and deep-set eyes and concluded that Eich had finally recovered his vigor after an ordeal a few months back that had nearly killed him. If the sad outcome of that experience had left its mark on the ragpicker, that mark was internal.

  Mae was late. Sage knew it wasn’t because she couldn’t locate Eich’s abode in this small working class neighborhood south of the city’s center. She and Eich had stayed in touch. More than once, she’d left Mozart’s bearing some fine delicacy only to return hours later, empty-handed but with a happy glow in her dark blue eyes.

  Sage didn’t mind. The man might be a ragpicker by choice, but he was also a fine human being. St. Alban’s work made deep friendships difficult o form. He, Fong and Mae had too many secrets, too much they had to withhold from everyone. Herman Eich had inadvertently become a happy exception for all three of them. He knew their real business in Portland.

  Fong squatted in one corner, his eyes hooded, his face impassive, immobile and seemingly looking at no one. Sage sensed, however, that Fong’s attention was riveted on the fourth occupant of the small shack, E. J. McAllister. He was the least known person within their little group. A variety of past events had tested everyone else who would be meeting today.

  E. J. perched on the edge of one of the ladder-backed chairs, “awkward as a cow at a hen party,” as Mae would say. He kept repressing the crease in his suit pants. When his fingers weren’t on his pants, they fumbled at his bow tie, as if checking to see that it hadn’t unraveled.

  Pleasantries about the weather and an explanation of Eich’s ragpicker activities hadn’t relaxed the man. Maybe getting started would. “E.J, we’re waiting on two other people. But you need to know that something has happened. St. Alban has given us a crucial mission.” An expression of dismay flooded the lawyer’s face in response to this statement.

  Sage hurried to reassure him. “Don’t worry, we still intend to stop Lynch and the selling of boys from the BCS. But we’re small in number. We need your help, maybe for both missions. You’re already helping with the Lynch matter. Maybe you can help with the other matter as well.”

  E. J. seemed to relax slightly for the first time. “When Mr. Fong came last night and said it was urgent and we were meeting sooner, I thought you had changed your mind or that Lynch had already made his move. That they had taken more boys from the BCS. We’d already planned to meet tonight so I figured the early meeting meant bad news.” Sage wanted to kick himself. Fear had kept the poor man tense, fear that he had started the ball rolling too late.

  What’s this other mission?” E. J. asked, leaning forward, eagerness sending a flush cross his rounded face.

  “We have to wait for the two other people before we talk about it. One is Mae Clemens whom you’ve already met. The other is a man whose name I am going to withhold. He’s the one who’s going to explain what’s going on.”

  The shack door creaked as it was eased open. Mae stepped inside. Eich jumped up to take her cloak and hang it on a wooden peg. Her first smile was for him. He returned the smile before ushering her to a chair and thrusting a mug of hot coffee into her hands.

  Not for the first time, Sage admired his mother’s high cheekbones, sculpted face, large dark blue eyes and generous mouth. As usual, her dark hair, lightly streaked with silver, lay tightly coiled against the nape of her neck. Not a pretty or beautiful woman but certainly a handsome one.

  A glance to his side revealed that Eich seemed to be regarding her with similar admiration. She, however, was oblivious. She sat on the cot beside Sage, sipped the coffee, made a soft “mmm” sound and looked at all of them, smiling wide as she announced, “I’ve landed a job in the BCS kitchen and rented a room in a house nearby.”

  Before they could respond to her news, a sharp rap sounded on the door. Sage jumped up from the cot before Eich could slide off his workbench stool. Sage opened the door so Meachum could step into the hut. Outside a fine rain had intensified to the point it hazed the daylight.

  Once over the threshold, the Flying Squadron’s leader paused to survey those inside. Then he smiled, “Well, Adair, you certainly have pulled together an unexpected conglomeration of folks.” The obvious pleasure in his face blunted any sting his words might have carried.

  Sage took Meachum’s coat, saying “That’s exactly what works to our advantage. No one will imagine that we’re working together.”

