Black Drop

by S. L. Stoner

  “I screech like angry temple monkey. Man upstairs jump onto porch roof and slide down post to ground. Man below run right out back door. Not even shut it after himself. Then I run and knock on house next door. Neighbor sent boy for fire brigade.”

  “And you?”

  “I ran back inside burning house and straight out back door. Poof! I am smoke,” From the glitter in his eyes, Fong appeared quite pleased with his adventure.

  “It says in the newspaper that nobody saw the arsonists and they couldn’t find the Oriental man who raised the alarm. And that it’s going to take some weeks to fix the damage.”

  “That is what I thought too. Fire burned walls upstairs and stairway but did not spread to whole house or to next door houses.”

  “Thank God. Hopefully you scared those fellas enough that they won’t try that again. From what E.J. said, they were having to screw up their courage as it was.”

  “Man, downstairs, he fling as can up to ceiling and shriek like mouse run across bare foot. He not come back.” Fong’s grin said he enjoyed remembering the moment.

  “I wish that house had burned to the ground.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish it had burned to the ground with Lynch in it.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hate Lynch and men like him.”

  “Hate is a bad attachment to have,” Fong said and stood abruptly, “Time for training. You getting flabby.”

  “What do you mean ‘attachment’?” Sage asked an empty room–empty because Fong was already gone. Sage climbed the attic stairs in a buzz of mild irritation.

  Just once it would be nice if Fong would spit out what he meant instead of being so mysterious. This time, by gum, I’m going to tell him that.

  He didn’t. Fong was already gliding across the varnished hardwood floor in the flowing movements of the snake and crane. On white walls hung the only ornamentation, narrow scrolls of Chinese calligraphy, the flowing black script a single column upon a white silk panel that was trimmed with red. Overhead, sunlight filtered through the skylight Fong had installed. New leaves on the rooftop’s potted plants made shadow patterns across the floor. That sight gave him satisfaction. Those were his very own plants, ones he’d planted the summer before and carefully bedded down for winter. It was like moving art, he thought as he watched the leaf shadows flutter.

  Sage pulled his shirt from his pants and stepped out in his bare feet, ready to follow Fong through the 108 movements. Fong said nothing. His only acknowledgment of Sage’s presence being the fact that he closed the form and began it again with the first move, one he called “begin form, greet the sun.”

  Sage lost his place in the movements more than once, always when his mind snagged on thoughts of Lynch. It was strange, how the movements cleared the head until only the consequential thoughts distracted. When they did, the body hesitated, like a hummingbird unsure of its next target. Today, thoughts of Lynch acted like a white-hot snare. Enough. Sage mentally shook himself and tried to concentrate on the form, “Step Up, Grasp Bird’s Tail, Single Whip, Fair Lady Work Shuttle . . . .” When his mind was focused on the movement, that elusive power Fong called “chi” seemed to grow, making his palms feel like they held a pulsing magnetic field and his feet seem anchored to the earth’s core. But it never lasted. Always his mind strayed and the chi feeling dissipated like smoke before a sudden breeze.

  “What did you mean about ‘attachments,’ Mr. Fong,” Sage asked again, once they had finished the routine.

  Fong looked at him, his brown eyes radiating a teasing light. “You have some trouble staying with form today, Mr. Sage,” was all he said and left Sage standing in the middle of the room wondering whether Fong had just answered his question or ignored it.

  * * *

  Mae Clemens stood at the tin sink, her large sturdy hands scrubbing turnips clean. Outside the window was a small courtyard, surrounded on three sides by buildings and on the street side by a brick wall six feet high. Two benches provided a secluded place to sit and enjoy the spring day. A few tendrils of deep green English ivy crawled up the sides of the buildings, but otherwise the space was bare of nature. As if to refute that thought, a robin landed atop the wall and even through the rippled glass she could hear its cheerio celebration of spring, its song sweetly pure in the crystalline air.

