by S. L. Stoner
The client was not reassured. “To hell with the Dickenson company. What are St. Alban’s plans? He’s the one to worry about. He knows too much of our plan and those damn union sympathizers are everywhere. Has he conveyed his information to the Secret Service?”
“My contact doesn’t think so. St. Alban is skeptical of the Secret Service’s willingness to treat the threat seriously or to handle it correctly even if they do believe it exists–which is justified since the alert would be coming from a labor union leader,” he said, taking out a slim cigar and lighting it. “And remember, St. Alban doesn’t have any proof to show them. Just secondhand information from a dead prostitute.” The memory of those wildly rolling eyes in the moments before the woman died seized hold of the mercenary’s mind before he could blank it away.
His client shifted on the bench. “What are St. Alban plans? Spit it out. I don’t appreciate getting my information piecemeal.
Like I said, this is not one of those penny dreadful booklets you Americans waste your time on.” His snippy tone managed to convey irritation, insult and threat.
The mercenary found that he’d slid forward on the bench again. He stayed there, saying with forced calmness, “Like I told you last time, St. Alban has sent one of his trusted lieutenants out to Portland. He’s supposed to work with some of the locals out there to find our lcal contact and prevent the assassination.”
“Who is this lieutenant of your so-called Saint? Do you know any more about him than you did two days ago?” Anger made the client’s accent more clipped, guttural and imperious.
“I know a lot more. All I need. His name’s Meachum and I’ve got a good description. My men are already out there. We wanted them in place long before the Secret Service and local police went on the lookout for unsavory strangers. I telegraphed them his description so they are already hunting for this Meachum character. They’ll find him and put him out of action. Maybe they already have.”
“Vell, they damn well better find him and stop him. I’m not afraid of the police or the Secret Service. They won’t suspect a plot involving so many people. They’re going to be on the lookout for a single, crazed fanatic. But St. Alban and his man know different. They are the real threat.” That word hung between them, midst the sound of a barking dog and a playing child’s shrieks.
The client turned to face the mercenary straight on. “We cannot fail in our mission. The men at the top, my bosses, will not accept failure–mine or yours,” he said. For the first time, the mercenary detected fear in the man’s voice.
They both rose to their feet. The client carefully stripped off his gloves and shoved them into the empty paper sack. He looked at the pigeon flock and smiled.
“I thought you didn’t like pigeons,” the mercenary commented.
“I hate them. They are disgusting vermin.” Then awareness sharpened the client’s eyes. “Do not be a fool. There vas strychnine on that corn,” he snapped, turned on his heel and strode off without looking back, pausing only to drop the empty bag with its leather gloves into a trash can.
“Thought you said it wasn’t ‘sporting’ to poison them,” the mercenary mimicked the guttural accent in a low voice. “Don’t know why you think you can come here and kill our birds,” he said a little louder, braver now that the client was beyond hearing range. Then he thought of how much money the client was paying him for this job.
“On the other hand, they are just vermin,” he told himself as he stepped off in the opposite direction without a backward glance at the doomed birds.
* * *
Portland, Oregon May 11, 1903
“Hey, this beer is way better than usual,” Sage commented to the barkeep as soon as the man had moved close enough to hear over the din. The saloon had invested in a row of electric globes that lit up the room. It was a good commercial decision since the place was packed. Many customers were taking advantage of the brighter light to play card games.
“Glad you like it. My uncle makes it in the cellar of his saloon out Silverton way.”
“Bet your uncle’s name is Einar. I thought this had a familiar taste.”
“You know my uncle?” The barkeep looked pleased.
“I had the pleasure of drinking his beer last summer. Spent the night there with him and your aunt.”
“That’d be my Aunt Pru. She rules the roost. Hey, my name’s Mike.” The barkeep switched his rag to his other hand and shook Sage’s with a firm, friendly grip.
“All I can say about your Aunt Pru is she sure can cook.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “You have any of her pie?”
When Sage shook his head, Mike said, “That’s too bad. My mom always says Pru is the best cook in the family and Ma’s cooking is pretty damn good.”
His chitchat with Mike the barkeep postponed his worry over Meachum’s failure to appear. But even so, their conversation ran dry before the beer was gone from the mug’s bottom. By midpoint in his second beer, Sage was shifting on his feet, trying to ease the building tension in his limbs. A minute later, Meachum walked through the door and Sage exhaled his relief with a whoosh.
He signaled Mike for another beer and once it arrived, Meachum took a gulp, wiping the foam off his lips with his sleeve.
“Where’ve you been, Meach?” Sage asked. “I was starting to get worried. How come your face is red?”
“It’s red because I just crawled over the back fence. Whew, I must have ate too much this winter.”
“Was there a particular reason you climbed over the fence? Or are you just practicing your freight-hopping skills?”
“It felt like someone was following me but, when I looked back, I didn’t see anybody in particular. I decided to act like I was being followed, just in case. Didn’t want to lead them to you.”
Sage straightened, took a look at the other patrons in the saloon and tried to remember if anyone had followed Meachum in.
