by S. L. Stoner
“What about that new boy, Matthew? You seen him around this morning?”
Putting her spoon down, Ms. Wiggit turned to face the Cap’n. Her voice was loud and firm as she said, “He dropped off some coal like he always does. Good thing too, we didn’t have time to fetch it ourselves.” The cook spoke the truth, but not all of the truth. Mrs. Wiggit could have also said that, right after Matthew had delivered the coal, Mae Clemens had mumbled about needing to use the “necessary” and disappeared for a good five minutes or more. But the cook stayed silent about that little absence. She picked up her spoon and began stirring once again, as if Cap’n Branch had already left the kitchen. But he hadn’t. For one long minute he stood there, glaring first at the cook, then at Mae and then scanning the entire room as if hunting for something. Finally, without another word, he twirled on his heel and exited, slamming the door shut behind him.
Mae relaxed only to stiffen, as an outraged Andy said so loudly that it would have traveled all the way to the back rows of a theater, “Mama lied to Cap’n.”
Mrs. Wiggit’s shoulders rose and fell as though with a heavy sigh. She turned again from the stove. “Gussie,” she said to the girl who’d emerged from her hiding corner in the alcove, “Take Andy outside for a walk around the block, please.” This request triggered a scurry of activity around Mae’s feet as Andy scooted out from under the table. Gussie quickly helped the boy on with his jacket and donned her own. A mid-morning walk was a treat for both of them. They wasted no time exiting the kitchen.
Mae’s shoulders tensed as she watched Mrs. Wiggit carefully move her pot to the cooler end of the cookstove. Then she turned, walked to the table and sat. She silently studied Mae who met the cook’s eyes with what she hoped was a steady gaze.
“Well, Mrs. Clemens, do you think I should know what you and that young Matthew are up to or is it better that you just keep me ignorant? ‘Cause I have to tell you, if the Cap’n finds out I lied to protect you, Andy and I will have no place to live. You want that on your conscience?”
* * *
Eich’s cart rolled across Chinatown’s cobblestones feeling only a slightly lighter than it had a few hours ago. The boy had weighed so little. Eich had realized that when he’d unloaded Ollie at the back door of the Fong’s provision shop. The boy was slender to the point that he was all sharp angles. He’d been breathing but, unconscious, when McAllister had laid him in Eich’s cart. The boy’s head lolled against Eich’s shoulder when the ragpicker carried him inside.
Mae’s plan worked perfectly. Eich had stationed himself and his cart at the mouth of the narrow walkway that lay between the high brick walls of the BCS building and its neighbor. Before he had time to worry, McAllister was hurrying forward out of the gloom, a slender body draped across his arms. The lawyer’s lips were pressed in a grim line that didn’t ease even at the sight of Eich standing ready.
“This is that boy named Ollie,” he whispered to Eich from the gap between the buildings. “Young Matthew recognized him.” The lawyer’s voice was low but thick with suppressed anger.
The ragpicker surveyed the street, saw no one and lifted the tarp. McAllister stepped out of the gloom and settled the boy into the nest of blankets Eich had prepared. Eich quickly dropped another blanket atop the boy and tied the tarp back down.
“I got to get back inside. I need to keep an eye on Matthew. A strange man was wandering the hallways. I get the sense that he’s somehow tied to Cap’n Branch’s business since I saw him heading up to the third floor where they don’t permit others. And no wonder, since that’s where they’re holding their prisoners.”
Prisoners. McAllister was right. Those boys were being kept subdued and locked away on the third floor. That definitely made them prisoners.
Sipping green tea in the Fong’s living quarters behind the shop, Eich had waited for Ollie to regain consciousness. If he hadn’t stayed, the boy might have panicked upon discovering himself somewhere in Chinatown, surrounded by Asiatic faces. Given all that had happened to him, Ollie’s mind might have leapt to the worst possible explanation, despite the tiny Mrs. Fong’s gentle reassurances.
