Black Drop

by S. L. Stoner

  At that moment there was a minor commotion at the door as two women arrived. One was a formidable matron with her dark hair neatly divided into two braided buns on each side of her head. She allowed Horace to aid her in removing her coat. As he turned to help the second woman, the first woman gazed around the dining room with pursed lips. Evidently she did not approve of what she saw. Her companion, thin as the matron was rotund, also had a sour frown on her narrow lips. Had she been in the first blush of girlhood, he might have called her a “waif.” As it was, with her unruly hair and lined face, she resembled a stiff, disapproving broomstick.

  Sage started to rise. “Those two look unhappy. I’d better go help Horace.”

  McAllister glanced toward the door and chuckled. “Don’t bother. Those are my clients. We might as well get this over with.”

  Before Sage could puzzle out the meaning of McAllister’s statement, the two women were advancing in quick long strides like avenging angels. Sage and McAllister both leapt to their feet.

  “Mrs. Nora Williams and Miss Rose Trumbull, I’d like you to meet the proprietor of this fine establishment, Mr. John Adair.”

  The heavyset matron, Mrs. Williams, sent Adair a chilly glance but instead of shaking his offered hand, swept aside her skirts and planted her ample behind on a chair. Her companion swiftly followed her example.

  Once seated, Mrs. Williams looked up at Sage, disapproval still writ large across her face and said, “Well, Mr. Adair, if Mr. McAllister insists I meet him here, I might as well make our visit worthwhile. I would appreciate it if you would sit so I don’t have to continue to crane my neck upward at such an awkward angle. It is highly uncomfortable.”

  Sage hastened to obey her command even as he shot an inquiring look toward McAllister whose twitching lips indicated he found the situation amusing. Apparently, the lawyer then felt some remorse because he hastened to explain, “These two estimable ladies are officers of our local White Ribbon Society.”

  Sure enough, each woman’s sported a tiny white bow pinned to her lapel. “White Ribbon Society?” he repeated, uncertain what mission that organization might have.

  “Well, really, Mr. Adair. I am not surprised that you might be ignorant of our good works. Undoubtedly, you are too busy imbibing and purveying King Alcohol to pay any attention to those of us who seek its banishment from the life of our community!” Mrs. Williams said before again pursing her lips shut.

  Sage looked at McAllister who grinned at him. Temperance women. These clients of McAllister’s were temperance women.

  McAllister looked at the two women but his words were directed at Sage, “I have informed my clients that I drink alcohol on occasion but not to excess. One of my conditions to providing them with discounted legal services is that they can only proselytize me on the subject once a month on the 15th day. Additionally, in exchange for meeting here and letting me buy them dinner, I agreed that they could each speak their mind to you about Mozart’s serving of wine provided they do so briefly and, only once, before we order dinner.”

  Sage felt his eyebrows crawl up toward his hairline before relaxing back down into place. He turned to the two women.

  “Please state your opinions, ladies. We have some very good dishes this evening and I am sure you are hungry.”

  Despite Sage’s gracious tone, the Williams woman did not unbend. If anything, her nose raised further in the air and she bit off her words with a snap, “Very well, since Mr. McAllister has correctly stated our arrangement, I will proceed.”

  She paused to stare around the room. Sage looked too and saw that a number of patrons were enjoying crystal goblets of wine with their meals. Light glinting in the ruby and gold liquids gave the drinks a shimmering beauty. He thought it most unlikely, however, that the sight would arouse Mrs. William’s esthetic appreciations. He was right.

  “I see here that you have invested a great deal of effort and money to make this an elegant establishment,” Mrs. Williams said. “Then you ruin it by throwing wide its doors to the evil influence of the demon drink.”

  “I don’t see anyone in this room displaying any indication of being under the influence of the demon drink,” Sage said, his tone mild. He could afford to relax since he knew McAllister had promised that this particular confrontation was to be of limited duration.

  From beside him, Miss Trumbull spoke for the first time, her soft voice intoning, “‘To rise in might and cast the evil out that slays the Christ life.’ That is what we in the White Ribbon Society are striving to accomplish.”