  Sage glanced in E. J.’s direction and saw that the lawyer was smiling. Apparently he was glad to be considered part of the “conglomeration.”

  Meachum settled into his chair and Sage introduced him as “Mike.” Without any further social to-do, Meachum related exactly the same story he’d told Sage the night before. Mae and Fong had already heard it from Sage but Eich and E.J expressed alarm that someone planned to assassinate Theodore Roosevelt when he was in Portland.

  “Before we discuss this situation further, Mike, you need to know about another problem we are in the midst of tackling,” Sage said and swiftly laid out the problem of Lynch’s house and the BCS’s possible role in supplying boy prostitutes. Once done, Sage looked at his companions, letting his gaze linger on E. J.’s wrinkled forehead and drawn-together eyebrows.” The lawyer clearly realized that it was critical that Meachum agree to their BCS plan.

  Sage had to admit he was also anxious about Meachum’s reaction. The other man couldn’t stop their plan to put an end to Lynch and his suppliers but his willingness to support their efforts in that direction would make life much easier.

  “Damnation!” the Squadron leader said. “Just when you think you’ve heard about the most venal thing one American can do to another, something else comes along to top it. What can I do to help?”

  With a collective hiss five people released held breath. Sage grinned, reached across to cuff Meachum on the shoulder and said, “Thanks! Your offer is much appreciated. First, however, let’s see if we can figure out which group is behind the plot to kill the president . . . .”

  EIGHT

  Dispatch: May 7, 1903, President’s train arrives in Casa Blanca, California.

  “A man who has never gone to school may steal from a freight car; but if he has a university education, he may steal the whole railroad.” —T.R.

  No one said anything. Sage looked toward Fong who responded promptly, “To unravel tangled threads do not grasp the whole knot.”

  The others simply stared at Fong. Sage, however, raised an eyebrow and asked, “Another saying from Mr. Confucius? ”

  “Idea comes from ancient Chinese warrior, not Master Confucius. Means we must look at each group as the end of thread and follow thread to separate from tangle.”

  Mae nodded vigorously. “That’s exactly right. We look at what groups could assassinate the president and decide whether it is likely that they would. Like the suffragettes. There’s enough of them, they are big enough to launch a national operation. But what is likelihood they’d do it?”

  McAllister jumped in. “Not likely at all. First, and foremost, Roosevelt has made it clear he values women’s opinions. Jane Addams, the Chicago Settlement House leader, is one of his advisors. And he positively hates wife beaters. He says they ought to be branded. So, the suffragettes have nothing to gain and everything to lose if Roosevelt dies.”

  “Chinese not like Roosevelt very much,” Fong said, speaking softly as if to himself. Their heads turned until all were looking at him. “Roosevelt speak up for immigrants but not for Chinese.

  In many speeches he say ‘exclude Chinese’,” Fong said.

  “Still, I’ve never heard of the Chinese mounting any sort of attack on Americans,” Meachum said. “Even when sorely provoked.”

  Fong flashed them his toothiest grin. “That because we outnumbered and easy to spot. We are small but not stupid.”

  Meachum laughed in response, saying, “Besides, it�
��s hard to imagine a monied white man bragging to a prostitute about how he’s a front man for a bunch of powerful Chinese.”

  “Well, it sure isn’t any Negro group who’d want to kill him,” Sage said. “Roosevelt showed where he stood on racial equality when Booker T. Washington was one of his first dinner guests at the White House. The white southerners went crazy. One senator said they’d have to lynch a thousand Negroes to undo the damage done by that invite. Hasn’t stopped Roosevelt, though. Do you think it’s possible that it’s a group of Southern whites?”

  There were nods all around. “What about all that land Roosevelt wants to tie up in national parks and such?” McAllister asked. “Could the ranchers and farmers be after him?”