That threat was past. Eich had been right there when Ollie’s vivid green eyes had fluttered open. The boy knew that he was now, at last, safe. When Eich had left, the boy had been shoveling down his second bowl of rice, the pink starting to tinge his pale cheeks. In between mouthfuls he said he’d been caught trying to free the other boys on the third floor. He also told Eich that only the Cap’n and his henchman were involved in selling the boys. The citizens who sat on the BCS board seemed to know nothing about the Cap’n’s dirty little sideline business.
The ragpicker’s cart left the exotic street with its splashes of red and gold behind. “It was a successful mission all and all,” he mused. The boy was safe. Matthew, Mae and McAllister were also still safe so far as he knew.
His satisfaction was momentary. A recollection he’d suppressed made its way to the surface. It had been after he’d rolled the cart across the street that fronted the BCS. Just before he’d passed beyond sight of the building, he’d paused, turned and surveyed the scene. Everything had looked normal. As he turned back forward, the corner of his eye caught sight of a dark figure standing at an uncurtained third floor window. Before he could squint to see better, the figure disappeared.
“Unsettling,” Eich muttered to himself before softly paraphrasing Shakespeare, “Black, suspicious, threatening cloud.” Should he try to get word to Mae right away? Problem was, it was too soon to return to the vicinity of the BCS. The sight of his cart might stir the memory of those who, by now, were hunting for the missing Ollie. He shook off his unease, reaching for another of the Bard’s quotes, this time a reassuring one. “‘Be not afraid of shadows,” he chided himself as he raised his bearded face to the moving mosaic of fleecy clouds were drifting across a deep blue sky.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Dispatch: May 17, 1903, President’s train arrives in Reno, Nevada.
“In our modern industrial system the union is just as necessary as the corporation, and in the modern field of industrialization it is often an absolute necessity that there should be collective bargaining.” —T.R.
“I don’t give a damn about your problems. I have one purpose for being here in this dripping backwater and one purpose only. Your job, my friend, is to make damn sure our mission is successful. I’ve already had to step in to clean up the mess you made. Lucky for us all, I only had to kill a Chink. If it had been a white man, it could have brought the entire police force down on us.
And maybe even all those Dickenson and Secret Service operatives they’ve got hanging around every street corner.” His companion opened his mouth to protest but the angry flow of words beat him back, “You keep that pie-hole of yours shut and listen to me. We thought this podunk town was so far from D.C. that we wouldn’t have to worry about any interference. But no, I get to town and what do I find?
The other man didn’t open his mouth. His double chin quivered and his face reddened with frustration but he kept his “pie hole” shut as instructed. After all, he was staring into the face of a furious killer.
That killer went on to answer his own question. “What I find is that in addition to the city and state police, Dickenson’s and Secret Service operatives, all of whom we expected and can handle, there is also this rogue union group that has somehow hooked up with the Chinese. Why they’re involved is beyond me. Roosevelt hates Chinamen.” He fell silent, his brow wrinkling as he thought over the situation.
“We’ve got that Meachum fellow tied up,” he went on, his tone less strident. “I bet he knows everything we need to know and then some. You send that sidekick clown of yours down to soften him up. I’ll be along later to get the information out of Meachum or make sure he dies from the trying. You got that? You think you can manage to do at least that much?”
The other man nodded and started to relax only to tighten up again when he realized the killer wasn�
�t through instructing.
“And get our hoity-toity friend over here. Tonight. It’s about time he earns that gravy he’s been getting from our friends back East. They own him. He better show his gratitude and deliver on their investment.”
* * *
The workmen arrived on the job site just before sunrise. Flames had scorched the upstairs walls and blackened the fresh paint. Their boss had told them that the owner wanted the plaster down and replaced in record time. It was going to be an elegant house once it was finished. There was crown molding, a porcelain-tile fireplace in the downstairs parlor and another in one of the upstairs bedrooms. One funny thing was the great big bathtub. They’d laughed about its size, speculating that the owner and his missus plan to frolic in the suds.
The early morning had brightened into a uniform grayness when they decided to stop plastering and rest their backs. Shambling onto the covered front porch, the workman were astonished at the sight of six women striding back and forth on the sidewalk before the house. Each woman gripped a picket sign in her gloved hand. Of the four workmen on the porch, only the foreman could parse out the words. He slowly sounded them out so they’d all know the messages: “House of Ill Repute Not Welcome, ” and “Begone Abomination” were just two of the sayings.