  The birdsong stopped abruptly and seconds later a young boy wandered into view followed by others. There were five of them, all around the age of nine. Like old men, they shuffled over to the two benches, slumped down and turned their faces up to the sun. There was no lightness in their bodies, no animation to their limbs.

  Mae heard a sound like a suppressed moan of pain behind her. Turning, she saw Mrs. Wiggit standing behind her. The cook said nothing. She shrugged and moved back toward the stove but not before Mae had seen the features in the woman’s face momentarily collapse, as if in grief, before restoring themselves to their customary mulish expression.

  Mae looked out the window. The boys had not moved. Maybe they were sick. Certainly, their pallor was like a consumptive’s. But surely, the BCS would not let seriously ill children live midst the healthy ones.

  A man strode into sight. He went straight up to the boys, radiating vigor, carrying a black leather satchel. With a jolt, Mae realized she knew the man. It was Dr. Harvey, a frequent patron of Mozart’s. Reassurance was her first reaction. The boys were getting medical care from Dr. Harvey who had the reputation of being a competent doctor. Alarm replaced this easing of concern. Some of Mozart’s patrons were oblivious of her and the other staff as people. But not Dr. Harvey. He always greeted her by name and engaged her in conversation. He’d even recently brought her a tin Miss Liberty trinket. So, he would certainly recognize her. She stepped back from the window. She needed to make herself scarce if he entered the kitchen.

  She looked around the big room. Nowhere to hide. There was the toilet room, but that would mean crossing the kitchen to the internal door–an action likely to draw his attention to her. That left her the option of rooting around in a lower cupboard, her tail hanging out like that of a skittish dog’s during a thunderstorm, until he had gone.

  Her plan made, she relaxed and watched the doctor go through the paces of feeling each forehead, palpating each neck and otherwise examining each boy. Despite the man’s patting of shoulders and ruffling f hair, the boys remained sullenly unresponsive. The doctor didn’t seem to notice. At last he packed up his bag and left the courtyard. Mae tensed, ready to shove her head into a lower cabinet. When the kitchen door stayed closed, she relaxed and went back to watching the listless boys even as her hands scraped away the turnips’ skin.

  A few minutes later, the gate in the brick wall swung slowly open and a brown-clad figure stepped into the courtyard. Eich! It was Eich. Mae almost rose on her toes at the sight of him. He went to the dustbin and began rummaging through it without acknowledging the boys’ presence. They reacted by turning their heads to watch him, showing the most life she’d seen them display since they’d entered the courtyard. Eich looked toward the window, caught her eye and raised one shaggy eyebrow. She gave a little nod, glanced around the kitchen and saw Mrs. Wiggit exit out the inner door. Gussie was dreamily smearing tarnish remover on the bottom of a silver coffee urn reserved for use in the Captain’s private dining room. Mae grabbed the pail of vegetable peels and made a beeline for the door. When Gussie looked up, Mae waggled the pail and Gussie nodded in understanding.

  When Mae entered the courtyard to dump the peelings, she saw that Eich had finished his rooting and was over by the boys. As she watched, his gnarled hand reached into one of his commodious pockets and retrieved a paper sack. He deposited a hard peppermint candy into each upturned hand. Touching his cap to her, he went out through the gate. She quickly followed.

  “Herman, it is so good to see your face. Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No, Mae. Everything is fine Just thought I’d add your dustbin here,” he nodded at the brick bui
lding, “to my daily rounds unless you think it a bad idea.”

  She looked up into his warm brown eyes and smiled, “I think it’s a great idea. This place gives me the crawlies. What’s wrong with those boys in there do you think?” she asked, tipping her head in the direction of the courtyard.

  Eich shook his head. “I know what you mean. They seem lethargic for being as young as they are. I do have another reason for being here. Do you have a minute? Mr. Meachum and I put our heads together and figured out what trusts might have representatives here in Portland. Fortunately, it’s not New York City or the task would be too daunting.”

  Mae glanced at the closed kitchen door. She began to worry that Mrs. Wiggit might appear to call her in. “I have a minute. What do you need to know?”