Meachum shook his head. “I’ve been watching that door ever since I got here,” he said, nodding at the huge mirror behind the bar. By looking straight ahead, it was possible to watch the saloon’s front entrance. “Nobody followed me in.”
“Why did you think someone was trailing you?”
Meachum took another gulp. “It’s this feeling I get. Like my tail bone’s suddenly sat itself down in a mound of snow. I’ve learned to pay attention to it.”
“Mister Fong says that’s about knowing, without the knowing why.”
“It’s kept me ahead of the fox hounds more than once,” Meachum said as he rolled the glass between his palms. He looked up, cleared his throat, and said in a stronger voice, “Anyway, we haven’t had much luck tracking down any small group of would-be assassin accomplices. Tomorrow we’re going to hit the public baths, the cheap food places and some of the boarding houses. We figure that wherever they are, they’re likely hanging out together.”
Sage told Meachum about the happenings at the BCS and also about McAllister’s plans to infiltrate the group of trust representatives who were busy planning Roosevelt’s visit. Sage stayed silent about McAllister’s private life. Meachum was no innocent. Men being with other men wasn’t all that unusual in this part of the country where males outnumbered females fifteen to one. Still, that was McAllister’s secret to tell.
Sage waited a minute after Meachum left before following him out the door. He reached the sidewalk just in time to see Meachum turn the corner. Sage picked up his pace. He intended to follow the man all the way to his hotel. When he reached the corner and looked up the street, Meachum was nowhere in sight. Yet his hotel was at least three blocks farther on.
Sage began stepping softly along the edges of the boardwalk, staying close to the front of the brick building that housed an outfitter’s store. Reaching the front door alcove he paused to listen. Nothing. Only silence. He peered through the glass door into darkness, seeing nothing to indicate Meachum had been forced inside. He quickly moved along the boardwalk. As he reached the building’s corner, he hea
rd the distinct sound of a bottle smashing. Someone was there in the dark, alongside the building, back where the only light came from the street.
He slid around the corner, keeping his back pressed against the brick. Stepping with great deliberation, he tried not to alert those at the rear of the building to his presence. His eyes at last dilated so that he could make out three human figures. He froze. They couldn’t help but see his figure outlined against the brighter light out on the street. But they didn’t rush toward him. Straining to see, he realized that all three were facing away from him. They were looking instead at a man they’d trapped at the alley’s end, only the pale outline of his face visible. Meachum, it must be Meachum. A high wooden fence was at his back. His hand clutched the end of a broken whiskey bottle. As Sage watched, that same hand moved awkwardly to press against his other arm that dangled limply at his side. Meachum was hurt.
“You mugs are real brave, aren’t you,” the injured man taunted, “three against one.”
“Don’t take it personal, Meachum, just doin’ our job,” said one of the three.
Sage silently stepped toward the middle of the alley and advanced on the tableau. He wasn’t worried that Meachum’s attackers would turn to see him. Their attention remained fixed on their prey with the intensity of cats studying a cornered mouse.
Wordlessly, the three men stepped apart until they stood evenly spaced across the alley. Their movements were relaxed, calm, practiced.
Sage moved soundlessly forward. He could hear Fong’s words whispering in his head, “Surprise is very important strategy. Make best of it.”
The man in the middle staggered, whirling away to crash against the wall, when Sage’s heel kick landed in the center of his back. He recovered quickly, however, because in the next instant, the man’s left hand held a knife. Steel glittered in the faint light bright as a newly minted coin dropped into an empty coal bucket.
FIFTEEN
Dispatch: May 12, 1903, President’s train arrives in San Francisco, California.
“No people is wholly civilized where a distinction is drawn between stealing an office and stealing a purse.” —T.R.
Sage quickly stepped back. The man’s knife was a bear sticker, not a potato peeler. The blade looked nine inches long and needle sharp. Fear gripped him momentarily only to be edged out by a vivid memory. There’d been a session with Fong where they had practiced with wooden knives. Fong’s calm words were part of that memory, “Mind must control body. If mind sticks to knife, knife will cut you. If mind freezes at sight of knife, body freezes too. Keep mind moving past knife, to opponent’s body. You stop body, you stop knife.”
That thought cleared the fear from his mind, just as if a door opened to let in a blast of wind. Sage looked beyond the blade at the attacker’s stance, the balance of his body. It showed an unpreparedness, a sloppy over-dependence on his weapon. His attacker lunged forward, knife point aimed at Sage’s stomach. Sage twisted his body to the left. With his left hand he grabbed the attacker’s knife wrist and pulled down. The blade flashd past Sage’s belly and kept on going. Sage stepped forward, placing his right foot behind the man’s left leg just as his right arm shot up to shove against the man’s left shoulder. Sage’s right leg flxed against the back of the man’s left leg, uprooting him. The attacker was down on the ground, his knife clattering away into the dark. A passable “slant flying” maneuver, Sage noted.
His attacker didn’t stay down. He regained his feet, but now had no knife. The man began shuffling warily towards Sage. At the edges of his vision, Sage registered that the two other bad guys stood immobile, whether in shock or merely to wait for their friend’s eventual triumph wasn’t clear. He also saw that Meachum had slid down the fence to sit on the ground, his good hand pressing against his upper arm, the top of the broken whiskey bottle now at his side.