The workman chuckled. Well, that explained the oversized bathtub. Portland had hundreds of whorehouses, what was one more? Besides, it was a job and construction jobs were hard to come by what with all the rain that had fallen the past year.
“Men, don’t spend your honest labor to further abuse and torment,” shouted one of the ladies who, while looking demure in her bonnet, hollered shrill as any fishwife.
One of the men on the porch, shouted back, “Ah, go on. A whore’s got to live somewhere.” The men all trooped back into the house, laughing at their companion’s witty rejoinder.
By noon, the group of six women had grown into a crowd of twenty-five. Without discussion, the four workmen chose to eat their lunch in the backyard while sitting on a stack of old boards they’d pulled from the walls during the original remodel. Even from this distance, they could hear shouts floating over the rooftop and along the sides of the house. Their faces were glum as they silently smoked their hand-rolleds, each contemplating the likely loss of their jobs if the protest didn’t stop.
By mid-afternoon they couldn’t ignore the crowd out front. It had grown, augmented by near neighbors who apparently didn’t want their school children walking by a house of prostitution. The increasing numbers and noise outside on the street had the four of them exchanging worried looks. Their worry was justified. From downstairs came the sound of a rock hitting the front window glass and busting it to bits.
“Well, boys,” said their foreman. “I guess it’s time to find the local policeman and put a stop to that hullabaloo.”
They followed him down the stairs and stood in the doorway as the foremen approached one of the women picketers. At first, the foreman waved his arm, gesturing for the group to move on down the street. Then they saw his arm drop and his shoulders sag as if all his bluster had leaked out of him. He turned and looked at his three men whose curiosity had spurred them to the porch edge. The foreman bent his head to ask the woman a question. She nodded vigorously in response, using her gloved hand to sketch an invisible “x” over her heart.
The foreman turned away from the crowd. With a grim face and heavy steps, he advanced along the walkway and up the steps onto the porch. Without saying a word, he jerked his head toward the open door. The men followed him into the dim hallway, wondering what the woman had said to have such a sobering effect on their easy-going foreman. They crowded close to hear his words.
“It ain’t your normal whorehouse, fellas,” he said. “They plan on selling children here. Boy children. To grown men.”
“Mother of God,” breathed one of the workmen. In the silence that followed, all four men gazed about the rooms they’d so carefully repaired, adorned with plaster swirls and painstakingly painted.
“I don’t want no part of that,” said Alfie the Englishman. He had the most to lose since his wife had just presented him with a fourth child to feed. There was a hushed murmur of agreement. Without another word, the four men trooped up the stairs, gathered up their tools, coats, lunch boxes and headed down again. Along the way, Alfie’s boot snagged an open can of wet plaster, sending its contents splashing down the stairs. Another workman’s plastering trowel dug into the wall, leaving a deep gouge down its length from top to bottom. Neither man acted like he noticed. Upstairs, an oozing mix of paint and plaster flowed across the tub bottom, soon to clog the drain.
When the four men stepped out onto the porch, lunch pails, tools and jackets in hand, a great cry went up from the crowd that had expanded to include at least fifty souls. The men descended the steps, traversed the walk and entered the crowd of people, each one of whom seemed intent on slapping a workman on the back. The men only nodded, silently making their way through the crowd and heading down the street. Behind them, the house’s front door stood unlocked and open.
A block away, standing beneath the concealing bows of a cedar tree, their hat brims pulled low, McAllister and his friend, Robert Clooney, watched the workmen plod past. Although the four workmen did not look happy, their spines were straight and their heads were high.
“That ought to slow the bastards down,” McAllister said. “Let’s hope so,” responded Clooney.