  “I’m thinking I’ll start visiting some key dustbins in the city. See if the household help tell of any new visitors from back East. So, I was hoping you might know, for example, who are the representatives of the timber, railroad, investment and utilities trusts. Those seem to be the big ones in Portland.”

  Mae knew, rattling the names off quickly, “William Fenton for timber and railroad, Cyrus Dolph also for the railroad, Abbot Mills for investment banking and, probably, Fred Holman for utilities.”

  They both turned quickly when the door swung wide and Gussie poked her head out to whisper, “Mrs. Wiggit’s wanting to know what’s taking you so long at the dustbin.”

  Herman Eich picked up the shafts of his cart and began trudging up the street. His voice floated back to her:

  I was born to work and laugh and play

  I am the future of my race

  I am the cheated child.

  Mrs. Wiggit’s disapproving frown greeted Mae when she entered the kitchen. “You want to buy off that ragpicker’s cart, that’s fine But, next time, be quick about it,” the cook snapped before turning back to the stove.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mae said, returning to her turnip preparation. Beyond the window the courtyard was emptying as the boys meekly filed back into the building, even though the street gate stood open. Mae watched them, her eyes blinking away tears as the words “cheated child” echoed in her head.

  ELEVEN

  Dispatch: May 9, 1903, President’s train arrives in San Luis Obispo, California.

  “There should be relentless exposure of and attack upon every evil practice, whether in politics, in business, or in social life.” —T.R.

  McAllister’s face was red and his expression eager when he opened Mozart’s front door and stepped inside to shake the raindrops off his hat and coat. Sage seated the lawyer at a small table facing the room. Directly in the lawyer’s line of sight was a much larger table in the opposite corner where a confabulation of Republican bigwigs was underway.

  “Thanks for getting here so quickly,” Sage said, taking the seat opposite the lawyer and signaling the waiter who arrived within moments with two cups of coffee.

  “Mr. Fong said it was important,” McAllister said, “Hey, is he the man who raised the alarm about the fire?”

  “Yup, that’d be Mr. Fong all right.”

  “Thank God, that fire didn’t burn down the house and take the whole neighborhood with it. One of the fellows stopped by this morning. He said they all realize now that it was a crazy thing to do. Maybe, I suppose that ethically, I should report them. But, I’m not going to since the damage was minor and they’ve vowed that they won’t do anything like that again.”

  McAllister chuckled before saying, “They learned their lesson. Your Mr. Fong scared the holy be jesus out of them. They still think it was a ghost that screeched.” McAllister’s blue eyes twinkled. “But enough of the Lynch business, unless that’s why you called me here.”

  “Nope, not Lynch, although things are still progressing satisfactorily. Mrs. Clemens is working inside the BCS and both Mr. Eich and Mr. Fong are staying in close touch with her. Today, though, I asked you here so I could point out the men who are most likely to give shelter to the mastermind of the assassination scheme.”

  McAllister dipped his head at the corner table. “I’m betting you mean it’s one of the men who are sitting at that table over there.”

  Sage nodded, gratified McAllister was so quick on the uptake. “Exactly. I thought maybe, as a new man in town, that you might not be acquainted with our biggest frogs.”

  “Well, you are right on that point,” McAllister said, “The only one I know over there is Fenton and that’s just because he’s my landlord and a fellow lawyer. Friendly man. We’ve tipped a few together. Didn’t know he was a ‘big frog’ though.”

  “One of the biggest. Besides owning your building, he’s in tight with a group who recently ran a timber fraud scam on the federal government. They got indicted for it a few months back. He’s their defense lawyer.” Sage decided he wouldn’t tell McAllister of his own role in obtaining that indictment.

  “More important,” Sage continued, “he’s the one providing the legal grease for the Southern Pacific railroad. It has misused the law to finale over a billion board feet of raw timber from the federal government for itself. At the same time his client works with the other railroad companies to fix rail transport prices so high that the farmers can’t afford to ship their products. Way too many of them are losing their farms because of it.”