The only near sounds breaking the silence were the scrape of the attacker’s boots as he cautiously advanced and his labored breathing. Sage noticed that his own breath was deep and steady. Good. Fong would approve.
The other man’s hat had fallen off his head so that, for the first time, Sage could see his face. It was expressionless, cold, professional. But a glittering from the heart of his deep eye sockets telegraphed anger.
“Good,” Sage thought. “Easy to fool an angry mind with fake action. Surprise is weapon.” Another of Fong’s sayings. Sage moved his left foot forward to rest softly on the ground. He extended his left arm in front of his face, as if readying to block a blow. His attacker saw this as an opportunity. He grabbed Sage’s wrist and reared his right arm back to increase the power of the punch he planned to deliver into Sage’s face.
Sage’s mind imagined and his body reacted. His left hand raised and rotated until his palm faced upwards. The first move
in “step back, repulse monkey.” That action reversed the grab.
Now it was Sage’s hand gripping the other’s wrist even as Sage’s left leg lifted and stepped back, sinking his weight to the rear. Once again, the attacker fell forward, out of control. A firm right hand into his armpit and he hit the ground once again. This time, it took him longer to gain his footing. There was a rustle as the other two attackers shifted their weight. Still, they didn’t move forward, they seemed uncertain about whether to join the fray.
This time the attacker staggered when he regained his feet. His left swing was so clumsy that Sage easily intercepted it with his right forearm. Even as he did so, he rolled back, pulling the attacker down and to the left. Sage’s left knee snapped up into the man’s groin as he held the man’s arm low. As the man sagged toward the ground, Sage twisted the arm sharply and heard a crack as the elbow dislocated. The man dropped to the ground with a guttural scream. He was out of commission. His cry finally spurred the other two men into action. They began cautiously advancing.
Sage glanced toward Meachum who slumped motionless but his eyes were open and alert. Sage switched his attention back to the remaining two attackers. He stepped back. Maybe a “Sweeping Lotus” kick could drop one of them quickly if he managed to hit a knee. His own breathing was heavier but he released that thought. A clear mind. That’s what he needed.
The attackers were on either side now. This was going to be tricky. He couldn’t watch both of them at the same time. “No” Fong’s voice said, don’t just “watch.” Instead, “open all senses.” Sage flicked away all thoughts of the pain that might come and once again, Fong’s voice was there, “Be brave, do not hesitate.”
Just as he stepped back, loosened his waist and lowered his shoulders a puff of air hit the left side of his face. Even as he whirled to meet this new threat, the moving air had transformed itself into Fong. He swiftly glided past Sage with the grace of a fish though calm water. In the dim light, the Chinese man’s impassive face conveyed a warrior’s intensity–his half-lidded eyes focused on nothing, seeing everything as he stood in front of the downed Meachum and faced the two men. Then Fong was a black blur, every limb slicing through the air. Hard flesh smacked soft, followed by “oofs” of expelled air and finally high-pitched screams as bones cracked. All in less than a minute.
Now all three attackers were writhing on the ground. But not for long. Each man struggled upright, using only three sound limbs. Seconds later, the three had staggered out the alley’s end and vanished from sight. Sage and Fong watched them go.
“Lord have mercy,” came Meachum’s weak voice from where he still sat on the ground. “Mr. Fong, I have never seen the like. You nearly killed them with one blow. And you, Adair, I thought you were a gonner. The guy with the knife was fast. He got me before I ever saw it.”
“Yes, he is not bad student,” Fong said, giving Sage a pat on the shoulder.
Sage rolled his eyes at his teacher, who merely smiled at him before commenting with smug satisfaction, “One has broke arm, two have broke foots. Should be easy to spot.”
Meachum closed his eyes. An inspection of his wound in the dim alley showed that
blood still flowed from a cut in his coat sleeve. He was only partially conscious as Sage and Fong hefted him to his feet. Like three drunks, they staggered, their arms wrapped about each other, down the alley and toward the street. Meachum’s feet trailed more than stepped.
Fortunately, the New Elijah hotel was just a few blocks away. When Angus Solomon wasn’t seating privileged white patrons in the Portland Hotel’s exclusive dining room, he was at the New Elijah. That hotel provided bed and board to a steady stream of black porters whose railroading work regularly took them through Portland.
While Sage waited outside with Meachum, in yet another North End alley, Fong slipped into the hotel’s kitchen. Minutes later, Fong opened a side door, stuck his head out and beckoned them inside. A few steps more and they were in Solomon’s apartment on the hotel’s ground floor, just to the left side of the front desk. Solomon guided Meachum to a brocade divan and covered him with a blanket.
Like an angel of mercy, Miz Esther immediately appeared. She carried strips of torn but clean cotton cloth and a tin basin of warm water. The touch of her hands looked gentle as a mother’s with her newborn babe. Her rich voice kept up a soft murmur as she cut away Meachum’s coat and shirt. Meachum groaned when she finally freed his arm. She began to carefully clean the stab wound that slashed a long tear down the thick part of Meachum’s upper arm.