  Sage turned to her. “Please tell me of some of your recent activities.”

  Her thin cheeks flushed and she said proudly, “Mrs. Williams and I just returned from an evangelistic trip to Wallowa country. We are forming a new chapter there.”

  Mrs. Williams interrupted, snapping, “Really Rose, Mr. Adair is merely trying to distract us from our mission here.” She turned to him. “I officially ask, as the superintendent of the Society’s Sunday school and commercial work sections, that you cease and desist from serving alcohol within this establishment!”

  Sage scooted back his chair and said, “Ladies, I respect what you are attempting to accomplish. Too many men drown their sorrows in alcohol. Too many women and children suffer pain and hunger because of it. But, I must say, many people responsibly enjoy alcohol periodically without any negative effect on themselves or their families or society. For that reason, I must respectfully decline your request.” He started to rise but McAllister gestured him down.

  Mrs. Williams sniffed and said, “That is exactly the self-serving, bullheaded response I expected.” She turned to McAllister to say, “We may as well order now.” Miss Trumbull sent a shy smile toward Sage and her checks colored again when he returned the smile.

  “Oh, really, Rose,” chastised Mrs. Williams who’d seen the exchange. In response, the timid spinster’s blush turned crimson and she looked down at her gloved hands that started twisting in her lap.

  McAllister cleared his throat and said, “Ah, before Mr. Adair returns to his duties, Mrs. Williams, I was hoping you’d tell him of your more recent activities about Portland.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “We have decided that the public needs to be educated about the most serious dens of inequity plaguing our working men. The members of our organization have voted to become picketers! We have spent the afternoon creating slogans for the signs. Ms. Trumbull and I have engaged a sign artist who has offered to paint the signs for free–we will supply him with the required materials, of course. We have quite a healthy bank account thanks to contributions from others who seek a sober, God-fearing society.” She sat back in her chair clearly satisfied with the Society’s new direction and her role in bringing it to fruition.

  Sage contemplated the vision–hordes of sign-waving women congregating outside saloon doors, their voices shrill with righteous indignation. He felt a pang of sympathy toward the unsuspecting saloon keepers and the patrons who would soon find themselves having to thread their way amongst the temperance movement’s bonneted and gloved foot soldiers. Too bad they didn’t put all that emotional indignation to better use, like protesting child labor or starvation wages or the forced overcrowding in Chinatown or. . . .” The idea burst into his brain with the suddenness of photographic flash powder.

  “Tell me,” he asked, striving to keep his tone mild, “how does the White Ribbon Society feel about child prostitution?” Miss Trumbull’s gasp slipped out before she could stifle it with her dinner napkin.

  Mrs. Williams was made of sterner stuff. Although two bright spots of red flamed on her cheeks, she said briskly, “It is an abomination! Of course, we loathe it! I am surprised that you think you have to ask such a question.”

  He glanced at McAllister and saw that the other man was grinning yet again–this time with a look of satisfaction in his eyes. The lawyer had already hit upon the idea. That’s why he’d brought the women here. The rogue!

  Out of the corner of his
eye, Sage caught the movement of the kitchen door swinging open. That was nothing new since it swung to and fro all night long as the waiters went in and out. But, unusually, the door had been eased open. This fact alone made Sage turn his head to look more closely in that direction. Fong stepped into the dining room and stood there, to one side of the door. He wore his customary black tunic and trousers but not the apron. Nor was he holding a busboy tray. Clearly Fong was not there to work. But it wasn’t the absence of these trappings that made Sage catch his breath. It was the paleness of the other man’s face and the enlarged black of his eyes. Something was terribly wrong. Sage fought the urge to jump up. Fong looked at Sage, then up at the ceiling before stepping back into the kitchen.

  Forcing his attention back to the table, Sage was aware the women had not stopped talking. He locked gazes with McAllister. From the lawyer’s intense scrutiny, it was clear he had also observed Fong’s tense state as well. “Excuse me, ladies. There is a pressing matter I must see to.” He bowed, saying “Mr. McAllister, I trust that you will be able to carry on the discussion without me?”