  Sage didn’t bother to suppress his bitterness as he said, “Yup, those railroad men are real admirable human beings, one and all. I know you lawyers claim you are just doing your job but to me, that’s an unacceptable excuse for being part of something immoral.”

  “And, yet, Fenton is such a congenial companion.”

  McAllister’s tone was sardonic. “And, you’re right, Adair. Some lawyers have no problem leaving their moral scruples at the door. I just don’t happen to be one of them.”

  Sage smiled warmly at McAllister. Here was another man who recognized the unrelenting hypocrisy of the rich and their hired lackeys. “That white-haired man to Fenton’s left is Cyrus Dolph,” he told the lawyer. “He’s also big into transportation. Owns a couple of wharves. Lately, he’s been dabbling in railroading. He’s a front man for the railroad trusts, but Dolph also owns a big piece of the Portland Hotel. If he’s involved, then he might be the one providing housing for some of the conspirators.”

  “That dark haired man, with the thin face on the other side of Dolph, looks very familiar,” McAllister said.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Abbot Mills. He’s familiar because you see him everywhere with anyone who has money. He’s got eastern connections in the banking industry. If anyone in town speaks for the financial rusts, it is Abbot Mills. He just came off the city’s public works commission. He was its chairman and in that capacity he oversaw the letting of contracts for hay, hardware, sawdust, street paving, sidewalk building and such, as well as those lucrative utility franchises.”

  “Graft?” McAllister asked. “Nothing so crude as dishonest graft. I suspect Mills is expert at what my friend, F. T. Merrill, likes to call ‘honest’ graft. Don’t know how he lined his pockets but I figure he had some kind of angle going on.”

  “And the other two?” McAllister prompted. “The one with the red hair is Fred Holman. He’s another lawyer. His area of expertise is utilities, franchises and regulations. He’s one of the founders of Portland General Electric. Most days, you see the smoke of their coal-fired steam plants down near the river. What’s odd about him sitting at that table is that he’s the only Democrat. But, he’s so important to the city’s financial picture, I guess he’s welcome anywhere.

  “The last guy is also an odd addition because he’s not really involved in the economics of the city. He’s a doctor. Name of ‘Harvey.’ I guess you could call him a doctor to the elite, since he seems to spend most of his time with them. He’s got a summer cottage south of the city at that Waverly golf course that they built not long ago. I’ve heard tell that he’s particularly skilled at the game. That probably accounts for his presence.”

  “So, n
ow that I know who they are, what did you want me to do?” asked McAllister.

  “Well, E.J., since you are the new lawyer in town, I was hoping you would have entreé into their circle and might be able to find out whether any of them are planning to entertain an out-of-town guest. It is certain that every man at that table will hobnob with Roosevelt when he gets here. So, they will be perfectly situated to provide the assassin mastermind with access to the president.”

  “You actually think one of those men might be in on the assassination plot?”

  “No. I don’t think they’d be knowingly involved. But, I think the plotters could find a way to make use of them. Remember, that murdered gal back East told her brother that the mastermind behind the whole plot, the one who’d make sure the assassin had access, is going to be visiting someone here in Portland.”

  “Well, I guess I better start taking Fenton up on his sociable offers. You know, I play a pretty good round of golf myself.”

  When Sage raised an eyebrow, McAllister said, “It was either golf or rowing in college, I can’t swim, so there you have it.”

  McAllister stood up. “Guess I might as well start now,” he said and ambled over to the other table. He was well received, each man raising slightly from his seat to shake the lawyer’s hand. After McAllister had gone on his way, Sage also approached the table.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he greeted them. “Everything satisfactory with your meal?”

  Dolph replied, “It was quite good. Your kitchen is a real competitor to our hotel.”

  “I am flattered that you think so, Mr. Dolph. And, delighted that you favor us with your custom given the excellent food served in the Portland Hotel’s dining room.”

  “Well, I guess I don’t have to tell you that it’s always good to see what the competition’s up to. Besides,” here Dolph leaned forward and winked, “sometimes a man gets tired of the same food day after day no matter how good it is.”