  Eich shook his head. “No, I’ve been watching Roosevelt’s conservation actions. There’s no groundswell of opposition. He’s cleverly walking a narrow path. He’s giving the Muir conservationists their wildernesses by proposing national parks while giving the exploiters Gifford Pinchot and Pinchot’s ‘wise-use’ forestry policies. They’ll get to fall trees and run their sheep.” More than a little bitterness laced Eich’s prediction.

  “Well, how about them snooty aristocrats? I read in the newspaper that both the Republicans and Democrats aren’t happy about Roosevelt giving so many Catholics important positions in his administration. They call them the president’s ‘incense swingers,’” Mae said. Although not a practicing Catholic, she remained touchy about the prejudice her Irish Catholic family had experienced in the Appalachian coal fields.

  Meachum made a face. “Nah, the parties will make Roosevelt’s presidency hell, but they won’t try to kill him. They plan to outflank and outmaneuver him legislatively. If all else fails, they’ll combine forces and back his opponent come the 1904 election,” he said.

  McAllister cleared his throat before offering, “Roosevelt has kicked up quite a bit of dust with his civil service reform. The grafters hate losing their patronage power.”

  Meachum nodded his head. “No question some of them would like to see him in a coffin I am sure they’re afraid he’s going to take what he learned in New York City and apply it nationally.”

  Eich shook his head. “But, the prostitute’s customer said it was a big-monied ‘group,’” he observed. “Hard to see municipal grafters ganging together in a ‘group’. Their rivalry would get in the way.” The others, including McAllister, nodded their agreement.

  Sage stood up and rubbed the small of his back. “That gives us one more likely direction to look. Money is their goal and power is their game–the Trusts,” he said and watched their faces turn grim. The Trusts were the country’s biggest financial gorillas and they were out of control–living proof that there was no limit to some people’s avarice and thirst for power.

  Mae’s tone was bitter. “You might as well say house flies are going to kill him. Those trusts are everywhere. Just about anything a body tries to do runs up against some rich old men who already control things.” Mae said. “Just how many Trusts are there, anyways?” Her question was sobering. How could six people possibly figure out, in such a short time, which Trust, if any, was involved?

  McAllister leaned forward eagerly, speaking up. “Happens, I actually recently tried to identify the biggest ones. There are trusts controlling Sugar, Insurance, Meat Packing, Mining, Timber, Steel, Banking, and of course, the biggest one of all, the Railroad Trust. Practically, his first day in office, Roosevelt ordered the U. S. Attorney General to move against the J.P. Morgan railroad monopoly. You want to talk about big monied groups, that one’s the biggest.”

  Meachum rubbed his chin. “Hmm, the guy told her that the “group” has a representative here in Portland. How likely is it that Sugar, Mining, Meat Packing, or Insurance Trusts would have a representative here in Portland?” he asked. Sage watched as the question energized them all. Spines straightened, and a lightening of spirit seemed to wash through the small shed. Meachum’s question thankfully narrowed down the number of trails they’d have to follow.

  “Mozart’s feeds everybody who is anybody in this town,” Sage said. “I think I can safely say that only the Railroad, Timber, Banking and Utility Trusts have official representatives in this town.”

  “You and Mr. McAllister, are best ones to investigate local Trust people,” Fong observed.

  “And, I can wiggle my way into the good graces of any southerners new in town who could be involved,” said Meachum in a southern accent that sounded authentic to Sage’s ears.

  “I’ll chat up the various servants on my rounds,” Eich offered. The ragpicker visited the dustbins of the rich on a regular basis, pausing at back porches to offer household servants his refurbished wares. Sage felt a rush of gratitude toward the hawk-nosed, bearded poet, with his soulful dark-brown eyes.

  “I do same. Ask the cousins to be on lookout for visitors in rich houses.” Fong said. His cousins were uniquely placed to make such observations since they tended to blend into the background even as they kept clothes clean and lawns exquisitely groomed.