  McAllister stood and held out his hand for Sage to shake. “You can rely upon that with every confidence, Mr. Adair. I will endeavor to bring the matter to these ladies’ attention in the fervent hope of obtaining a satisfactory outcome.”

  Sage turned back to the two women whose faces expressed mystification at the men’s oblique exchange, “Ladies,” he said, bowing. “I will send you a contribution in support of your efforts and I will continue to ensure that Mozart’s does all it can to discourage public drunkenness.” He bowed again, turned on his heel and strode toward the stairs. He had to force himself to mount them at a measured pace when, in fact, every muscle in his legs demanded to be let loose to charge up them, two at a time–which is what happened once he’d passed from the sight of those in the dining room below.

  Rushing upwards, he had a dreadful premonition that disastrous news awaited him. Fong’s bleak face, so different from its customary placidity, had signaled that whatever news awaited, it was not good.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Dispatch: May 17, 1903, President breaks camp in Yosemite Valley, California.

  “A man who is good enough to shed his blood for the country is good enough to be given a square deal afterwards . . . When I speak of ‘square deal’ . . . I mean not only that each man should act fairly under the rules of the game . . . but I mean also that if the rules of the game give improper advantage to some set of people, then let us change the rules of the game.” —T.R.

  When he reached his room, Sage threw open the door only to find the space empty. He didn’t hesitate but headed for the attic stairs. Once he reached the polished wood floor of the exercise space, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light from a single flickering candle. In that near blackness he saw Fong. The other man was moving through the form of the snake and crane but at a speed that made him a whirling dark blur. Normally, the movements of the snake and crane were slow, studied and deliberate. Fong, however, was a whirling demon, his speed and snap revealing the power of each carefully constructed move. Each thrust, kick and roll back was calculated to vanquish the enemy in at least ten different ways. Then the blur came to rest. Fong crossed his arms in front of his body, separated them and allowed them to flat down until his hands were at rest beside his legs. He stood motionless for a full minute–allowing the power of his movement to subside back into calm.

  Fong turned, gestured toward the floor cushion beside the low table where the candle sat, its yellow flame flaring and flowing with the room’s faint stirrings of air. Sage sat and Fong also lowered down onto the only other cushion in the room. Fong’s face gleamed a rich honey gold in the candlelight. The bleak look still lingered in his dark eyes, but the exercise had returned calm to his features.

  “Bad news, I take it.” Sage said in a low voice. The older man’s face was a graven mask the color of bleached yellow pine. He said, “Mr. Sage, they catch Mr. Meachum.” Sage let the breath he was holding whoosh from his lungs.

  “He’s dead then?” A wave of grief rushed into Sage’s heart carrying memories of Meachum’s brave deeds and wise advice. He’d told Sage to find something rewarding to do in addition to saving the world. Meachum shared that he spent his own free time crafting fine furniture. Thanks to Meachum, Sage had come to experience deep satisfaction from the growing of flowers. Sage glanced up through the skylight, glimpsing the flower boxes he planned to tend throughout the summer months. What was he going to tell Meachum’s wife and children? And St. Alban? How could they successfully complete the mission? Did they have any hope of saving Roosevelt without Meachum’s help?

  “I don’t think Mr. Meachum is dead yet,” Fong said softly. The relief was immense, Sage felt a smile start across his face but he let it fade when he saw that the other man’s face still set in stoic grimness. A thought cross his mind and he spoke it, “Something happened to one of your men, is that it?”

  Fong lips tightened and then he said, “Choi Ji was standing guard outside the saloon where Mr. Meachum was meeting with one of his men. Another man was in back of saloon, making sure no one forced Mr. Meachum out that way. When nothing happen for long time, man in back go to front. He found Ji lying behind trash can, knife in between ribs, hands cut and bruised. He fight very hard.”