* * *
If it were possible for a day to pass at the speed of a slug’s crawl, this one is doing it. Sage thought to himself. Meachum was still missing. Fong’s and Solomon’s men were scouring the North End for him. For a moment, the scary image of Meachum’s body drifting beneath the Willamette River’s swirling surface seized Sage’s mind. He shook the image off. They wouldn’t kill Meachum until they’d forced him to talk. Knowing Meachum, that would take some doing and some time. There was still a chance they would rescue Meachum. He had to believe that.
The boy from the BCS, Ollie, was safe. That was one thing. Mrs. Fong had sent a messenger. Ollie was hidden away in the provision shop deep inside Chinatown. Those monsters at the BCS could never find him there. They’d be afraid to look. Sage wanted to go ask the boy questions. But he couldn’t. He was stuck here, performing the role of operator central.
Frustration sizzled and his muscles twitched. He wanted to be out on the streets doing something but he knew that would be useless. All that could be done was being done and someone had to be ready to act if something else came up. So, here he was, planted at the kitchen table, helping Ida by chiseling out the eyes and peeling the skins off the potatoes she planned to cook for Mozart’s supper hour. As his mother would say, he felt just “like a penny waiting for change.”
A rhythmic creak sounded in the alley outside the kitchen door. Eich! Sage dropped a half-peeled potato into the bowl of water. Raising a finger to Ida to signify he’d only be a minute, Sage slipped outside.
The alley’s damp bricks glistened in the light of a momentary sunbeam. At the bottom of the steps, Eich dropped the shafts of the cart, rubbed the small of his back with both hands and smiled a greeting at Sage. “This running from one end of town to another is getting a bit hard on the old spine,” he said. Despite his words, the ragpicker radiated an air of suppressed excitement as he removed his floppy hat, letting the sun shine warmly on his thinning hair.
“What is it? What have you learned?” Sage asked. “Well, you know that boy Ollie is safe, I suppose?”
“Yes, Mrs. Fong sent word.” Sage felt disappointment. He’d been hoping for some news related to Roosevelt’s assassination.
Eich didn’t disappoint him after all because he said, “You can cross Mr. Holman’s guest from back East off your list of suspects.”
“Why, did you learn something about them?” Eich nodded. “After I delivered Ollie, I ambled my way up to the Northwest. I’d repaired a plate and bowl for a talkative little maid who works at Holman’s residen
ce. She and her husband needed a marriage gift for her sister.”
Sage nodded his head rapidly, trying to hurry the ragpicker’s story along.
Eich smiled, displaying the patience Sage lacked. “I know, I’m getting to the gist,” he said. “‘Anyways,’ as Mae would say, the reason Holman is in a tizzy over this particular guest is that the man is considering giving Holman a lot of money to develop a power plant on the east side of the river. He’s traveled here to decide whether he wants to invest in Portland. And, he’s a big fan of Roosevelt’s apparently so he scheduled his visit around Roosevelt’s. An assassination attempt would definitely send this gentleman financier and his money packing. I conclude, therefore, that Holman is not involved in the plot and neither is his guest.”
A sigh escaped Sage. “I have to agree. We can eliminate Holman’s guest. And we’ve already decided that it doesn’t make sense it could be Fenton’s elderly parents. At least the field has narrowed considerably. Of all the trust men likely to be close enough to Roosevelt on that platform, only Dolph has an unknown out-of-town guest. The one staying in the hotel. I’d better hike over there and see if Mr. Solomon has discovered anything about him.”
Slapping his hat back onto his head, Eich raised a hand in farewell, saying, “And, as for me, I am going back to the BCS. I intend to hang about outside, like a fly around the dustbin, for the next few days.”
“Why, did something go wrong with Ollie’s rescue?” Sage asked.
Eich hesitated and, in that moment, a chill traveled through Sage. “Is something wrong?” he asked again, anxiety making his tone insistent.
“No, nothing went wrong. It’s just that I thought I saw a man in the window of that building as I was leaving. Now, I find that I cannot shake a vague feeling of unease. I’d feel better if I was close at hand for Mae and Matthew. It’s probably nothing,” he ended with a rueful smile. But his actions belied his assurance since he moved quickly to pick up the shaft, turn the cart and head down the alleyway. “Don’t worry,” he called over his shoulder.