  “Mr. Solomon could be big help,” Fong added. “Good Lord, he’d be a great help,” Sage agreed. Angus Solomon was the maitre’d at the Portland Hotel. In that capacity, he also had the opportunity to observe the activities of Portland’s elite and their guests since the Portland Hotel housed the city’s most exclusive restaurant. Moreover, the enterprising Carolinian was also the part owner of the only decent hotel in Portland that catered to Portland’s black community and especially to the railroad porters.

  “These outsiders are almost certainly going to arrive here by train,” Sage said. “If Mr. Solomon could have the porters on the lookout we might be able to identify the assassination group faster.”

  “Mr. Solomon says Roosevelt best president for his people. He will help,”

  Fong said. Sage nodded. He shared Fong’s confidence that the black man would step forward to assist. Angus Solomon had proved to be a resourceful and willing ally in all their endeavors.

  As one, the men in the room looked toward Mae Clemens. She gave them a bleak smile. “I guess it’s up to me to get to the bottom of what’s going on at the BCS.”

  “Do you mind carrying that load?” Sage asked her. “No, I know you’ll all be here if I need you.”

  “I will come to back door of your rooming house two times a day,” promised Fong. “So, Fong, you’ll be the one to keep the rest of us on top of what’s happening at the BCS.” Sage was grateful that Fong had volunteered because he’d been trying to figure out how he was going to single-handedly run the restaurant, ferret out those likely involved in the assassination plot and still manage to keep an eye on his mother.

  She summed up the situation neatly, “We already know what’s going on at Lynch’s. And, Mr. McAllister’s done a good job of identifying Lynch’s source for boys and discovering Lynch’s next step.” McAllister stirred and flushed at Mae’s praise.

  “What’s left is figuring out how they are getting the boys to cooperate and who at the BCS is behind it. That can only be done from the inside. Once we have those answers, we’ll know what needs to be done,” she said. “So I’d say, right now, it’s a one woman job.”

  Sage looked at the faces of his co-conspirators. Not one of them had expressed a moment’s hesitation–not even McAllister.

  Sage blinked away a sudden stinging behind his eyelids even as warmth spread inside his chest. He glanced toward Fong. The Chinese man smiled gently back at him.

  * * *

  New York City, May 6, 1903

  The mercenary paused outside the apartment door, aware his shoulders were tight, as if readying to endure a blow. “Buck up, boy,” he admonished himself. “After all, you’re the one who takes the risks, makes the kills.”

  The door swung open after a single knock. Once again, the only light in the room came from the uncurtained windows facing the park, and even that was murky given the heavy layering of cigar smoke.

  The client waved him in and took h
is customary chair next to the window. On the table at his side lay the slingshot and steel ball bearings. Same as before.

  “What is it that you want to talk about?” the client demanded. “Don’t stand there before me like some chastised schoolroom miss. I was forced to cancel an important appointment, thanks to your ‘urgent’ request. And don’t ask us for more money. My principals are already expressing dissatisfaction over the amount you are making us spend.”

  The mercenary bit back a retort. He knew, from other sources, that his payment was a mere fraction of the funds this man controlled. In all likelihood, much more of it was going toward booze, cigars, women and elaborate dinners in fancy downtown restaurants. He said nothing because this boor, after all, was the customer he had to deal with. He lacked access to the men who were behind the man who sat in the window chair.

  “A union man, St. Alban, knows an attack is planned against Roosevelt,” he said.

  A minor explosion sounded from the depths of the chair. “How stupid and incompetent! How the hell did he find out? You were supposed to be controlling the situation. If we haf to call off the operation because of your inability to carry it out, we’ll vant all our money back or else,” the man in the chair punctuated his threat by throwing a glass ashtray against the wall where it shattered.

  “He found out because of the man you forced me to use in the operation. The man you selected because you said he was living in Portland and would be invaluable. Like I told you before, he got drunk and he blabbed to the whore.”

  “You told me you took care of her. You told me the whore was dead.” The client remained on the attack. He was a shifty fellow, always on the offensive.