  His gaze traveled around the room, but Sage didn’t see it. Instead, he saw the body of a young, slender, black-clad Chinese man curled in pain. “Is Ji dead?” he forced himself to ask.

  Fong didn’t answer directly. Instead he said, “Choi Ji was nephew who recently traveled here from China to be with me. Mother is my younger sister.”

  Fong’s use of the past tense caught Sage’s ear. Choi Ji was dead. “Fong, I am so sorry.”

  His friend didn’t answer, merely dipped his head, silently accepting Sage’s sympathy. After that they sat silent, each absorbed with his own thoughts.

  Finally, Fong cleared his throat, “I think they have not killed Meachum. They have followed him for ten days. They know he has help from Chinese. They know he meet with his own men. They know some other man, you, Mr. Sage, also helping. Before they kill him, they will want whole story,” he said. “They will want to know about us.”

  The coldness in Fong’s tone made Sage look toward him. That face was still, expressionless, a distant stare, a warrior’s face. Sage stood and began pacing. Fong was right. Their opponents couldn’t take the chance that there were still others intent on thwarting the assassination. That meant there was time to discover where they’d imprisoned the Flying Squadron’s leader. As for Meachum’s team, it was going to be hard to keep them looking for the assassin, the gang of rowdies who were to create a distraction and the one man who’d be in position to trigger the whole dastardly sequence of events.

  That thought triggered a question. He hadn’t had a chance to ask McAllister if he’d learned any more about who would be present on that platform. Obviously, the man they hunted was one of the attendees. He’d be in the perfect position to signal the assassin when to throw the bomb at Roosevelt. Another thought came to Sage. According to their prisoner, who was now aboard a coastal steamer heading south, the man from back East was supposed to have arrived today. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the violence had suddenly escalated into murder and kidnapping.

  “What do you think we should do?” he asked, turning to Fong.

  “First we need to find M. Meachum before it is too late. Also, we must not stop trying to find the assassin. And there is new man in town. I think he is maybe reason my nephew . . . .”

  Fong didn’t continue and that long-distance stare was back. After a moment’s silence, Sage hesitantly asked the crucial question, “Will your men keep helping us?” For the first time, Fong smiled. It was an arctic smile, one that promised death was in the offing. “More men will help now. I already ask other tongs for help.”

  “But I thought the tongs warred against each other.” Fong stood
and faced Sage squarely. “Tongs many times at war. But I am their peacemaker. For me, they will do as I ask, even make peace so they can fight side by side. China men might battle between selves, but when it comes to white man, we become one, a clenched fist They already on the streets, asking in North End if anyone saw one man being led by others. Finding Mr. Meachum is their mission. You . . .” here he pointed at Sage’s chest, “must go talk to Meachum’s men. I sent message that you will be at Slap Jack’s saloon at ten o’clock tonight.”

  Sage pulled his gold pocket watch from his vest pocket. “Crikey, as Matthew would say, I best get cracking.” His own mention of the boy reminded him that Fong knew nothing of the rescue planned for the early morning hours. He filed Fong in on the plan and timetable for its execution.

  “That boy very determined. He make himself good part of team. I will try to be there tomorrow in morning but I cannot promise. Meachum is much harder problem. Matthew has plenty of help.”

  “I agree. Meachum is your priority. I’m going to change my clothes, stop and see Solomon at the New Elijah and then head down to Slap Jack’s.” Sage turned toward the door and took a few steps before turning back. “I am really sorry about your nephew. Nothing can soften the pain of his loss but I do want to help. If you permit, I will send something to his mother.”

  “Choi Ji departed a warrior. I will tell his mother. Money will also help because he has wife and child in China. His dream was to send money home to buy small farm, make many more children and die an old man with many grandchildren. Now that is lost. All lost.” Fong’s voice was hollow with grief. He shifted and seemed to square his shoulders, “Can do nothing to bring him back. But I will make sure his killer does not go free. Hurry, we must go.”

  They left the attic. When they reached the third floor hallway Sage asked, “What did Ji’s name mean?”